Page 17 of Love, Amy

“He’s so tall!” Marisa offers.

“Did you see that clip of him at Miami?” Anika leans in towards me. “Holding his niece? My ovaries pretty much exploded at the sight.”

I smile genuinely for the first time. “Bianca,” I confirm. “Yeah, that was pretty cute.”

Fernanda tilts her head, missing nothing. “Bianca?” she asks. The hair on my arms rises. “Have you met her?” Now the whole table is watching me, intrigued.

I only hesitate a beat. “Oh,” I say offhandedly, “He mentioned her the last time we practiced together. I think he’s close with his family.”

I must pull it off because the table fractures into enthusiastic chatter. Anika and Marisa groan good-naturedly at the tournament draw, telling me to my face that they hate being on “my side.” Jasmine and Justine ask the table for advice on what matching kits they should wear for doubles. The whole group then debates the merits of a new serving technique, switching effortlessly between girl talk and tennis talk. Towards the end of breakfast, Fernanda reminds them that they’ll have a group dinner at the end of the tournament and to reach out to some of the other “WTA girlies” to see if they want to join, too.

She turns fully in her chair to invite me, as well. “We’d love for you to join us, Amy.”

I nod. “I’ll think about it.”

And, I’m surprised to realize as I walk out to meet Vince, I mean it.

CHAPTER 9

Roland Garros: May 2026

My heart leaps when I see Aurelio for the first time in weeks, but I don’t let it show. I can’t let him get a big head. Maybe he feels the same way, though, because when I walk through the gate, Beck in front of me, and Rafe behind, he smiles like the sun breaking the clouds. It reminds me of a miserable day last year when I surfed for hours in the gray, droplets of cold water dotting my skin. I wiped out wave after wave, the surf churning around me. Just when I was about to leave, to stomp up the beach, the sun broke free. It lit up the ocean, gilded the water. I paddled and paddled to meet a new wave and rode it perfectly, laughing the whole time.

Aurelio feels like that moment.

I hide my face from my father, putting my bag down and pulling out my rackets. Behind me, I hear Beck approach Aurelio. “Congrats on breaking top ten, son.” They clap hands in the way all men do. “Number seven in the world.” Beck whistles. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Aurelio might have strong opinions about my father, but he never lets them show. He’s effortlessly polite as I tie my shoes. It takes effort not to show too much interest in their conversation. “Thank you, sir. My team and I are pleased.”

Beck grunts in agreement. “You’re looking almost as good as you did when you won here seven years ago.”

My head snaps up. “You won here?” I ask Aurelio, confused. I’m sure I skimmed the headline at the time, but a young Amy Bowman only cared about her own wins, not some Italian teen’s.

He shrugs, uncomfortable. “I won the junior title here when I was seventeen. It wasn’t the real thing.”

There’s a sting in my chest when I realize Aurelio deliberately kept this from me. We’ve been talking about the tournament all week, and he never mentioned it. Is it because he thought I would be jealous? A junior title is exactly how it sounds, but it’s still a sign of greatness. Some of the best players in the world started out by winning junior titles.

I never won one. Beck won three.

I swallow past the discomfort. He has every right to keep things to himself. We’re hardly dating; we’re talking. We haven’t even kissed. “Ready to play?” I ask Aurelio, curt.

His face creases in concern, but he nods. “Whenever you are.”

We cross paths as Aurelio heads to his bench to grab his racket. His elbow just skims mine. I look up at his face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he passes. “I will explain it to you. Later.”

I shake my head, frustrated. “It’s fine.” I take another step towards my end of the court.

Aurelio reads me too well. As he always does. He fully snags my elbow now, pulling me back a pace. I nervously look over my shoulder at Beck, but he’s engaged in a passionate conversation with Rafe. “Amy. Look at me.” Aurelio’s dark eyes search my face. “That junior title only causes me pain. I try never to speak of it.”

My brow furrows. He won; he achieved his dream. Why would thinking of that moment hurt? But I do see it, traces of exhaustion and sorrow carved into his face. His eyes are fathomless pools. To me, Aurelio is sunshine. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t faced darkness. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I believe you.”

His shoulders sag in relief. He opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by my father. “Is there a problem?” he calls to us.

Aurelio drops my arm like it’s burned him. “No!” I take a few steps backwards towards my side of the court. I keep my eyes on Aurelio, wanting to see him smile. “Aurelio was just begging me to go easy on him.”

Beck rolls his eyes, but Aurelio does smile, shaking his head. He looks back at my father. “She’s lying. I knew better than to ask.”

A laugh startles out of me as I step in behind the baseline. Beck’s looking at me as though he’s never seen me. He probably hasn’t seen me laugh too many times. If there’s no crying in baseball, there’s no laughing in Beck Bowman’s version of tennis. Aurelio settles into a return position on the other side, across the net from me. He shifts on his heels, watching me dribble the ball. “Game on!” I shout at Aurelio, smirking.