Page 5 of Love, Amy

I nod mutely. There’s nothing left to say.

She heads to the door, pressing a hand to my right shoulder on the way. As though she knows it’s still tender from yesterday’s loss. “Good luck, Amy. I’m sorry.”

And she leaves.

I stand in the living room for a few minutes, mutely appealing to the blank wall. Bring back the photos. Bring back Suzy standing next to me every win, a proud smile on her face. Bring back the family I thought I had a right to. Maybe Suzy’s right about the misery Beck and I bring each other, but that’s only in between wins. There is no fiercer joy in the world than conquering your own inadequacies and hoisting a trophy in the air for the world to see. Suzy just hasn’t felt that, so she wouldn’t know.

Right?

Soft-hearted physios, always giving a damn about their players. I wish Suzy loved me less. Then she might never have left.

I give one last look at the eggshell paint, and then turn away, aching still.

*

Beck is streaming sweat when I finally make my way over to the practice court. Rafe guzzles water as my father slaps him on the back. “Good work, Rafe. Your backhand is improving.”

I hesitate at the fence, surprised by my father’s gentle praise. Practice players like Rafe are typically young or old, slightly outside the realm of professional tennis. Rafe is a twenty-year-old tennis player from USC whose six-foot stature makes him a good women’s practice player. He’ll probably never go pro, but when Beck isn’t playing against me, Rafe is a good stand-in. Beck can never adapt to anyone else’s playing style. He can never pretend to be Fernanda or even Lyra across the net, only himself. Rafe is well-trained in scouting and will emulate whoever I need. He’s harmless, if a little too worshipful at Beck’s altar.

I open the practice court gate, crossing to my father’s side. I’m surprised he was so easy on Suzy when she left. Calling her a moving truck? I imagined him throwing her clothes on the lawn, not offering assistance. “Suzy’s gone,” I say by way of greeting. Beck and I never like to waste time. “She took the moving truck you called her.” There’s a hint of venom in my words. Betrayal two times over.

Beck takes another draw of his water before he responds. His huge head blots out the sun. “She told me she was done.” He shrugs. “What was I supposed to do?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t know, stop her? She was your physio for almost a decade!”

Beck waves me off. “She’s old, Amy. I’m not surprised she’s tired. It’s hard traveling as much as we do. She deserves to retire.” It’s like Suzy is a different species entirely. He can’t even see that Suzy is a few years younger than him.

I open my mouth, tempted to tell him that she left because of him. Because of how I’m turning into a bullshit 2.0 version of the greatest warrior tennis has ever had. Because she can’t stand all the blood we shed.

I don’t say it. Instead, mechanically, I say, “I’ll need a new physio for Doha.”

My father rolls his eyes, bumping shoulders with Rafe. Rafe barks a laugh, though he doesn’t know why. That’s the pull of fame and power; it turns you into someone you don’t know. Suzy thinks that’s happened to me, too, but what she doesn’t know is that it has nothing to do with fame and everything to do with family. The family business is winning, and I want in the family. “Come on, Ames.” Beck grins a little, boyish. “Back when I was on the tour, lots of players didn’t have physios. You could go a tournament or two without one.” He’s not entirely wrong, though those players usually just couldn’t afford one. Great players with funding like I do usually travel with five to six people for every tournament, not my measly three. Some players even have psychologists sit in their boxes to help them with the mental load.

I refuse to back down, crossing my arms like Suzy did. How can she think I’m a child, blinded by Beck’s greatness when really, he’s the child born with too much talent for his own good? He finally relents, sighing and raising his eyebrows to Rafe like this is all some joke. “Fine.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. I look up at him in surprise. “I’ll find you someone. There’s got to be dozens of athletic trainers chomping at the bit to work with Beck Bowman’s daughter.”

He starts pulling me off the court, another surprise. I thought we might hit a bit today now that Suzy’s not around to stop us. Instead, he steers me back towards the house, lowering his voice so Rafe doesn’t hear. “Don’t worry about Suzy, Ames. We don’t need her. It’s always been about us.”

His words are warm in my ear. I smile a little for him. For the us. It’s the truth. Suzy was the one knocking on the door when I lost, but Beck is the only reason I win.

Beck senses the weakness in me and falls back on a childhood favorite. Throwing open the back door, we crash into the kitchen. I laugh as he pulls me along. “How about some ice cream, Ames? Mint chocolate chip?” He ceremoniously digs through the freezer, unsure what he’ll even find in there. Luckily, we are not in charge of the shopping. “Rafe? Some ice cream?” Never mind that it’s January. In Beck’s world, this is the only way he knows to cure an ailment. Finally, he pulls a few tubs crusted over with ice from the back. One is mint chocolate chip.

He grabs some spoons, handing them to Rafe and me.

“To Doha,” Rafe hazards, clinking spoons with me and my father. “Onto the next.”

“To Doha,” Beck and I echo. We lock eyes. “The next win.”

The synchronicity might have terrified Suzy, but it lights my veins on fire. Gasoline meet match. I am not my father.

I’ll be even better.

CHAPTER 3

Indian Wells Tournament: March 2026

Of course, I win the tournament in Doha and the next one in Dubai. My February passes by in a blur of trophies, trying out new physios, and unusually high praise from my father. Is it possible Suzy leaving was a bit of a wake-up call for him, too? I enter into my favorite tournament of the year, a WTA 1000 in the desert of Indian Wells, California, high on hope and back-to-back victories. I won this tournament last year and drove the two hours back to Malibu with the sunroof of my BMW open to the clear blue sky. I fully intend to take that victory lap again.

Tennis has three surfaces for the major events: clay, grass, and hard court. Clay, typically red, but sometimes green, is synonymous with Roland Garros, the French Grand Slam played in Paris. Grass is famously a part of the Wimbledon Grand Slam in London. They’re the next two Grand Slams I can fight for. However, neither grass nor clay suit my game as well as the intensity of concrete hard courts. The bounce snaps back quicker, the serves slam the pavement harder, there’s less focus on movement and agility and more on power, power, power. For big servers like me, hard court tournaments are the best opportunity to rack up more points in the standings and more hard cash.