Page 77 of Love, Amy

“I can supplement her teaching,” Aurelio offers, a twinkle in his eye. He still looks physically tired, a little pale, a little weak, but I’ll take all of that for a genuine smile.

“I’ll go to Italy,” I promise. “If you’ll come on a surfing trip with me.”

His face twists, conflicted. “Surfing?” he asks skeptically. “I’ve never been before.”

“It’s the best,” I reassure him. “And I’ve never been to any of the best places to surf, just Malibu. I’ve heard Portugal is amazing, Tahiti, even Hawaii—”

Aurelio shakes his head, a smile on his face. “I’d love to, but Antonio would kill me for even considering it. I’d probably come back with more injuries than I have now.”

I scoff. “I can convince Antonio, don’t you worry. You’re not getting out of this. I’ll just promise him we’ll stay on the baby waves.”

Aurelio tries a different approach. “And what about Barbara? Would she love this surfing trip to Portugal, the land of a hundred-foot waves? Or would she rather I took you to Italian villas and churches and force-fed you wine?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. You win this time around. We can do Italy this winter, during our time off.” I offer him a hand up so we can head back to our hotel room. “But when we’re retired, we’re doing the surfing trip.”

Aurelio takes my hand. “Deal,” he agrees easily. I pick up his tennis bag, and we head out hand-in-hand.

*

The night before I play the U.S. Open final against Fernanda, just as the fans wanted, Aurelio offers to get a different hotel room. “Why?” I ask him, confused. We’ve been sharing a room and a bed since we arrived in London.

“I don’t want to be a distraction.” He rubs an agitated hand through his hair. “Maybe your old routine would be best.”

I raise a brow. “I lost those finals when I had my old routine.”

“Right, right.” Aurelio begins to pace at the foot of the bed, ignoring instructions to put his foot up. It’s late, nearly 10 p.m., and I’m already wearing my pajamas.

I watch Aurelio pace for a minute before asking, “What’s wrong?”

“I just...” he starts, then stops. I wait patiently as he works through it. He sighs, sitting at the foot of the bed, back to me. “I just don’t want to prove your father right,” he finally admits, voice low. “I don’t want you to lose your ambition because of me.”

I crawl across the bed so I can sit beside him. “Do I seem like I lost my ambition?” I ask mildly. “Have I stopped going to practice, watching film, improving myself? Have I thrown out my diet, my stretching routine, my time with Vince? Have I treated this final like a throwaway?”

Aurelio patiently listens, nodding along, but he’s ready as soon as I’m finished. “No, of course not,” he answers immediately. “But,” he emphasizes, “You’re acting so calm!” He throws up his hands. “It’s not like you. I’m worried that you’re accepting your fate. That you believe you’ll lose tomorrow.”

I pause a moment, wondering if he’s right. This final does feel different. There’s no strangling desperation, no buzzing beneath my skin, no tell-tale itch on my wrist. “You’re wrong,” I finally decide. I look at him. “You’re wrong, I promise. The reason I was so intense the last few months when I played a final wasn’t because I could imagine myself winning, holding the trophy, hugging Beck in the stands. It’s because I couldn’t stop imagining the pain and embarrassment of losing.” I take Aurelio’s hand. “But now, I already know what losing is like. I already know that I can keep going, I can keep playing, I can live with myself. The world won’t stop turning. So, when I imagine tomorrow, all I picture is the joy. All I imagine is jumping into your arms in the stands.” I shrug. “You haven’t softened my ambition, Aurelio. You’ve only softened the fear.”

Aurelio kisses me, soft and loving. His free hand brushes my hair from my face, traces the curve of my ear, cups my cheek. I lean closer subconsciously, seeking more of his warmth. His touch feels like heaven.

I pull away, a blush on my cheeks and a stern expression on my face. “None of that,” I say firmly. “We’re going to bed. Now. In case you didn’t know, I have a final to win tomorrow night.”

I fall asleep right away, curled in the crook of Aurelio’s arm.

*

Beck texts me the morning of the final.

Beck:

I’ve been rewatching film of you and Fernanda playing at Wimbledon. I think you need to focus on hitting fastballs on serve. Her footwork is too strong if you just slowly hit your spots.

I blink at my phone, appalled. The three dots appear, showing that he’s typing.

Beck:

I know what I said before, but I was wrong. I think you can win a Grand Slam.

Another pause, another hesitation. My heart races as he ponders whether he should add more. Finally, he sends one more line.