Page 10 of Love, Amy

“Dade.” I want to smack myself. “You’re Barbara’s brother.” That’s why he looks familiar. A former number one player herself, Barbara Dade was the best American player for over a decade. I’ve probably seen Vince in the stands.

He smiles. “That’s me. I’m probably the most recognized tennis relative in the business, outside of yourself, of course.”

That makes me smile. I can see he’s putting in the effort to connect with me, not just Beck, which is more than the last few physios have done. Suzy was an expert at balancing Beck and me, but the last few physios we tried hardly looked my way, too busy staring into my father’s golden face. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Beck decides he’s given us enough time for social niceties. “Now, the match. Obviously, the win will help you maintain your ranking, but your focus was a problem. Again. Your serve goes completely haywire any time an opponent tries something new. They’ll pick up on that soon and keep throwing the kitchen sink at you. You need your serve to be steady. Tomorrow, we’ll start serving—”

The exhaustion starts to settle in, sinking into my bones. I glance out the window, wishing I could still see Aurelio. Surprisingly, Vince saves me. “About that serve, Amy,” he interrupts. “Your father told me that sometimes you’ve been having shoulder soreness. Tell me about it.”

He gives me a meaningful nod. Beck sighs at the change in topic but finally puts the car into drive. Vince and I get to know each other on the way home, sharing nepo-brother and nepo-daughter stories. It’s not exactly the solitary ride home with the sunroof open that I envisioned taking, but it’s not the worst afterparty I’ve had.

This one at least has hope.

CHAPTER 6

Miami Tournament: March 2026

Desert heat and Florida swamp are two entirely different beasts. Beck Bowman is a born and bred California boy. He likes the heat, welcomes its pressure and precision. However, he’s never been a fan of the humidity. I’ve always enjoyed the Miami WTA 1000 tournament, particularly the one where I turned sixteen and snuck out of my hotel room to party with some of the other junior players. Lots of ATP and WTA players even live and train in Florida, since it’s warm year-round, but Beck and I have always stayed in Malibu. His mood typically sours on the flight from his beloved California to the “sweaty armpit of America” that is Florida.

His words.

He wipes the sweat off his upper lip, surveying the court I’ll be playing my first match on later this afternoon. It’s Center Court, where all the biggest matches are played. It’s my third time playing on Center Court, but my first as the number one in the world. Last year, I won both Indian Wells and Miami back-to-back, forcibly putting myself on the map. I became number one in the world a few short weeks later.

Rafe walks around the court, picking up our stray balls. We just spent a quick twenty minutes getting the feel of the court. Fortunately, it’s not that different from Indian Wells in speed and force. I love the feeling of the simmering heat and the sweat down my back. To me, it’s proof that I’ve worked hard. To Beck, it’s simply a nuisance. He clicks his tongue, impatient as always. “I’m going to find James.” He’s talking about James Blake, the tournament director. “The net isn’t level.”

I follow his critical gaze towards the net, which looks perfectly taut to me. “Okay. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria for lunch?”

He grunts his confirmation, probably using the net as an excuse to find some shade or, even better, the A/C. Rafe and I finish packing up our dozens of practice balls, and I rip off my soggy socks and tennis shoes in favor of my slides. Just as I’m finishing, another trio of people come through the tunnel towards Center Court. It should be the men’s players that play on Center Court after me. We all get twenty minutes in the morning to check out where we’re playing.

I huff a laugh when I realize it’s Aurelio. I haven’t seen him in four days, but I knew he'd be in Miami for such a big tournament. What I didn’t expect was to see him on Center Court. I should have looked at the schedule more closely. Now that he’s number nine in the world, there will be more matches on the world’s biggest stages.

“First time?” I call to him. It’s obvious by the way he looks around the stadium, taking in the thousands of seats and pristine court. His eyes snap to me, for once just as surprised to see me as I am to see him. I walk over, trying to fight the smile on my face.

“Amy.” He smiles, too, the one dimple popping. “Not your first time, I take it?”

I shake my head, meeting him next to the net. His coaches take one look at the two of us and walk to the sideline, busying themselves. “My third,” I admit. “But it doesn’t lose its shine.” His gaze sweeps over the seats, perhaps imagining the fans cheering for him. I’ve heard he’s quite the fan favorite. Some passionate Italian fans even follow him around from tournament to tournament. I take in his white Nike baseball hat, his tennis ball green t-shirt, his hundreds of freckles. He fits in with the surroundings. “This tournament suits you,” I tell him.

He snaps out of his daydream to look at me. “Really?” His brow furrows, trying to work out if I’m insulting or complimenting him. “Why?”

I shrug. “It’s warm.”

I can tell he knows what I mean when he smiles that golden Aurelio smile. “Amy.” He leans towards me, happy, eyes sparkling. “Come to dinner with me. Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is our day off between matches. It’s meant for relaxing, recovering, and if Beck Bowman is involved, relentlessly recapping the previous match. I know he’s suspicious of Aurelio already, suspicious of a potential distraction. I’m suspicious, too. Beck or no Beck, I have to win a Grand Slam this year. I will not be Beck Bowman’s daughter who amounted to nothing. If he must be my father, then I must be a winner.

Aurelio anticipated my hesitation. “One dinner, Amy. It can’t hurt.”

Now, I raise a brow. “Can’t it?”

He flashes a grin. “Not the way I do it, promise.” The way he says it is so innocent, but I catch the flash of mischief on his face. It startles a laugh out of me. He senses weakness. “Please, Amy. At nine, after your father has gone to bed.”

It’s a smart suggestion. I sober, thinking it over. Maybe Aurelio and I can explore this... flirtation in secret? We can get it out of our system, and Beck will never be any of the wiser. That’s how I’ve dealt with all my infatuations in the past. Most of them never wanted to stick around after the start of things anyway. Aurelio and I will be over long before I win the next Grand Slam in May.

I pull the marker I was using to sign autographs earlier from my pocket. I pluck a tennis ball from the side pocket of Aurelio’s tennis bag. I write my phone number in chunky letters and then toss it back to him. He clutches it like it’s precious cargo. “Text me where,” I tell Aurelio, hiding my uneven heart rate with even words. “I’ll be there.”

I hike my own bag over my shoulder and spin around, heading towards the exit tunnel. “Good luck on Center Court!” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be watching!”

Aurelio’s laugh follows me even as I walk away.