Page 72 of Love, Amy

We’re sitting out on the patio of the best cafe inside the tournament grounds. Fernanda insisted we coordinate our practice schedules so we could have at least one meal together before the chaos begins. The midday sun is starting to beam down on us, but the generous cafe staff made sure to sit us under a massive umbrella. I’m about to tell Francisco another joke, when I see a six-foot-tall tornado enter the patio with her tennis bag over her shoulder.

Francisco stands up when she approaches, helping with her bag. “Why didn’t you leave it in the locker room?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

Fernanda’s out of breath, her cheeks pink. She plunks down into the empty seat, chugging some of Francisco’s water before she answers. “I ran straight here from the practice courts,” she explains, eyes wide. She takes a deep breath before turning towards me. “I saw your dad, Amy.”

I try not to react, though Aurelio’s knee knocks mine reassuringly under the table. “I know,” I tell her. “I saw him, too, with Charles Allard. They announced their partnership on social media last night.”

Fernanda’s mouth drops open. “Why didn’t you say anything?” She wipes sweat off her forehead. “I didn’t need to run here!”

I smile. “We all knew it was coming. Allard fired his coach a few weeks ago, and Beck was the perfect replacement.” I fidget in my seat a little, remembering when I saw them chatting together this morning on a practice court a few down from mine. My smile fades. “My dad will be thrilled to work with such a high-level men’s player.”

Francisco watches me with sympathy. Aurelio leans in closer, our shoulders brushing. Fernanda overcompensates, her face wrinkling in distaste. “Good riddance,” she says. “Number one players like Charles Allard are arrogant pricks.” I bark a laugh. Aurelio hides his smile behind his hand. “What?” Fernanda asks, eyes flicking between the two of us. “What are you laughing at?”

“You’re a number one player!” I explain, still laughing. “I used to be one, too, a few weeks ago!”

Fernanda crosses her arms. “We’re women, Amy. That’s different.”

“Aurelio’s number three,” I offer. “He might be number one in the world someday.”

Fernanda’s hawklike gaze turns his way. “True,” she admits begrudgingly. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

Aurelio puts up his hands in surrender, and I giggle even more. I can’t imagine a men’s player that’s further away from being an “arrogant prick” than Aurelio, but I’m happy to keep a close eye on him.

Francisco breaks through the noise. “I’m seventeenth in the world,” he offers.

There’s a beat of silence at the table as we all look at him.

And then the dam breaks. Aurelio and I laugh in unison, clutching the arms of our chairs. Our waiter veers our way but decides not to interrupt when he sees us in stitches. Even Fernanda breaks character, beaming at a confused Francisco. “And that’s why you’re the perfect lover, Cisco.” She leans towards him flirtatiously, purring. “You’re very humble.”

Francisco blushes under his dark beard. “Bas, Fernanda! You live to embarrass me,” he complains. He gestures to Aurelio. “Even in front of Lio.” But he softens the complaint by reaching for her hand, twining their fingers together. Her smile relaxes into something more genuine.

In the silence, I feel a strange contentment. A light breeze ruffles my hair as I peek at Aurelio out of the corner of my eye. He leans back in his chair, watching his friend with amusement. Fernanda and Francisco continue to bicker comfortably, inviting us to comment when appropriate. At last year’s Open, I don’t think I spoke more than a few words to any of them. If I spoke to Fernanda, it certainly wasn’t friendly. If I spoke to the boys, it certainly wasn’t with any real interest. Now, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

Fernanda interrupts my roaming thoughts. “Are you ready for the All-Star event tomorrow?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “Anyone who’s anyone will be there. I’ve even heard Pedro Pascal will be in attendance.”

“It should be fun.” I shrug. “But Beck never let me play doubles, so I’m not sure I’ll be any good.”

Fernanda waves me off. “You’ll be fine. No one’s expecting you to win, anyway.”

I feign offense. “Hey!”

She shakes her head wisely. “We’re not favored to win either. Anika and Joaquin are the pair on everyone’s radar. They both played doubles in college.”

“Good for them,” Aurelio says. “They deserve a win.” I know he’s thinking of how frustrated Joaquin was when he lost at Wimbledon.

“Agreed.” I nod before fixing him with a stern look. “But we won’t go easy on them.”

He widens his eyes at me. “Of course not, mia dolce. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Even with my lack of experience in doubles, I’m excited to play tomorrow. Coaches aren’t involved in such an informal event, so Beck won’t be there. Neither will my new coach, who’s flying in after the doubles event is over. This is an opportunity to play tennis the way I did when I was a little kid, with joy and without pressure. Despite what I say to Aurelio, I don’t really care if we lose.

Right?

*

We don’t lose the first round. We play two Argentinian players who are probably more comfortable on clay than a hard court. The crowd is packed, even at the start of the day, when the event kicks off with first-round matchups. Arthur Ashe stadium roars with every point and never properly quiets down like it would during a traditional tennis match. I know my father would hate it—the joy, the celebrities in the stands, the mics we wear clipped to our collars the whole match, the secretive hand signals that get more and more unhinged as the day goes on. When we get to the net, there’s no hard feelings. I smile when I notice a sign in the crowd that says, “Aurelio + Amy = Winning Combo.” Aurelio and I take a picture with it after the first match. I’m finally interacting with the crowd rather than ignoring them, and I’ll admit, it makes tennis even better.

We don’t lose the second round either. We play Fernanda and Francisco in a tight match riddled with breaks for jokes and skits. At one point, after a highly contested point that went on for ages, Fernanda and I pretend to fight. “Fernanda Navarro, get back here!” I say into the mic, hopping the net to get to her side. Francisco plays along, trying to block my path. I swerve around him and chase after Fernanda, who hams it up for the crowd.