Page 8 of Love, Amy

He shuts up as she serves. The points go back and forth. I win one on her serve with a tricky drop shot, which she struggles to reach even with her long legs. She wins the next one after relentlessly hitting me from corner to corner until one ball is just out of reach. The desert night is cool, but the game feels hot, hot, hot. Sweat drips down my face as we head to the changeover, now tied 3-3. We switch sides every 6 points, grabbing some water along the way.

I hate being on this side of the court because I’m further from Beck. For some players tiring of their coaches, they consider this a blessing. Their coach is far from them and can’t scream across the court, unless they want to get kicked out for disrupting the match.

Beck Bowman doesn’t believe he can be kicked out of anywhere, let alone a tennis tournament he won 11 times. So, he’ll scream even louder when I’m on the far side. I keep my gaze on the ball, prepping to serve. The ball is fresh from the can, smelling of tennis and power. He can’t scream at me if I don’t make mistakes, I remind myself. If I win, the way he used to.

I serve a solid wide serve, one that arcs high off the court. Fernanda’s footwork is beautiful as she easily chases it down, hitting a flat forehand my way. I watch it with determination, stepping in to hit it with my biggest weapon, my forehand. I mistime the hit, and instead, it thuds dully into the net.

4-3, Fernanda. I have another serve.

My incompetence is too much for the Beck Bowman. “Amy!” he growls from the stands. The whole crowd watches our family sideshow, rapt. “Is that the type of player you are? You’ll lose this because of the pressure. Because of the moment. Not because of your opponent but because of you!” It might sound harsh to some, and the murmurs from the crowd probably confirm that, but it’s coach-speak. He’s said the same version of these words hundreds of times to me, maybe thousands. And it’s not that unusual even amongst other coaches, as I’ve seen videos of Beck’s coach doing the exact same thing.

The truth is—I don’t want to be the type of player Beck fears I’m becoming. But want means nothing to my father. And maybe it means nothing to tennis either. I keep retracing my steps on the day of the Australian Grand Slam, and I can’t find the mistake. I know I made them, over and over, in fact, but I can’t find the reason. There has to be one. Because if there wasn’t a real reason why you played poorly—a nagging injury, a bad night of sleep, a personal matter that’s clouding your thoughts, then maybe it’s just in you or it’s not.

It certainly was in my father. Even here, under the lights, in front of thousands of fans, he overshadows me. I turn my face towards him, determined to show him the face of a champion. I lift my chin, smooth my expression, light that fire in my eyes. I stagger my feet like my father would when he served. I grip the ball tightly. I can do this; I must do this.

Beck laughs. “That’s the problem with you, Ames, you think looking like a champion and being a champion are the same.” At this point, we’re holding up play. The chair umpire, frustrated, turns to glare at my father. It doesn’t accomplish much. Beck is having too much fun explaining to the crowd that if I’m a loser, it has nothing to do with him. My blood heats, shame and fury coloring my cheeks. “Well, being a Bowman, you’ve looked like a champion your whole fucking life, but that doesn’t mean—”

I open my mouth, ready to scream at him to SHUT UP. Just SHUT UP.

Instead, the most miraculous thing happens. Someone shouts from the balcony of the stadium, “Come on, Amy! Keep going!”

If my father was doing coach-speak, this person is doing fan-speak. It’s meaningless talk, but it shocks me all the same. One, it interrupts Beck, which never happens. Tennis fans are usually too busy worshipping him to criticize how he’s coaching his daughter. Two, I may be respected, largely due to my record and number one place in the world rankings, but I’m not loved by the crowd. They’ll follow my momentum, cheer when I hit big serves or win tricky points. But they’ve never bailed me out before. They don’t try to rescue me when I’m struggling. Those actions are usually reserved for beloved players like Fernanda, who tell jokes and giggle during their press conferences.

The crowd follows the fan’s lead. “Let’s go, Amy!”

“Come on, Bowman!”

“You’ve got this!”

“Ace, ace, another ace for Amy!”

Soon, the cheers become less solitary and more a giant clapping, whooping entity of fans. My father, who likes to stand against the railing, all the better to yell at me, slowly sits back down in his seat.

I don’t think of him when I serve the next ace.

4-4, tie game. I don’t think of Beck as I run around Fernanda’s next wide serve, absolutely crushing a forehand to the corner. 5-4, Amy. I don’t think of Beck as I smack a deep backhand to Fernanda off her serve. When she hits a chip shot back, I run to the front, heart beating in my ears, and jump up to slam an overhead volley. It crashes down on her side, well out of reach. 6-4, Amy.

The crowd is roaring. Above all, tennis fans love good tennis. And we give it to them. Fernanda returns my next slower serve with the exact same dropshot that I got her with earlier. I have to give her a nod of respect for that one. 6-5, Amy.

I have one more serve to win this thing. Beck is shouting again, trying to be heard over the crowd, but it’s too loud. He can’t call which serve I should throw.

Like any servebot, I go for the heat. I throw the toss high over my head, waiting for it to fall a little closer to earth before whipping it across the court. Fernanda tries to step into it again and take it early. Her perfect footwork wavers a little, stutters in the moment. The ball slams past her, ricocheting off the far wall. A quick glance at the speed clock shows 124 mph.

7-5, Amy. I win.

The crowd gets to their feet, whistling and clapping. Normally, I’d look for Beck in the player’s box. In that moment, we would understand each other. All sins would be forgiven, as we both achieved our collective goal. He’d put his fingers in his mouth and whistle louder than anyone. He’d buy me a drink after the match and squeeze my shoulder. It’s a nice routine. But for the first time, I decide to deviate.

I walk around the court, waving to the fans and smiling. It doesn’t feel fake. It doesn’t feel rehearsed, like it often does. Today, they saved me. That one fan broke the tension—faced my father and won. It’s not often that Beck Bowman is beaten.

I know a victory doesn’t last forever, but I wish this one would.

CHAPTER 5

Indian Wells Tournament: March 2026

I expect to find Beck waiting for me after the required press conference. He thinks that press conferences are “horseshit,” so he never attends, but he always waits outside the media room so we can discuss the match on our way back to the hotel. It’s well after 11 p.m. at this point, most fans and players out of the building. Some of the reporters and tournament workers follow me out, staring down at their phones. I search the room for Beck, or even Rafe, but find neither.

Instead, leaning casually on the far wall, is Aurelio. He looks beautiful in dark gray chinos and a forest green sweater. The collared shirt he wears underneath is unbuttoned at the neck. His curls are all in disarray, as though he’s been running his fingers through them. I’m immediately conscious of my Nike tracksuit, my slick-backed hair, still wet from the shower, my huge tennis bag weighing down my right shoulder.