Page 81 of Love, Amy

And then, I turn back into Amy the tennis player. She wants to win today for her family.

Fernanda and I don’t say anything as we warm up, which is normal, but we shake hands and do the coin toss before the match. She squeezes my hand meaningfully when we shake. “Good luck, Ames,” she says, expression bittersweet.

I know the feeling. For one of us to win, the other has to lose. “Good luck, Fernanda,” I echo, stepping back from the net. We share a nod, an agreement to play our best, to put on a show for the fans, for our families, for each other.

And that’s exactly what we do.

The first set goes according to plan. Barbara and I pored over footage of the Wimbledon final, too, just as Beck did, but we came to a different conclusion. My serve will be effective, as long as I’m hitting a high percentage, but that just means we get stuck at the tie-break where my nerves often get the best of me. Barbara thinks I need to break Fernanda’s serve, which has never been my forte. Against lesser opponents, I can return well enough, but Fernanda’s level is difficult to match. Barbara developed a new strategy on return. I’d take Fernanda’s serve early, dictating pace from the beginning. Taking a serve early means there’s more margin for error, as you have to be quick in your decision-making. Barbara warned me that I’d have to be mentally tough because in some games I might hit the ball out more than I hit it in. But she explained that it only takes one game, one break point for me to get control of the set.

It happened just like she said it would.

At first, me stepping up and taking Fernanda’s serve early leads to chaos. I hit a couple unreturnable winners, but they’re few and far between as I adjust to the speed of Fernanda’s serve. I can see her brow furrow, wondering at my new strategy. Her coach, Angelina, barks a few additional orders throughout the game, but I can’t understand the rapid-fire Spanish.

My chance finally arrives when we’re tied 4-4. I rip two winners in a row right off her serve, quick and vicious. Fernanda can’t even get to them, her racket outstretched, her feet tangled. I’m up 40-15. I only need one more point to break Fernanda’s serve and take the lead. She eyes me from across the court, considering where to send the serve. I know what she’s thinking. Barbara and I already discussed it. What to do when an opponent is creeping closer to the net? Hit it out wide.

When she does, I’m ready. I swing through the return, sending the ball cross-court, to the corner opposite Fernanda.

She curses loudly in Spanish as it zips right by her.

My heart pounds louder and louder as I step to the line to serve out the first set. In tennis, the first person to win six games wins the set, unless there’s a tiebreaker. Fernanda is shaken by the late break, I can tell. My serve loves her indecision, hitting faster and faster with each point. She doesn’t return a single ball.

I win the first set 6-4. No tiebreaker needed.

Aurelio gets to his feet as the crowd roars their approval. “Forza, Amy!” He pumps his fist. “One more set!”

I grin at him from the bench, wiping sweat from my brow. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Fernanda and Angelina talking. Fernanda stands on the court below her box, nodding at whatever her coach is saying. Francisco looks on worriedly, arms crossed.

I look at my coach. “Anything I should be doing differently?”

Barbara also watches Fernanda and Angelina. “No,” she finally looks back at me, dark gaze glinting, “But it’ll be harder this set. They know what you’re up to now.”

I nod, guzzling my water. “Got it.”

The umpire calls us back to the court. I bounce on the balls of my feet, spinning my racket in my hands, as I wait for Fernanda to serve first this time around. My adrenaline surges when I see that delightful green ball hit her racket, rocket over to my side. I take it early, just like before, but this time, she’s ready. She’s already scooted over to the opposite corner, knowing where I intend to hit it and catch her off guard. She hits it back at me, a little late, a little shallow, but enough to keep it in play. The point drags on, a relentless game of cat and mouse. Finally, one of my balls skims the top of the net and lands out.

We both straighten after the point, assessing each other. That point was long and arduous, a preview of what’s to come. Fernanda finally breaks our stare down, heading back to the baseline. I pull the neck of my tennis dress away from my body, sticky with sweat and effort. The sun starts to fully disappear behind the stands, but it’s still 85 degrees and humid.

Fernanda takes a deep breath and sends the ball back over to me.

The second set drags on, each point a chore, each point bringing us closer and closer to the edge of exhaustion. A short women’s match is usually about an hour. An average match closer to two. When Fernanda finally breaks me due to too many slow second serves and wins the second set 6-4, the clock says we’ve already been playing for two hours and 15 minutes. Most matches don’t break three hours.

I have a feeling we’re going to today.

I put my head between my knees on the bench, breathing in deeply. Fortunately, my brutal conditioning means that I still have something in the tank for our third set. Barbara and my box wait patiently for me to catch my bearings. I finally sit up, my brain quieter, my breathing slower.

I grab my water and glance up at Barbara. “What do you got?” I ask quietly.

She was waiting for me to ask. “Those long points don’t suit you,” she says, her visor slightly askew like she’s been twisting it mid-match. “Fernanda is more patient, happy to hit balls back and forth until you make an error.” I nod along, taking careful sips of my water. “I think that you should instead try to—”

I hear him before I see him. The crowd is quietly murmuring to each other, respectfully letting Fernanda and I talk to our boxes. Some people are up and stretching, a few sneak off to go to the bathroom, but not many, because we’ll start playing again in mere minutes.

Beck thunders down the stadium stairs like a bull in a china shop. Or, more aptly, like a coach infuriated with his player’s mistakes.

“Amy!” He calls from the crowd, interrupting Barbara. “Listen to me!” He’s approaching my box which is separated from the regular seats by a low wall. He must have been sitting up high, in one of the cheap seats. A U.S. Open security guard standing near my box and wearing a yellow vest watches my father warily, a hand to his ear as if listening for directions about whether he should stop the Beck Bowman from entering my box. Whoever’s on the other side must say it’s up to me, because the security guard turns my way.

“Dad.” I get to my feet, tired in so many ways. “Beck,” I correct myself, “Please don’t do this.”

He doesn’t hear me, shouting orders as he shoulders past the guard to get to my box. The guard throws up his hands in disgust. Beck shoves in next to Aurelio’s dad, swinging one leg over the wall, then the other. Barbara purses her lips, disgusted. Bianca’s eyes widen as Alessandro picks her up, ensuring she doesn’t get stepped on. Tyrese stands still as a statue, not giving an inch when Beck pushes into the front row of my box. Vince crosses his arms, gaze swinging between me and my father. Suzy balls up her fists like she’s ready to swing on him. The crowd hushes, once again drawn into my family drama.