Page 21 of Love, Amy

I pull my heels off as soon as I’m inside my hotel room. I can already hear Beck snoring through the connecting door. Our argument this morning feels like a million years ago.

I’m setting down my clutch and plugging in my dead phone when I notice a bright blue sticky note on my mini fridge. I can’t see what it says, so I sit down, plucking it off the door. It’s in my dad’s chunky handwriting.

I’m sorry for today, Amy. There’s a surprise for you in the freezer.

See you tomorrow.

— Dad

A lump starts in my throat. I don’t think I have a single note, card, document, or text where he’s signed it “Dad.” I always call him Beck, or Coach. I open the mini fridge, eyes immediately darting to the little cubby at the top that serves as a freezer. Wedged tightly into that cubby is a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Mint Chocolate Cookie ice cream. It’s been my favorite since childhood, the treat my dad always resorted to when I scraped my knee or hit my serve into the net. He didn’t know what to say, so he just shoved the carton into my hand.

How much longer can we go on like this? I already lost Suzy because of him. I don’t want to lose anyone else. But how can I let go of my dad? I wasn’t lying when I told Aurelio that I didn’t know how I could sacrifice him. He’s given me the only life I’ve ever known. Without him, what life do I even live?

Instead of finding the answers in the darkness of 1 a.m., I grab the spoon from where Beck left it on top of the mini fridge and let the minty ice cream melt on my tongue. It tastes like childhood, like when Beck was a giant to me.

It’s strange not to see him that way anymore.

CHAPTER 10

Roland Garros: May 2026

The first week of the tournament passes in a blur. Beck and I go back to our normal state of being, which is pretending that nothing is broken in our relationship. We both turn our attention to the tournament. We discuss my opponents, my stats, even Aurelio’s matches. It gives me some hope that Beck is warming up to Aurelio.

Aurelio and I take walks together most mornings, but we try not to talk about tennis. I tell him about my mom, my surfing, my pink infested bedroom. He laughs when I describe my vision of painting the walls tennis ball green. He regales me with stories of his nona, who sounds like a pill, and shows me numerous pictures of his niece. It’s usually so early in the morning that we don’t see many people out and about.

The morning of the semifinals, which we’re both playing in, we walk as the sun comes up. The golden rays are breaking apart the purple haze. Aurelio pulls my gaze away from the horizon with a surprising question. “Do you have a tattoo?” he asks, curious eyes latched onto my ribcage.

My hand instinctively goes to cover it up. I hardly think about it anymore, shoving down the reckless, alcohol-induced decision. Luckily, even while inebriated in Ibiza, I put the tattoo somewhere my father wouldn’t see it. It’s just underneath my armpit, at the top of my ribcage. I didn’t realize my tank top would let it peek out. “Yes,” I admit. “Unfortunately, I do.”

Aurelio grins. “What is it?”

I roll my eyes. “A mistake, Aurelio. That’s all.”

His face tells me he knows there’s more to the story. “When did you get it?”

I can almost feel the bass vibrating in my chest, almost hear the group of “friends” I made screaming in my ear that I needed to get a tattoo to “manifest my goals.” “Last year,” I finally say. “After I became number one in the world. I was in Ibiza.”

Aurelio raises a brow. “Your father let you go to Ibiza?”

I shrug. “It was only for the weekend. He might be ruthless with his training, but he was a young man once. Don’t forget that he impregnated my mother after meeting her at some Vegas club.”

Aurelio shakes his head. “I hate Ibiza. Too loud.”

I train my eyes on the horizon, on the sunrise. It almost hurts to look. “That’s what I wanted. I told Beck I deserved to celebrate becoming number one in the world, but what I really wanted was a weekend where I wasn’t thinking about Grand Slam titles or how close Fernanda was to me in the rankings. It was perfect, at first. I took too many shots with a group of party girls around my age. They had no idea who I was.” I remember my sticky shirt, plastered to me after someone spilled their drink. People I had just met kept pulling me onto the dance floor. I couldn’t hear my cellphone, pinging with texts from Beck about work I needed to do. Instead, I lived in the loud. The first few hours were glorious. But as always, drunken nights turn sour.

Aurelio connects the dots. “But they figured out who you were?”

I nod. “One of the girls thought I looked familiar and stalked me on social media. They were so excited to be with the number one player in the world. I was bitter—” I swallow the shame down. “I spilled my guts to these girls I didn’t know, about Beck and Fernanda and how I still hadn’t won a Grand Slam and they all gathered around me in this club to listen. It was like a group therapy session powered by tequila.”

Aurelio laughs. “And this group therapy led you towards a tattoo?”

Watching him, I have to smile. “One of them, Marisol, I think her name was, told me that I just needed to believe in the “power of manifestation.” I put air quotes around the phrase. “I would win a Grand Slam if I manifested it into existence. I shouldn’t hide from it, she said. Everyone latched onto the idea, and an hour later we were at a tattoo parlor.”

Aurelio’s dark eyes widen. “Please don’t tell me you have the word “Wimbledon” or “Roland Garros” tattooed on your side, Amy.”

Now I bark a laugh. “I guess it could have been worse. Here, take a look.” I stop on the sidewalk, pull down the armhole of my tank top.

Aurelio’s gentle fingers graze the tiny tattoo. It’s an intimate touch, strange out here in the open. I try not to let the shiver that runs through me show. His eyes rise from the ink to my face. “2026,” he says quietly. “The year?”