Carrie Soto Is Back(2)

“Nicki’s powerful,” I say. “But she’s also hugely adaptable. When you play her, you’re playing somebody who is adjusting on the fly, tailoring their game to your specific weakness.”

My father nods.

“Every player has a weak spot,” I say. “And Nicki is great at finding it.”

“Right.”

“So what’s hers?”

My father is now holding back a smile. He lifts his drink and takes a sip.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” my father says.

“I haven’t made a decision.”

“All right.”

Both players head back out onto the court.

“Nicki is just a tiny bit slow,” I say, watching her walk to the baseline. “She has a lot of power, but she’s not fast—not in her footwork or her shot selection. She’s not quite as quick as Cortez, even today. But especially not as quick as Moretti, Antonovich, even Perez.”

“Or you,” my father says. “There’s nobody on the tour right now who is as fast as you were. Not just with your feet, but with your head, también.”

I nod.

He continues. “I’m talking about getting into position, taking the ball out of the air early, taking the pace off so Nicki can’t hit it back with that power. Nobody on the tour is doing that. Not like you did.”

“I’d have to meet her power, though,” I tell him. “And somehow still maintain speed.”

“Which will not be easy.”

“Not at my age and not with my knee,” I say. “I don’t have the jumps I used to have.”

“Es verdad,” my father says. “It will take everything you have to give.”

“If I did it,” I say.

My father rolls his eyes but then swiftly paints another false smile on his face.

I laugh. “Honestly, who cares if they get a picture of you frowning?”

“I’m staying off your back,” my father says. “You stay off mine. ?Lo entendés, hija?”

I laugh again. “Sí, lo entiendo, papá.”

Nicki takes the next game too. One more and it’s over. She’ll tie my record.

My temples begin to pound as I envision it all unfolding. Cortez is not going to stave off Nicki Chan, not today. And I’m stuck up here in the seats. I have to sit here and watch Nicki take away everything I’ve worked for.

“Who’s going to coach me?” I say. “You?”

My father does not look at me, but I can see his shoulders stiffen. He takes a breath, chooses his words.

“That’s for you to answer,” he finally says. “It’s not my choice to make.”

“So, what? I’m gonna call up Lars?”

“You are going to do whatever you want to do, pichona,” my father says. “That is how adulthood works.”

He is going to make me beg. And I deserve it.

Cortez is busting her ass to make the shots. But she’s tired. You can see it in the way her legs shake when she’s standing still. She nets a return. It’s now 30–love.

Motherfucker.

I look around at the crowd. People are leaning forward; some are tapping their fingers. Every one of them seems to be breathing a little faster. I can only imagine what the sportscasters are saying.

The spectators sitting around us are looking at my father and me out of the corner of their eyes, watching my reaction. I’m starting to feel caged.

“If I do it…” I say softly. “I want you to coach me. That’s what I’m saying, Dad.”

He looks at me as Cortez scores a point off Nicki. The crowd holds their breath, eager to see history being made. I might be too if it weren’t my history on the line.

“Are you sure, hija? I am not the man I once was. I don’t have the…stamina I once did.”

“That makes two of us,” I say. “You’ll be coaching a has-been.”

Now it’s 40–15. Nicki is at championship point.

“I’d be coaching the greatest tennis player of all time,” my father says. He turns to me and grabs my hand. I am staring down forty, but still, somehow, his hands dwarf mine. And just like when I was a child, they are warm and rough and strong. When he squeezes my palm, I feel so small—as if I am forever a child and he is this giant I will have to gaze up at to meet his eye.

Nicki serves the ball. I inhale sharply.

“So you’ll do it?” I ask.

Cortez sends it back.

“We might lose…badly,” I say. “Prove to everyone the Battle Axe can’t hack it now. They’d love that. I’d tarnish not only my record but my legacy. It might…ruin everything.”

Nicki hits a groundstroke.

My father shakes his head. “We cannot ruin everything. Because tennis is not everything, pichona.”

I am not sure I agree.

Cortez returns the shot.

“Still,” I say. “We’d have to work harder together than we ever have. Are you up for that?”

“It would be the honor of my lifetime,” my father says. I can tell there are tears forming in his eyes, and I stop myself from looking away. He holds my hand tighter. “To coach you again, pichona, I’d die happy.”