Carrie Soto Is Back(23)

I nod.

“Your endurance greatly improved with Lars,” my father says. I flinch at the mention of Lars’s name. “What did he add to your training to get you there?”

I am not sure how to respond, unsure how to have this conversation with him. “You mean other than the jump?” I finally say.

“We’re not putting your knee through too much jumping. You had surgery to fix your ACL and you’re not gonna tear it up again—”

“Bueno, papá. Basta, ya lo entendi.”

“So what else did he add to your game?” He meets my gaze and holds it. “Contame.”

“Cross-training,” I say. “You and I always ran, but he added aerobics, calisthenics, weight lifting.”

He nods and rolls his eyes. “You train for tennis doing things other than tennis. What a genius.”

“You asked. And it worked.”

My father nods. “Bien, bien, bien.”

We are both quiet for a moment. I can hear the gardener starting a lawn mower at the estate behind mine. “So…do you want to do that or…?”

My father nods. “Sí, estoy pensando.”

I wait for him to finish his thought. I start rolling my neck.

My father says, “Nicki’s going to assume her best bet is to wear you out.”

“Anyone playing me is going to assume that. I’m thirty-seven years old. All you have to do is wear out the old lady.”

My dad laughs. “You have no idea what it feels like to be old.”

“In the grand scheme of things, Dad, sure,” I tell him. “But in tennis…”

He nods. “So the most important thing we can do for you right now is work on your stamina.”

“Yes, agreed.”

“So, let’s start with—every day—you run ten miles.”

I haven’t run ten miles in a few years. But fine. “And then we start hitting balls?”

He shakes his head. “And then squats and sprints, plus jump rope for the footwork. I’m assuming that’s what you’d do the most with Lars? Then you’ll swim, to further condition your muscles but keep it low impact. Then you can have lunch, and then in the afternoon, you hit.”

“I’m gonna die,” I say.

“Don’t whine.”

“I am not going to perform a triathlon every day and not whine about it,” I say.

My father starts to open his mouth, and I stop him. “I’m not a child anymore. Sometimes I’m going to have an opinion. Sometimes, when I’m ten miles and fifty laps in, I’m going to complain. But I’ll do what you say, and you deal with my attitude, and maybe one day soon, we’ll win another Slam title, ?Está bien?”

He looks at me, emotionless for a moment. And then he smiles and holds out his hand. “Perfecto.”



* * *



—

Every day for seven days, I put on my running shoes and take off.

I run as fast as I can as my father rides in a golf cart next to me, yelling, “?Más rápido! ?Más rápido!”

My feet hit the pavement, over and over and over again. He yells, “If you are not ahead, you are behind!”

“Sí,” I say each time. “Lo sé.”

“?Vamos, más rápido!” he yells the second he can tell I’m slowing down. “We are not out for a nice jog! We are running to win a title!”

I try to yell back to him from time to time, in whatever language comes to me first. But by the end of ten miles, I stop wasting any extra breath.

The runs are manageable. It is after that, when I’m jumping rope as he stands there barking out things like “?Más rápido!” and “?No pares!” that make me want to scream.

Instead, I focus on the burning of my calves, the ache of my arms.

And then there is the swimming. Lap after lap. As my legs and shoulders start to slow from wear, my father stands on the edge of the pool chanting, “Usá esos brazos,” like some sort of military command.

Every day when I come out of the pool, my arms are limp, my legs wobbly. I am a newborn calf, unable to find my footing.

On the seventh day, after my last lap, I can barely get myself up the ladder. Everything hurts—my hamstrings and quads are sore, my shoulders and biceps ache. I wasn’t able to stay on my lap pace.

I lie down on the deck, and my father comes over and hands me a towel. He sits beside me.

I look up at him. I can feel his frown before it makes its way to his face.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

My father tilts his head from side to side. “You’re half a mile per hour too slow on the runs. Your form needs work. Your swimming is…” He inhales deeply. “Mirá, considering your age and how long you’ve been off the court, it’s impressive. But you are not where you need to be to win a Slam, cari?o.”

“Sí, lo sé.” I dry my face. I sit up. I shake my head and look up at the sky. It is clear and bright, not a single cloud, not a single impediment.

This whole thing is a fucking joke. A player coming out of retirement after this many years? And I think I’m going to win a Slam? Am I insane?

“I do think you are on the path,” he says.