Carrie Soto Is Back(24)

I look up at him.

“You are the hardest-working person I know,” he says. “If you decide to dedicate yourself to this, you will do it.”

I nod, already resenting that we are starting with the old “effort” chestnut and not the “sheer talent” one. “Thanks.”

He bumps me on the shoulder and smiles. “What I’m telling you is even though there is a lot of ground to cover, I believe you can be the greatest in the world again. I have that faith.”

I start fiddling with the nails on my left hand. “Yeah?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. But listen, hija,” my father says, putting his arm around my shoulders and squeezing me. “It does not matter if I have faith.”

“It does, actually,” I say. There is an edge to my voice that startles us both.

My father nods but leaves it at that. Like me, he has no interest in excavating what is long buried.

“Your faith in yourself drove you to the top once. And it can drive you there again,” my father says finally.

I know that he is right. For decades, my talent and drive were utterly devastating to those who stood in my wake. If each person is blessed with an individual gift, determination is mine.

“Do you think you can beat her?” my father says.

I respond quicker than I intend. “Yes.”

“And will you be able to bear it if you don’t?”

That one takes me far longer to answer. “No.”

He closes his eyes and then nods. “All right,” he says, sighing. “Then there is no time to waste.”





I sit down in a chair in my agent’s office, next to her floor-to-ceiling windows. I’ve been with Gwen for about seven years now.

I signed with her after being at two different agencies run by men who kept telling me to “be reasonable” about things I was already being reasonable about. I took meetings with every agency in town, and then at one, in walked Gwen Davis. She is a Black woman born and raised in L.A. who had been a talent agent at a massive agency, and then pivoted to sports stars and struck out on her own.

“If you need to, I expect you to tell me to fuck off,” she said in that first meeting. “And if I need to, I’m going to throw it right back at you. We have to have a relationship that is brutally honest. I’m not interested in being your yes man. It’s not worth your time or mine.”

I signed with her right then and there.

Today, in her office, I look out over Beverly Hills—the palm trees and wide streets and large lots. From here, I can see the golden crown that sits atop city hall.

I turn toward Gwen as she sits down on the sofa next to me. She’s in her late fifties, dressed in a red pantsuit and mules. Sometimes I wonder if she’s in the wrong field; she’s too striking, too glamorous to be the one behind the scenes.

Ali, her assistant, comes in. Her long black hair is pulled into a bun with a pen, and it is already falling apart. She’s in a flannel shirt and black jeans with a pair of boots. Something about the fact that Gwen doesn’t care what her assistant wears in the office while she, herself, looks like a runway model makes me like them both even more.

“An herbal tea for you,” Ali says as she hands me a mug. “With a muffin I know you won’t eat.”

I laugh. “I have to be back on the court this afternoon, and I don’t even like muffins,” I say.

“Next time, I’ll get you raw unsalted almonds,” Ali says. And I know she’s making fun of me, but honestly, I would rather have the almonds.

Ali hands Gwen a coffee and then leaves.

Gwen takes a sip from her mug and then looks at me. She raises her eyebrow as she gently sets her mug on the glass table, next to a coffee table book with my face on it. It was released in 1990 and features shots of me at Wimbledon spanning about fifteen years. Soto on Grass.

Gwen meets my eye as she leans back on the sofa. “Are you sure about returning?”

“I would not be here if I wasn’t sure.”

“It’s not something to be taken lightly,” she adds.

“Do I look like I’m taking it lightly?”

“Well, your sponsorships…”

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to shoot the new Elite Gold campaign this spring.”

“I know.”

“And Gatorade is running the ‘Champions’ commercial soon too, with you front and center.”

I nod.

“Your Break Points are outselling all other tennis shoes for Adidas right now.”

One of the most surprising things about my retirement was that it turned out to be very lucrative. Apparently, when I wasn’t around anymore, people forgot how much they disliked me—and remembered how much they liked my shoes.

“I know that too,” I say.

“These endorsements are all based on the premise that you are now a legend. That you were one of the very best athletes in the world.”

“Right, and I’m going to prove that I still am.”

“But if…”

I look her dead in the eye, daring her to say it.

She pivots. “If it’s a matter of earning, I think, for you, there is more money to be made as a commentator or a WTA official than as a player. We position you as an elder stateswoman of tennis. That’s how we keep you relevant and active.”