Carrie Soto Is Back(29)

I consider it. I imagine myself growing more and more confident heading into Melbourne, hitting against amateurs. Only to be clobbered once I’m up against anybody on the circuit. The thought of it knocks the wind out of me.

But I also really don’t want to see Bowe Huntley. That knocks the wind out of me too.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I have to think about it.”



* * *



—

Later that evening, I am in my sweatpants with a seltzer water in my hand, sitting down to watch ER, when the phone rings. I mute the television just as the theme song begins.

I put my drink down and pick up the receiver, expecting it to be my father telling me he ran out of toilet paper or shampoo and asking me if I have any.

But it’s Bowe.

“Oh, hi,” I say.

“Long time,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it has been.”

“Well,” he says, “sorry to call so late, but Gwen said you might want to hit together, and I realized if we’re doing this, we need to make a plan ASAP.”

“You are interrupting my new favorite show, but fine, we can talk.”

Bowe laughs. “Are you watching ER? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, I’m talking to you instead of watching because you think it’s all right to call people at ten at night.”

“Well, I’ll wait,” he says.

“You want me to tell you what’s happening on ER? You can’t just turn it on?”

“I’m staying at the home of a nice lady friend I just met who doesn’t believe in owning a television.”

“Oh, jeez,” I say. “I don’t know who is worse, you or her.” I turn to the TV. “Dr. Lewis is talking to Carter.” I pause. “Do you really want me to give you the play-by-play on this entire episode?”

“Sort of,” he says. “The rerun won’t be until summer.”

I sit down on my sofa, crossing my legs. “Okay, fine. Now they have rushed a teenager into an OR. Oh, here we go! Here’s George Clooney!”

“Love Dr. Ross.”

“I like the one who doesn’t put up with the bullshit. What’s his name?”

“Benton.”

“Yeah, he’s my favorite.”

“Of course he is,” Bowe says.

“Is this really why you called?” I ask. “To have ER narrated to you?”

“No,” he says. “I want to know if we’re doing this thing. Gwen said you weren’t fully on board with the idea.”

“I just said I wanted to think about it.”

“Well, what is there to think about?”

“I don’t know, Bowe. That’s why I need time.”

“You have to think about what to think about?”

“I’m trying to be thoughtful about everything I’m doing over the next few months.”

“Look,” he says. “This is a good idea. We can both help each other a lot. You need somebody who can help you get back in fighting shape. I need someone to help me…”

“Remember how to win a match?” I ask.

Bowe is silent for a moment, and then he says, “You are not as charming as you think you are.”

“If I remember correctly, you’re the one people are supposed to find charming.”

“A lot of people do find me charming.”

“How nice for them.”

“I remember this about you––every sentence that comes out of your mouth is like a razor blade.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s why you slept with me and never called me again.”

He laughs. “Bullshit.”

“It’s what happened.”

“It is not. I might have spent a big portion of the eighties drunk and confused about what tournament I was at, but let me make one thing perfectly clear, Soto. Before you left my hotel in Madrid, I said, ‘I’ll call you.’ And you said, ‘This can just be what it is.’ And I remember that because I thought, Wow, she’s so cool, and I also thought, She doesn’t want to see me again.”

“Am I supposed to believe that I left you heartbroken?”

“Not at all. I just don’t want you pretending I’m a womanizer, because I’m not.”

“You are a womanizer. Everyone knows that.”

Bowe is the most fined tennis player in history. But he was once also one of the best. He has eleven Grand Slam titles—mostly from the Australian Open and the US Open in the early eighties. He was one of the best returners I’d ever seen. He was also loud and handsome and intoxicating. And almost all of the women on the WTA tour knew they should stay away from him—which was why none of us did.

“Well, I wasn’t just trying to get in your pants is my point.”

“Yeah, sure. Regardless, everyone on both tours thinks you’re a dick.”

“And they call you a bitch, apparently.”

I laugh. “The Dick and the Bitch, coming this fall to NBC.”

Bowe laughs, uproariously loud. And I can’t help but smile.

“So what do you say, then? Do you want to play together or not?” he asks me. “My ankle is shot. My wrist never really fully recovered from my surgery two years ago. My back is killing me. I’m the oldest guy on the tour. But I still have some fire. And I know you do too. Plus, I know your game, Soto. I know you’re the best goddamn player tennis has. I don’t care how long you’ve been off the court. If I can hit a few balls off you—if I can learn from you—I want to.”