Carrie Soto Is Back(34)

—

Three hours later, Bowe and I are sitting at a bar a few blocks from the arena. Bowe’s drinking a seltzer water with lemon. I’ve ordered an iced tea.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says as I pick up my glass. “You can have alcohol in front of me.”

“You’re not tempted?”

“I’m tempted every day. I just…It’s not your problem.”

“Why did you quit?” I ask.

“Is this therapy?” he says, and then sighs. “I quit because I don’t want the life I had when I was drinking. I’m ready for something quieter, less stressful, less dramatic. Less getting arrested for public intoxication, more staying in on Saturday nights.”

“It was only once, right?” I say. “You getting arrested?”

“Once was enough for me, thank you,” he says.

I am sitting with the sun in my face. The glare is making me squint.

“Do you want to switch spots?” Bowe asks. I shake my head; I have always liked the sun.

I look out into the bright afternoon. I can’t stop tapping my foot on the ground. I look back at Bowe. I beat him so easily on my home court just six weeks ago. But now, in Melbourne, when I should be playing even better, he’s just destroyed me.

“Are we friends?” I ask him.

Bowe sips his seltzer and raises his eyebrows. He puts his drink down. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re friends. Maybe we’re more colleagues?”

“We spend a lot of time together,” I say.

“Working.”

“Helping each other out,” I offer.

“Because it’s good for both of us.”

I nod and drink my iced tea.

“You act like you’ve never had a friend before,” Bowe says.

I roll my eyes at him. “I’ve had a friend before.”

Bowe has a glint in his eye. I know that smile, see how devilish it is. “But not many.”

“What I’m asking is…are we close? Can we tell each other things?”

“I don’t know, Soto. I just told you why I’m sober, so maybe. What is it you want to tell me?”

“I want to ask you something. From your point of view…” I say. “Why did I tank today?”

“Isn’t that for your daddy to tell you?”

“You mean my coach, who happens to be my father?”

Bowe raises his eyebrow.

“Plenty of players are coached by their father.”

“Yeah, when they are starting out. You’re an adult woman.”

I find it interesting that for him, it wasn’t a sign of disloyalty back in ’79 when I fired my father as my coach. Instead, he thinks it’s childish to go back to my father now.

“Yeah, well, at least someone wants to coach me,” I say.

Bowe’s jaw shifts and he nods without saying anything. He takes a sip of his drink, the condensation of the glass dripping onto the table. It’s hot outside. It will only get hotter as the tournament goes on. That is a leg up I have on a lot of the other women I’ll be playing—I like this heat, this blistering sun.

“Fine. You want my opinion? You slow down in the second set,” Bowe says. “Still. It’s improving, but not much. So I know that the harder I run you around in the first set, the more likely I am to win. Today, that’s exactly what I did, and by the second set you were done for.”

I’m disappointed in his answer. I already know that my endurance is still my weak spot. My father and I have discussed it, and for the next week, I’ll be doing sprints in the mornings to gear up for sustaining my efforts longer.

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Your knee seems fine,” he adds. “But you’re afraid to lean on it. I can tell when I hit a wide one to your forehand—which is easy to do because you favor your forehand.”

I nod again; I already know this. Though it is helpful to hear that he can sense it, which means my opponents might be able to as well.

I look out onto the street, watching people walk by the bar. I wonder how many—if any—of them have tickets to the tournament. If any of them will be in the stands watching me try to make something of all this. How many of them are calling me “the Battle Axe” but meaning “the Bitch.”

“But none of that is why you tanked today,” Bowe continues.

I look back at him. “You’ve got more?”

“You asked the question.”

“Go ahead,” I say.

“Your mental game sucks.”

“Excuse me? My mental game is great. My shot selection is just as good as it’s ever been. I’m still planning winners out three, four shots ahead. And you’re barely keeping up with them.”

Bowe nods. “Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Back in the eighties, you were so unflappable. You knew you deserved that trophy. You were unafraid.”

“That…is not true.”

“Well, you faked it better. Have you read The Inner Game of Tennis?”

“I could write The Inner Game of Tennis.”

“So that’s a no. Because if you had read it, you’d know that you, of all people, could never write it.”