Carrie Soto Is Back(43)

“I am feeling like I played poorly and a bunch of reporters are asking me questions about how it feels to suck. I’m not happy right now. Obviously. I will use it as fuel to play better in the future, as I always have.”

“But at some point,” another man says, “everyone’s game declines. Is that what we are seeing here?”

“Why don’t you go ask Dvo?áková, Flores, and Perez if they think my game is declining?”

“What will you do now?” a woman asks.

“I will go home and get back to work, ready to win in Paris.”

“Yes, but, clay is historically your toughest surface,” this woman says. “You’ve only won the French once, in 1983.”

“Yeah, well,” I say. “Watch me win it again in ’95.”

They continue to ask questions, but I get up from the table and walk out the door.



* * *



—

Back at the hotel, I get in the elevator and head to my room. But as I round the corner, I see Bowe standing in the hallway with his suitcase.

I stop right in my tracks.

“I wasn’t sure if you’re a ‘wants company when they lose’ sort of person or an ‘everyone get away from me’ sort of person,” he says.

I say, “I’m an ‘everyone get away from me’ person.”

Bowe nods. “Roger that,” he says as he grabs his suitcase. “I’ll be going.”

I walk toward him. “You didn’t have to move your flight,” I say.

Bowe looks at his suitcase and then back up at me. “I did, actually,” he says. “I…I didn’t stand a chance against O’Hara. But I wouldn’t have stood a chance against any of the players I’ve beaten in this tournament if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Practicing together?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “But also…the fact that you’re doing this. That you’ve shown up and said, ‘I still have more to do.’ Randall’s retired, Stepanova’s gone. McEnroe. Borg looked like a fool out there, coming back after so many years with his wooden racket. But not you. You look like a mercenary. And it…it makes me feel less stupid, I guess. That I’m trying too.”

I lean against the wall. He steps closer.

“Don’t try to kiss me,” I say.

Bowe smiles and shakes his head. “You already told me that. You don’t have to keep rejecting me.”

“Well,” I say. “I’m just saying…don’t do it.”

Bowe nods. “I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning. You were right, about my stance. And my game.”

“I…could have said it nicer.”

“I Could Have Said It Nicer: The Carrie Soto Story.”

I laugh. “Where are you headed next?”

Bowe shrugs. “Well, I’m not playing in the Davis Cup, obviously,” he says. “But I’m headed to Marseille and San Jose. Then Memphis. And on it goes.”

“I miss it a little,” I say. “The whole tour. The constant movement and focus. You can’t dwell on a loss if you’re already on to the next match.”

“You could have rejoined the full tour, you know.”

I nod, picking at my fingernails, not looking at him. “I’m not good enough yet to dominate the way I’d want to.”

“You played well today,” he says. “And I’m glad I saw it. I know you didn’t get what you wanted, but I’m still blown away by what you accomplished here. So many people are.”

“Thanks,” I say. And then I stop playing with my fingernails and look up at him, meet his eye. “Thank you.”

“So I’ll see you at the French, it sounds like,” Bowe says, his hand on his suitcase again.

I nod. “I’ll be back home trying to get myself in fighting shape until then.”

“And I’ll be out on the courts trying to pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

Bowe puts his hand out for me to shake, and I grab it. I am surprised by how warm it is.

He turns to go.

“Do you even have a room?” I ask. “You were supposed to leave this morning.”

“I’ll get another one,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

There’s a pullout sofa in the living area of my suite. But I know that at some point in the night, he would knock on the bedroom door. Or worse yet, I’d slip into his bed on the couch.

When I play out the scenario in fast-forward, I can barely stand to watch it. He’ll say something wonderful at some point, and I’ll start to believe he means it, despite all evidence to the contrary. And then I’ll start to like him or love him or feel something that I swear I’ve never felt before. And then one day, when I’m in too deep, he’ll stop liking me or loving me, for one reason or another. And I’ll be left with a hole in my heart.

“All right, then,” I say. “Good luck. See you in Paris.”





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Mark Hadley: And Carrie Soto out before the quarterfinals? What do we make of that?