Carrie Soto Is Back(51)

When the flight attendants serve the meals, I see them trade salt and butter. He gives her his dessert. She smiles sweetly; there is something girlish about the way she accepts it.

At some point after my movie ends, they start playing something called 3 Ninjas Knuckle Up, and I doze off to sleep. But I wake up a few hours later, when we are about to land, and I see that my father and Coral are still talking.

She asks him something that I cannot make out for the life of me, and my dad puts his hand on her hand for the briefest of seconds and gives a very slight shake of the head.

As we all stand up to get off the plane, Coral nods at my father and says, “Goodbye, Javier, it’s been a pleasure,” and then walks away.

Soon, my father is walking faster than me off the concourse and into the airport. I catch up with him quickly, though. “What’s the deal?” I say.

He looks at me. “What deal?”

“Did you ask Coral out or what?”

My father scoffs. “No, I did not ask her out.”

“Well, why not? Weren’t you just telling me to open my heart?”

“I was talking about you, not me,” he says as we get onto the escalator. “I have had my love.”



* * *



—

When we get to the hotel, the concierge gives me a message from Gwen, telling me to call her, no matter the time. I look at my watch. It’s almost midnight in Paris but only afternoon in L.A.

My father and I walk up to my room. I find the phone and call.

“Hi,” Ali says. “One second.”

I put it on speaker as Gwen picks up the line.

“So,” Gwen says.

It’s either that Elite Gold is pulling out or Nicki Chan is back in. And I’m not sure which I dread more.

“Chan,” Gwen says. “She’s playing the French Open.”

Ah, fuck. That’s the one I hate more. I look at my father, who looks back at me.

“You’ve got this,” Gwen says. “Clay is her surface, but you can take her down.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. All right, talk soon.”

I hang up the phone and say, “If she takes the French Open…before I’ve been able to win one…”

My father nods. “It’s not good.”

I stand up. “But she’s not going to win the French Open.”

“No, she’s not. You’re going to win the French Open.”

“Because I am the greatest tennis player of all time.”

My dad walks up to me and puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “You are the greatest warrior the world has ever seen.”





Transcript


    SportsHour USA


    The Mark Hadley Show




Mark Hadley: And now that Nicki Chan has announced she will be playing in the French Open—how does that change everyone’s prospects?

Gloria Jones: Well, we don’t know what sort of player we are going to see. A lot of people are saying she’s coming back too soon after her injury. There are rumors she’s intent on taking another Slam title to break the tie between her and Soto and she’s rushed her return in order to do it.

Briggs Lakin: I have to say, Gloria, I’m hearing the opposite. I’m hearing the Beast is playing the best she’s ever played. Meanwhile, Soto’s only chance at a Slam was one where she wouldn’t have to face Nicki. That was Melbourne. I think it’s safe to say, for the Battle Axe, it’s all over.





END OF APRIL


    One month until the French Open


We meet Bowe on the practice court at eight a.m. There’s not another soul around. He is wearing gym shorts and a white T-shirt, tapping his racket against his shoes. Bright white, they stand out in stark contrast to the burnt orange clay.

“Even with your back bothering you, you’ve been kicking ass,” I say as I make my way onto the court. My father walks just two steps behind me.

“Thank you,” Bowe says. “Though I suspect you’re fighting at peak level right now. I’m a little scared.”

“You should be,” I say.

“All right, kids, shall we?” my father says.

Bowe shakes my hand. “May the best player win,” he says.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“Best of three or five?” my father asks.

I really want to earn it. I really want to run myself into the ground and see what I’m made of. “Five,” I say.

He nods. “Here we go.”

I serve first, and it’s a stunner. Sharp, fast, with a high bounce. “Fuck,” Bowe says after he misses it.

“Get used to it.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I will,” Bowe says, and I can’t help but laugh.

I keep it up but then find myself pulling back, going for the safe shots, worried that I’ll run out of steam too quickly. Bowe gets the edge on me and wins the first set, 7–5.

I need to find balance in my game, some ability to go hard and keep going, some power to draw on that will not deplete me. I look over at my father for guidance, but he’s making notes in his notebook.

I already know the answer, though. I need better shot selection. I need to go bigger on some shots—really take some risks. And I need to put more of the pressure on Bowe’s side of the court. I start lobbing more frequently, constructing longer points.