Carrie Soto Is Back(52)

I take the second set, 6–3. “Uh-oh,” I say. “She’s coming for ya.”

“I’m not worried.”

I take the next.

“Ohhhh,” I say, teasing him as we stand by the net. “Now it’s starting to sting, right? Starting to feel a little pinch?”

“It’s out of five, Soto,” he says. “I know you’re used to two sets giving you the match, but you’re playing a man’s game now.”

“Kindly fuck off.”

My father shakes his head.

Bowe takes the fourth. I’m getting tired. My serve is softening.

“Oh shit,” Bowe says. “It’s anybody’s game now, Battle Axe.”

“You’re both terrible in the fifth set of any match,” my father calls out. “So let’s not trash-talk until one of you gets results.”

Our fifth set goes to a tiebreak. Match point is on Bowe’s serve, which lands right on the T. I return it with a backhand down the line. It bounces high, and he can’t reach it.

“Yes!” I say, pumping my fist. “How do you like that?”

Bowe shakes his head, visibly pissed at himself for handing me that serve.

“You win,” he says. “You win this one.”

My father nods at me. “I’m going inside for a drink,” he says. “See you in ten to talk about what we can do better. I have a lot of notes. For both of you.”

Bowe grabs the ball on his side of the net and then meets me over by the bench. I take a long sip of water just as he takes one himself. But we catch each other’s gaze.

“How are you?” Bowe says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Chan.”

I sit down on the bench. “I feel like I set out to prove that I’m a better player than her. And I got a bit of a break with her ankle in Melbourne, but you know, I did plan on facing her eventually. I want the challenge.” This is what I’m telling myself, anyway.

“So it’s good, then, her coming back.”

I laugh. “Yes,” I say. “No. I don’t know. Yes, it’s good, if I’m as great as I say I am.”

“You are,” he says. “You’ll do it. I’m the one who needs a miracle,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say, smiling.

“I literally just told you you’re doing great. And you can’t return the favor?”

“What do you want me to do? Lie? Don’t fish for compliments,” I say.

“Christ, Carrie,” Bowe says. But he’s laughing. And I am too. And then suddenly my father is there, his head still in his notebook.

“Carrie, go to the baseline. We need to work harder on your second serve. Huntley, I assume you’re staying? I have notes for you, if you want them. Your game is getting better, but you still stink at the net. You could benefit from my expertise.”

Bowe rolls his eyes. “The two of you, man,” he says to my father and me. “Bulls in a china shop.”

“Let’s not pretend you’re such a prize,” my dad says, his eyebrows raised.

“Fine,” Bowe says. “I want your notes. I’m here to win, so…anything you got, I’m listening.”

My father’s face lights up. And I’m happy for him, to be back here doing this job that he does so well, this job that has defined him for as long as I can remember.

This is not just my comeback.





Soto vs. Huntley, Love?


    Sub Rosa Magazine


The word out of Paris is that iconoclast Carrie Soto and former wild child Bowe Huntley might be dating again.

Those who were around for the whirlwind of Soto’s and Huntley’s respective dominance in the eighties will remember that the two were seen canoodling in Spain back in the day.

Now, almost fifteen years later, it appears they are cuddling up close once again.

Multiple sources say they’ve seen “the Battle Axe” and “Howlin’ Huntley” sparring on the court in preparation for the upcoming French Open.

But we have to think this isn’t all business….





MID-MAY


    Two weeks until the French Open


It’s late, almost ten p.m. Bowe and I are about two hours into a practice match on a court just outside Paris. The court lights are bright. The clay is dense under our feet.

It’s just Bowe and me. My father went to bed.

Bowe and I decided to play tonight because, earlier in the day, people had started gathering by the court we were on, trying to catch a glimpse of us. I felt myself getting more and more tight, with all of their eyes on me.

“I need privacy,” I told my father in between games. “Clay is my worst surface. I need to get everything ready and in control first, and then people can watch me.”

Bowe started walking toward us. I gathered he heard the last part of my complaint because he raised his eyebrows at me.

“You’re in your head too much,” Bowe said, pointing at his temple. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

My father frowned at Bowe. “Hi, I missed the meeting where I hired you as assistant coach.”

“The two of you comment on my game constantly!” Bowe said.