Carrie Soto Is Back(54)

“Of course you’re going to finish the year.”

Bowe rolls his eyes. “Just serve the ball and let’s get this over with.”

“You have no chance of winning if that’s your attitude,” I say.

“I’m begging you to shut up, Soto.”

“See? This is your problem. One tiny little thing doesn’t go your way and you explode.”

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t walk away.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a quitter, Carrie. Now serve the ball.”

I watch him as he walks back to the baseline. When he gets there, he turns, expecting to see me ready to serve, but instead I am staring at him from the net.

“If you have something to say to me,” I say, “then say it.”

“I just said it,” he says.

I stare at him still.

He deflates. “I just want you to serve the ball,” he says.

I start walking backward, still glaring at him as I make my way to the baseline. “Call me a quitter again, asshole. I dare you.”

“Serve the ball, Carrie.”

With lightning speed, I toss it up in the air and slam it across the court. It flies from my racket straight across the net and into the ground. It bounces out of reach before Bowe gets to it.

“Break point,” I say.

“Goddammit,” Bowe says as he throws his racket.

I shake my head and start heading toward the bench to drink some water.

Bowe picks up his racket and walks to the bench too. When he gets to me, he has calmed slightly. But the racket in his hand is broken—half the frame hanging by the strings.

I nod toward it. “That’s what happens when you don’t know how to control your emotions.”

“Yeah, maybe I should just quit every time I think I’m losing.”

“One time!” I say. “One time! I asked you to reschedule a match because I didn’t want people looking at me. One time! And you’re so bent out of shape about it that you’re gonna wreck your racket? C’mon. You’re an adult man. Get ahold of yourself.”

“I truly cannot stand,” he says as he packs up his other rackets, “to be lectured by you.”

“Why not? Who else should lecture you? You and I are the same, Bowe. Old and out to prove something. And I’m at least handling it with some dignity.”

“You left!” he says, his voice rising. And then he shakes his head and laughs to himself. “You hurt your knee, you lost a couple matches, and you gave up. That’s what you did. You’re saying we’re the same, but we’re not. I stuck around. I had the guts to try. I have the guts to lose. You, you just run. Well, guess what, Carrie? People who are actually playing the game lose. We all lose. We lose all the time. That is life. So we are not the same, Soto. I have courage. You’re just good at tennis.”

He zips up his kit as I try to get control of my breathing.

“You’re mad at me because I retired?” I ask. “Are you serious? What should I have done instead? Hung around and become a joke? Let everyone see me limping to the finish line?”

Bowe looks at me and closes his eyes slowly. He takes a breath. “You act like you’ve dedicated your life to tennis. But you came back to win, not to play. That’s why they’re all pissed at you for returning. You’ve got no heart.”

Bowe puts his bag over his shoulder and walks away.

“Who is the quitter now?” I call out. “You’re forfeiting this match, you know!”

But Bowe just shakes his head and leaves.



* * *



—

The next morning, Bowe doesn’t show up. So it’s just my father and me hitting.

“He just decides not to come? Not to practice?” my father asks as we rally a bit to warm up.

I send a soft shot back to him. “No lo sé.”

My father frowns. “So you got into a fight, then.”

“He doesn’t like it when he’s told the truth. What do you want me to do?”

My father shakes his head and smiles. “The both of you…”

“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I?”

My father nods. “I will check up on him later.”

“Do whatever you want.”

We run drills. My father pulls in a hitter last minute. It’s not a vigorous practice. But it keeps me warm. And given how many people are lining up to watch, I realize that if Bowe had come this morning, he’d have gotten the showdown he wanted.

Regardless, I’m putting the ball where I want it. I find myself more and more unbothered by the crowd watching me. They begin growing louder, more engaged, shouting, “Carrie!” and “Nous t’aimons!”

With each perfectly executed groundstroke, I try to let their presence bolster me instead of scare me.

I am good. On any surface you put me on, I am good. This is a level of performance that I can allow everyone to see.

But then I notice my father’s attention turn toward one of the other courts, as fans all over the complex begin to hum. I look over in their direction. Nicki Chan is signing autographs as she walks onto the court with a hitter.

My father turns and looks at me. When he catches my gaze, there is nothing we need to say. I continue to hit for another few minutes.