Carrie Soto Is Back(58)

Bowe’s hotel is two blocks over and soon enough, I’m standing in the lobby asking the concierge to tell him I’m here.

I sit in the lobby, in an overstuffed velvet chair, taking in the shine of the marble floors and the gold fixtures. And then Bowe is in front of me in chinos and a T-shirt, his baseball cap on. He’s holding his ribs.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi.”

“I was really mean,” I say. “The other day.”

Bowe nods and bites his lip. “I wasn’t great either.”

“Are you okay?”

Bowe looks down at his torso. “I honestly do not know.”

“What happened?” I saw the replay—the way he twisted and then fell to the ground.

Bowe nods at the elevators, and we head toward them. A young teenage boy and his father sneak into the elevator just as we are about to head up, and I watch their faces as they realize who we are.

“You’re—” the teenager says as he begins to point at us. His father immediately pushes his hand down.

“Jeremy, don’t point at people,” he says, and then turns to us. “I’m sorry.”

Bowe waves them off. “Not a problem.”

“Congrats,” the dad says to me. “Great match today against Moretti.”

I say, “Thank you.”

“Sorry about Alderton,” the dad says to Bowe. “Rough break.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The doors open, and the boy and his father get off. Bowe and I are now left in the elevator together.

“It’s not always so easy,” Bowe says. “Standing next to you.”

“I’m not going to apologize for it,” I say.

“No,” Bowe says, shaking his head. “Nor would I want you to.”

The elevator opens on his floor. He gestures for me to go first, and we walk into his room.

It is smaller than I expected. He does not have a suite but instead a single bed, not much of a view.

When he closes the door behind us, I turn to look at him. “What is your plan?” I say, pointing to his ribs.

Bowe sits on the edge of his bed, softly. He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

I sit next to him. “Are you in a lot of pain?” I ask.

Bowe nods. “It hurts like hell. I can barely breathe without feeling like my chest is ripping open.”

“Are you taking anything?”

Bowe shakes his head. “No, and I’m not going to. I didn’t kick alcohol just to take up worse stuff. I’ll deal with it.”

“What did the doctor say?”

Bowe frowns. “I’m out for weeks, at least. Wimbledon’s fucked.” He shakes his head. “The season is going to be winding down before I’m back on the court.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I grab his hand and hold it. He looks down at our hands together, and I pull mine back. “You will be ready for the US Open. I know it. And Wimbledon isn’t even your best surface. You’re shit at anticipating the ball on grass.”

“Yes, thank you,” Bowe says. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“What I’m saying is that the US Open is your best chance. And you will be better by then.”

Bowe nods.

“Plenty of time to fuck shit up.”

Bowe laughs.

“I am sorry,” I say. “About saying you were embarrassing yourself.”

“I shouldn’t have lost my cool about any of it,” Bowe says. “You play how you want to play––that’s your business.”

“Sometimes I think you’re the only person who’s harder to deal with than me,” I say.

Bowe rolls his eyes. “Not even close.”

I laugh. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I know, I know,” he says. “It’s not the end of the world.”

I stand up.

“Are you really sticking around?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says. “I meant what I told the reporters. I think you can win it, Carrie. I really do.”

“I hate,” I say, “how much that means to me.”

Bowe laughs. “Yeah, look, I get it,” he says. “I hate that I care so much what all of you Sotos think of me.”

We are quiet for a moment, and then Bowe begins to speak. But before he can get a word out, I say, “I should go.”

He looks thrown but quickly nods. “Good night, Soto. Rest up.”



* * *



—

My father and I are at the practice courts after a sweltering session against a hitter. I’m drenched in sweat, and my father is sitting on the bench beside me, running through his plan for defeating Natasha Antonovich.

I’ve never played her before—only seen the devastation of her speed from the seats.

“She’s quick,” my father says. “The clay barely slows her down. It doesn’t present the challenge for her that it does for others.”

“So I have to be faster,” I say.

My father shakes his head. “No. That is not what I’m saying.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do not lose your temper,” he says, “when I say this.”