Carrie Soto Is Back(70)

My father had crammed my forms, my stances, my strokes into my mind with such repetition that it made its way into my cells. It lived in my muscles and joints.

It’s true, still, today.

And so, with every ball that comes at me, my mind remains free to run through every single shot I have in my arsenal, to consider the flaws in the court. I can better anticipate a bad bounce, or find a shot my opponent isn’t expecting.

And then comes the moment when I make contact with the ball—and in that split second, muscle memory takes over.

Grass has always been perfect for that type of play.

As I stand here on the court, up against the ball machine, meeting each ball after the bounce, I am fluid. My body is just doing this. It is almost as if I’m not even here. This grace, this flow, this effortlessness––this is 1983 me.

When the machine runs out of balls for the fourth time, I stop. All hundred of them are strewn about on the other side of the court.

I am sweating and breathless. I look at my watch. I’ve been out here almost three hours—but I would have sworn it was twenty minutes. And for one brief moment, it feels like I am Carrie Soto.

“Hello.”

I turn to find Nicki watching me through the fence, one hand gripping the grate. Goddammit.

“Oh. Hi.”

“I came this early to avoid you,” Nicki says, laughing.

“Sorry, been out here since about five a.m.”

Nicki nods. “It is stunning,” she says. “Watching you play.”

I walk toward her. “Yeah, well, I am very good.”

Nicki laughs again. “Yes, you are. The beauty of your form is…it’s breathtaking. I remember it always being that way. You could see it even on TV back in the day. Just now, as I was spying a bit…” She shakes her head. “It’s gorgeous tennis.”

How am I supposed to respond to that? “A drink, tonight,” I hear myself say. “If you still want. At the Savoy.”

Nicki nods. “I’ll be there.”



* * *



—

Later that afternoon, I’m on the phone in the living room of my suite, looking out the window. “No sé, papá, pero…I just…I’m feeling that hum. I’m feeling like this could be it. This one could be mine.”

His voice is small. “It will be, hija,” he says. I keep pressing my ear harder into the receiver, as if by pressing hard enough, I can force myself through the line and be right next to him. “It will be.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Bien, bien. Pero do not worry about me. Bowe is coming later this morning. I’m going to demolish him in another round of chess.”

“And what does Dr. Whitley say?”

“She says everything is great. Stop worrying,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “Está bien.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking. You are all I have.



* * *



—

When I get down to the American Bar at the Savoy, Nicki is already there. She’s talking to the bartender, who slides over a cocktail glass.

There’s something so casually confident about Nicki, so unbothered. We’re in an elegant bar and she’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a T-shirt with a pair of Doc Martens. Her long hair hangs down her back.

Nicki waves to me, and I make my way over to the bar. She’s drinking what seems to be gin with a twist.

“Absolut and soda, please,” I say to the bartender, who nods but then looks back up at me. “Are you Carrie Soto?” she says.

I look at Nicki, who smiles as she takes a sip of her gin.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Wow, big fan of yours,” she says. “I mean, I don’t know much about tennis, but I love your sneakers.”

I laugh. “Well, good, I’m glad to hear it.”

She heads down the bar, and Nicki laughs, shaking her head. “I’ve been sitting here talking to that beautiful woman for at least ten minutes, and somehow she doesn’t recognize me. Even though my tennis shoes are better than yours, by the way.”

Her line is with Nike. They are called 130s—a reference to the fact that she once hit a serve that clocked in at 130 miles per hour. They are the second bestselling women’s tennis shoe in the UK.

“It appears she disagrees,” I say.

“It’s not that I want to be recognized, mind you,” she says. “But if she’s going to recognize you and not me…well, c’mon.”

“You know,” I say, sitting down, “I once showed up to cut a ribbon at a tennis center named after me in Arizona, and the woman at the front door wouldn’t let me in because I wasn’t on the list.”

Nicki laughs and takes another sip of her drink. “It’s a weird life.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m not always sure I like it.”

My drink arrives, and I take a sip of it. “Not always much to like.”

“Isn’t it strange? How you get into this because you like to hit a ball around a court…? And then, suddenly, you don’t belong to yourself anymore? As if it’s okay for people to call you ‘the Beast’ just because you’re strong? And they can comment on your clothes and your hair? And make racist comments and pretend they are just joking? Just wait until they find out I’m a lesbian.”