Carrie Soto Is Back(71)

Nicki looks at me out of the corner of her eye, as if expecting me to spit out my cocktail. But I have long suspected she is gay, and I couldn’t care less. Romantic relationships are so goddamn impossible, I’m honestly impressed with anyone who can keep one going at all.

Though, it’s occurring to me now, that probably doesn’t account for how hard it is for her to deal with the world’s hang-ups about it. Or how hard it must be to decide who to confide in.

And she confided in me. And fuck if it doesn’t make me like her more. Goddamn her.

“You don’t have to tell me how shitty the press are. You’re talking to a woman referred to as ‘the Bitch,’?” I remind her.

Nicki laughs. “I just wanted to play the game. And now, instead, I’m shooting TV commercials and telling twelve-year-old girls to believe in their dreams and agreeing to be a guest host on breakfast television. It just feels like…so many things get in the way of the actual point.”

I look at her, and then I look down. I turn the glass. “Once you retire, then it’s only about the TV commercials. And the charity functions and playing to the crowd for exhibition games. And the real tennis just sort of goes. Poof. Gone.”

Nicki frowns. “No, I don’t believe that.”

I shrug. “Believe whatever you want.”

“When I retire, I want to take up at my place in the Cotswolds and quit all the rest. Just spend my days playing on my court in the countryside.”

“But against who?” I say. “There’s no one to play except maybe other retirees. You’re not gonna play the neighborhood girl—that’s not fun. And you’re not going to play anyone in the WTA, because they are busy on tour. And they certainly don’t want to be beaten by you. The exhibition games are all right, but they are just for show––there’s no real intensity. There’s no one to play in any serious way. I swear there were days I’d wake up and my right hand would be jittery, wondering where the racket was.”

Nicki nods. “So that’s why you’re back, then? Your right hand is jittery?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I came back to destroy you.”

Nicki cackles so loud that people turn and stare. When she quiets, she leans in toward me. “I don’t buy it for a second,” she says, smiling. “It’s about more than that.”

“No, I’m dead serious. I want my fucking record back.”

“Of course,” Nicki says. “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”

“And you took it.”

“I didn’t take it,” Nicki says. “I earned it. The same way you did. But just one more Slam than you.” She winks at me and then takes a drink.

“You haven’t had to go up against anyone great,” I say. “In the past six years, there’s been almost nobody who can hold a candle to you.”

“Exactly.”

“Give me a break. It’s easier to win when you don’t have a Stepanova. Or somebody like Mary-Louise Bryant, who started out so stunning. Or me, even. The field has been leveled for you. It’s not the same as the way I set the record.”

Nicki shakes her head. “You sound like every pundit on ESPN.”

“What?” I say. “Are you kidding me? Every sportscaster in the world is tripping over themself to crown you the best!”

“That’s how it may seem to you. But what I hear—over and again—is that even when I beat your record, it’s not good enough. I will never be Carrie Soto. I’ll never be as graceful as you. I’ve never had a truly formidable opponent. Yes, I’m good on clay and hard court, but ‘Carrie Soto reigns in London.’ This is my hometown, but somehow it still belongs to you.”

She takes another sip of her gin. “And then,” she adds, “just when it looks like I’m finally going to silence them all, it becomes ‘Wow! Carrie Soto is back!’ And they all do cartwheels over you.”

“I mean this from the bottom of my heart: Are you fucking high?” I say.

Nicki laughs.

“Try being told—over and over and over again—that if you do manage to win anything this year, you will set a record for being the oldest bitch to ever do it.”

Nicki laughs. “Yes, I’m sure it’s terribly awful to know that if you win Wimbledon, you will set two records and match mine.”

My fists clench. It takes everything I have not to slam my hand on the bar and remind her who had that record first, who made that record. There is no you without me.

But I have no leg to stand on anymore. I lost it back in Paris.

“Do you have any idea,” I say, “how hard it is to work your entire life toward one goal—one goal—and then to have someone else come in and try to take it away?”

Nicki looks at me, incredulous. “Yes!” she says. “In fact, I do.”

I look at her and realize what I’ve just said. I cannot help but laugh, and neither can Nicki.

“God, you must hate me,” I say. “I would. I would hate me.”

Nicki downs the rest of her glass. “I don’t hate you. I told you before. I’m thankful.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“I’m serious,” Nicki says. “I can’t fight unless I have something to fight against. And I like fighting. I like it even more than winning.”