Carrie Soto Is Back(77)

On the next serve, she footfaults. Then nets it. Love–30.

I wink at her. Her face grows tighter.

On the next one, we rally and then she lobs it too high and the ball lands behind the baseline.

Match point.

I can do this. I am doing this. I just have to trust myself.

She hits a high kick serve. I get it on the rise. She returns it fast, exactly like I hoped. Here it is. I take it out of the air early and quick—a drop shot, right over the net.

It lands with such a beautiful, sweet, delicious thud.

Antonovich cannot get to it. She falls to the ground.

I leap into the air and shout. Gwen and Ali stand in their seats. The crowd roars.

I look right at the TV cameras for a brief second, knowing my father is looking right back at me.

Finally, over the loudspeaker come the words I have waited to hear.

“Carrie Soto advances to the championship final.”





My father is shouting at me through the phone. “You were incomparable! You were dynamic. You were interesting today, hija. Interesting! You played in a way that kept us all glued to the TV.”

I laugh as I sit down on the couch. The phone was ringing the moment I got in the door. I’ve barely had time to put my things down. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I am not exaggerating! Let me tell you something…. At the end of the third set, you two were neck and neck. I watched you at the changeover. I saw you thinking it through. And I knew. I said to Bowe, I said, ‘She’s got it.’ And you did. Oh, he was so proud of you. He was beaming.”

“Where is he?” I ask.

“He waited around for you to call, but there’s only so long the man wants to spend in an old guy’s house. Don’t worry. He and I talked at length about your brilliance today. I told him, I said, ‘She goes after what she wants on the court but not in real life. In real life, you have to be patient.’?”

“What are you even talking about? And stop, you don’t need to be discussing me with him.”

“Oh, Carrie, that ship has sailed. He comes every day, and after we are done playing chess and discussing his strategy for the US Open, what do you think we are going to do? Talk about the weather? This is Los Angeles. It’s sunny.”

“He’s coming every day?” I ask. I look over the room service menu as if I don’t know already that I’m going to order grilled chicken.

“Yeah, every day. He brings me breakfast and stays until after lunch. Or he brings me lunch and stays until after dinner. Honestly, it makes sense to me why he’s here all the time. Did you know his own father was embarrassed he was a tennis player instead of a professor or something?”

“I know a little.”

“Imagine! Imagine having your head that far up your own ass that you’re embarrassed your son is a champion.”

“All right, all right,” I say.

“I like him, Carrie. Even with all those tantrums.”

“I can tell.”

“No, I like him for you. I think this thing is verrrry interesting, you two.”

“Dad, cut it out.”

“And he thinks so too.”

“STOP IT OR I WILL GET OFF THE PHONE,” I say.

“Bueno, pero tengo razón,” he says. “When does Chan play?”

“Tonight. Soon.” I look at my watch. “Any second now, actually.”

“Ay,” he says. I hear him start to wrestle around for the remote. I can hear the TV turning on. So I sit down and turn on mine. I flip through the channels until I see that the match is just beginning.

Nicki stands tall and sturdy on the court. Her tennis whites are crisp and bright, a tennis skirt and tank top. Her shoes are her own 130s, bright white.

I watch her, bouncing on the balls of her feet, stretching out her shoulder, standing at the baseline. She has a huge smile on her face, like she’s living for this moment.

Ingrid Cortez’s face is all business.

“This is it,” my dad says. “Chan wins this, and then you beat her. And suddenly, it’s a whole different story.”

“I know,” I say, watching her first serve. “I had a drink with her the other night. I…liked her.”

Nicki hits her first serve. My shoulder starts to sting just watching Cortez return it.

“You didn’t talk strategy, did you?” my father says.

“Dad, give me a little credit.”

“You know what I say about making friends out of your opponents.”

“Honestly,” I say, sighing, “no, I don’t. Because you just told me to never do it.”

“Well, yeah,” he says. “Exacto, hija. But if you do—don’t talk strategy, don’t tell them how you felt about your last game, don’t tell them your fears, don’t tell them your strengths either. And you sure as hell never tell them how much it hurts you to lose.”

“Oh, is that all?” I say. Nicki and Ingrid are still rallying for the point.

“Don’t tell them what you had for breakfast either,” he says. “They could use it against you.”

“You sound insane.”

“Every genius sounds insane.”

Nicki hits a groundstroke to Cortez’s backhand, and Cortez misses it. First point Nicki.