Carrie Soto Is Back(81)

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m quite proud.”

“Yes,” she says. “And at such an age. It’s impressive. I quite admire your fighting spirit. You have that American virtue, don’t you? That dogged obstinance—even in the face of indignity.”

Gwen can see my face and nods at me slowly, encouraging me not to tell this woman to go fuck herself. “Ah, yes,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Well, it was oh-so tempting to roll over and die once I turned thirty, but somehow my American obstinance persists.”

Suddenly, Gwen’s hand is on my arm, and I’m being dragged away.

“Just smile and nod,” Gwen says. “How hard is that?”

“Very,” I say. “I hate half these people. I hate half of all people.”

Gwen leads me through the room. “You love Wimbledon,” she says.

“I love London and I love winning,” I say. “But I don’t care about any of these idiots who thought I was crazy for trying this in the first place.”

Gwen keeps us moving, and I can see now that she’s ushering me toward Jadran Petrovich—with whom I am going to have to take a photo. I pull her to a stop, ever so briefly.

“The only people who thought I could come back were my father and Bowe,” I say. “That’s whose opinion I care about. And yours, because you have stood by me every single moment.”

Gwen smiles. “Well, I have always admired your American obstinance.”

“Thank you for supporting me. And for being here,” I say. “When my father couldn’t.”

Gwen nods.

“And…I’m sorry about Indian Wells. I was…rude.”

“You mean when I gently asked you about your dating life and you acted like a brat?”

“Yes,” I say. “I know you were just trying to…care about me. And I’m not an easy person to care for.”

Gwen shakes her head. “Yes, you are. You think you’re so tough, but you’re not, Carrie. I can see right through you. To all the raw, scared bits you think you’re hiding.”

I look at her. “I hate you,” I say.

“Anyway,” she says, waving me off. “You were wrong, but you weren’t wrong. Back in Indian Wells.”

I’m not sure what she means.

“Michael and I are getting divorced,” she says finally. Before I can ask her how she is or what happened, she says, “We will talk about it later, but, you know, maybe I was living vicariously through you for a moment there.”

I put my arm on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She waves me away.

“Well, I did sleep with Bowe,” I say. “So there ya go: There’s the gossip you wanted.”

Gwen laughs abruptly, tossing her head back and delighting in it all with such force and freedom that multiple people turn their heads to look at us.

“Can we leave?” I say.

Gwen nods. “I’m going to go connect with a few sponsors. You go take the photo with Jadran, and then yeah, let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, I’m posing with a smile across my face as Jadran Petrovich and I have our photos taken. Once the flashes stop, I congratulate him on winning.

“Thank you, it is exciting. My first,” he says.

“It’s thrilling,” I say. “I remember my first one.”

“You have won before,” he says.

“Ten times,” I say. “Yes.”

“Hm,” he says. “But it is three sets.”

“Excuse me?”

“The match is best of three in the women’s. We play best of five. The men’s tournament.”

“Right.”

“So it’s not comparable, is it?”

I see Gwen coming to meet me. I look Jadran right in the eye. “I assure you,” I say, all smile—fake or not—gone from my face, “if I played you two out of three or three out of five, I would drag you across the court and murder your—”

“All right, that’s it,” Gwen says as she hooks her arm into mine and hauls me away.



* * *



—

Sometime around three in the morning, Gwen and I are in my hotel suite, opening a second bottle of champagne. Gwen’s thrown her heels off and is sitting in the club chair, pouring. I am lying, still in my fancy dress, across the sofa. She hands me my refilled glass.

“You should have let me tell that fucker off,” I say.

Gwen shakes her head. “If I let you say all the things you wanted to say in public, your career would be over in about two hours.”

“Why do I have to be nice when most of the men aren’t? Last year, Jeff Kerr called an umpire a ‘dogshit salad,’ and he’s hawking underwear for Fruit of the Loom.”

Gwen shakes her head. “You know damn well there’s another set of rules for you. Just like there’s even another set of rules for me.”

I look at her, understanding that as much as I know what it’s like to be a woman in this world, I have no idea what it’s like to be a Black woman.

“Yeah,” I say. “And it’s not right.”

Gwen shrugs. “Most shit isn’t.”

I nod. “Good point.”