Carrie Soto Is Back(85)

“I will be watching,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you take that record back. Probably right out of her hands.”

I breathe in deeply, trying to push down the grief that is blooming in my chest.

“I’ll just be doing it from here,” he says. “Instead of in the stands.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

“You will go and win the US Open, and then you can retire again and come home, and we can throw a party,” he says.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is not easy,” he says. “But you will do it.”

“And if I don’t?”

My father looks at me and narrows his eyes, trying to gauge my reaction.

“I don’t need you to guess what I want to hear,” I say. “I just want the truth. If I don’t win, then what?”

“Well, if you don’t win the US Open, I don’t care. That’s the truth.”

I erupt in laughter. “Unreal.”

“You said you wanted the truth. It will be no different to me if you win or you lose. It won’t affect me at all.”

“I mean, it matters a little,” I say.

“To you, maybe. But to me? It was never the point.”

I put my head on his shoulder and absorb what he’s saying. I look up at the bright, unending L.A. sky, palm trees swaying in the breeze.

“He’s in love with you,” my father finally says.

I don’t pull away. I don’t even flinch.

“And he knows you’re a better player than he is,” my dad says. “I was always worried about that with you. Because the only person who could ever understand you would be another player. But how many players would be okay knowing they were second place? He takes to it well, though. Which is about the highest compliment I can think of. I’m not sure there is a greater strength.”

“Playing second to a woman?” I ask.

My father winks at me. “Feeling secure, even knowing you are not the best.”

I feel both sides of that sword, the compliment and the sharp edge meant for me.

“He is a good guy,” I say.

My father nods. “Even if he is sneaking into your house every night like some sort of pirata.”

I laugh. “Well, that’s on me,” I say. “I’m not…I don’t know if there’s any future there, and I don’t want to make it too much of a thing.”

“So you push it away, because it’s easier to pretend you don’t want it,” my dad says.

I look at him.

“Please,” he says, pulling me under his shoulder. “Open your heart the tiniest bit, pichona. Being married to your mother changed my life. She made me feel joy. She gave me purpose. We became a family. Tennis is nothing compared to that.”

“But then she was gone. And you were left with such…heartache. And I don’t…I don’t know how to do that…to live that way,” I say.

“If you did not know how to do something on the court, it would not stop you from figuring it out.” He grabs my hand. “I was so broken when your mother died that I buried my heart in the earth. And I taught you to as well. I thought I was showing you how to move on, but I was showing you how to never open up to anybody. I taught you the wrong thing. But I’ve told you that now, and it’s on you to fix it. Okay?”

“Yeah, Dad,” I say. “I already knew it. But thank you.”

“I know you did. Sometimes, you’re much smarter than me. So much stronger too. You’re like a bright diamond, one shiny, tough…”

“Bitch,” I offer.

My dad laughs. “Okay, sure. One shiny, tough bitch.”

I laugh, and he pulls me back to him. “Te amo, cielo. Being your father is the best thing that has ever happened to me. My Achilles. Greatest of the Greeks.”

“Dad…” I say.

“No,” he says. “Just accept it. Let me feel it and say it. You’re the meaning of my life.”



* * *



—

That afternoon, Bowe comes over and we play a set with my father barking at us from the sidelines through his megaphone.

“Bowe, get higher up on your toes when you make contact,” he says. “And Carrie, don’t get lazy on that follow-through!”

Bowe squeaks out a win against me—he’s getting better and better, almost by the hour, lately. And it stings to fall just short of him.

At the end of the session, my father gives me a few pointers, but it is Bowe he’s focused on. “I think you need a more open stance,” he says as Bowe zips his racket into its case. “So your weight is on the right foot as you prepare to move for the return.”

“I told you I’m not messing with my footwork now,” Bowe says. “Not when it feels right and feels intuitive. I just beat one of the greatest players in the world with my stance. C’mon.”

“Good is the enemy of great,” my father says.

Bowe looks at me and then my father. “Spoken like a Soto.”

Bowe puts his kit over his shoulder, and my father starts discussing dinner.

“See you all tomorrow,” Bowe says, waving goodbye as he heads toward his car. I watch him go, so casually, with no expectations.