Page 104 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“How are you feeling?”

“Bien, bien. Perodo 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 thesecondbestselling women’s tennis shoe in the UK.

“It appears she disagrees,” I say.

“It’s not that Iwantto 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.”

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 atall.

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.”

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