Page 106 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“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.”

“I…” I say. “Okay.”

“Without you, I wouldn’t have much left to fight against. It would be like trying to knock out a deflated punching bag. And without me, you’d be back home, shooting a commercial for Gatorade, would you not?”

I huff, knowing she’s right. “Yeah, maybe. Yes.”

“But instead, we’re here, training, living for something bigger than the two of us.”

I take a sip of my vodka soda. And consider her. “I’m not sure I ever thought of it that way with Paulina,” I say.

“Stepanova?” Nicki says, rolling her eyes. “Who would? She faked injuries every time she was down, and then the one time she actually messes up her ankle, she doesn’t have the courage to either retire or play through.”

“Thank you!” I say.

“Crocodile tears, the whole lot of them.”

“Yes!”

“She was not a worthy opponent for you.”

“That’s what I said from the beginning!”

“But I am,” Nicki says, her eyes focusing in on me.

I look at her. “I guess that’s what remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” I say.

“Yes, I believe it does.”

Nicki throws down thirty pounds and stands up. She pats me on the shoulder. “What time are you practicing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Depends on whether I can sleep.”

“All right. Well, work hard. I want to know, when I beat you, that you were playing at your best. I want to know that I can beat the greatest tennis player of all time. I need it. And I need the world to see it.”

“Feel free to fuck right off with that bullshit,” I say.

Nicki laughs. “It is only by playing you at your best that I can get better,” she says. “Just like you up against Stepanova with that sliceall those years ago. I’m the best player in the WTA. I need someone else—someone great—to push me up against the ropes. And here you come back, just in time. Just for me.”

“Not for you,” I say.

“Right, for you,” she says. “I’m just the excuse you needed.”

She’s right, despite how it irritates me. I was never really done before. I was always going to do this: show up and fight one last time.

“Either way, one of us is the catalyst for the other reaching their greatest height yet.”

“All right,” I say. “Good night, Nicki.”

“Good night, mate.”

“I’m not your mate,” I say, shaking my head. “I may have had a drink with you, but we are not mates.”

“Wearemates,” Nicki says. “And that’s good—do you know why?”

“Why?”

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