Page 48 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Go ahead,” I say.

“Your mental game sucks.”

“Excuse me? My mental game is great. My shot selection is just as good as it’s ever been. I’m still planning winners out three, four shots ahead. And you’re barely keeping up with them.”

Bowe nods. “Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Back in the eighties, you were so unflappable. You knew you deserved that trophy. You were unafraid.”

“That…is not true.”

“Well, you faked it better. Have you readThe Inner Game of Tennis?”

“I could writeThe Inner Game of Tennis.”

“So that’s a no. Because if you had read it, you’d know that you, of all people, could never write it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When you’re out there—I mean, I’m not in your head so maybe I’m wrong—but with each mistake you make, it looks like you’re getting angrier and angrier. You’ve got so much on the line. If I can get you off-balance early, I can upset you for the rest of the match.”

“I—” I start to disagree with him, but I can’t decide which argument to make. That Idon’tdo that or thateveryonedoes that.

Bowe leans forward on the table and moves his drink out of the way. “This guy, theInner Game of Tennisguy, he talks about two selves. Self 1 and Self 2. Self 1 says, ‘C’mon, Huntley! Get it together!’ Self 2 is the Huntley who’s supposed to be doing the getting it together.”

I say, “I get you so far.”

“Self 2 is doing all the work, right? Self 2 is going to win you the game. Self 2 is the hero. Self 1 just yells and gets frustrated and gets in the way.”

“I see,” I say.

“Look, Soto,” Bowe says. His voice softens as he leans toward me. “You’re a better player, physically, than me right now. You’re a phenomenal player; that has not changed.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“But you do have weaknesses that you haven’t faced before,” he says. “We are older. Our bodies are different. You can’t ignore that just because it’s inconvenient.”

“But if we both are struggling with that, I should be able to beat you, being the better player.”

“The difference is that I’ve made peace with my limitations and you haven’t. I can feel it. I can feel the struggle. I can see it on your face. And because of that, you’re easy to manipulate. If I can mess with your head, if I can get you mad at yourself for not being the Carrie Soto you think you should be—I will beat you every time,” he says. “And that means Nicki will slaughter you.”

I take a sip of my iced tea. But then I can’t bring myself to pull the glass away from my mouth. I down the rest in one gulp. And then I glance up.

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you for your advice. I appreciate it.”

Bowe leans back with his hands up in surrender. “Don’t ask if you don’t want the answer—”

“I said thank you, didn’t I? Fuck.”

Bowe laughs. “Yes, you did.” He slaps his hand on the table. “All right, I’ll bite. Do me now.”

“It doesn’t have to be tit for tat,” I say.

“No, I want to know. I want a win, Carrie,” he says. “I want abigone. I want to do something this season. I want to…” He looks me in the eye but then immediately looks away. “I want to prove I was right to stay in the game this long. If I do something great this season, everyone will say, ‘Thank God he stuck around,’ instead of…what they say now.”

“ ‘Why hasn’t he given up?’ ”

---