Page 57 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“And did you win a lot? That clay season?”

He cocks his head. “No.”

“I don’t actually think luck has much to do with any of this,” I say.

Bowe rolls his eyes. “If it wasn’t bad luck that got my ass handed to me yesterday, then what was it?” He puts his finger out before I say a word. “Don’t answer that.”

“It’s you,” I say. “Luck didn’t lose. You lost. Because you didn’t break his first service game like I told you to.”

“Oh, like it was that fucking easy?”

I shrug. “Could have been. If you used the platform stance Javier told you to use. It had been working for you, and then I looked at the footage from last night and you’re using pinpoint again. Like a moron.”

Bowe shakes his head. “You’re lucky I’m on the first flight out of here. That way I can’t stick around to watch you get ripped to shreds by Cortez.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I say as I get up from the table. “I was just trying to help you.”

“Telling me what Ishould have donehelps absolutely no one. You know, Carrie, you get a bad rap—but some of it is deserved.”

“Or maybe some little boys are too sensitive.”

Bowe looks up at me, his eyes narrow. “You are—”

“What?” I say, daring him.

“This whole thing, it’s just not worth it,” he says. “At all.”

“All right, fuck you kindly,” I say, and I walk away.

I barely look behind me as my father comes down out of the elevator with my kit. He is scanning the crowd but doesn’t spot me until I walk up to him. He has a huge smile on his face.

“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t see you over there. Were you celebrating?”

“Celebrating?” I ask.

His smile grows wider.

“Nicki Chan tore her ankle up against Antonovich. She’s out for the rest of the tournament.”

“No way,” I say.

My father nods.

“I could take this,” I say.

“Yes, you could.”

“I am going to take the whole goddamn tournament!” I say. “While she’s nursing a bum ankle from her bad form, I can set this whole thing back where it belongs.”

“Yes, you can,cariño,” he says. “But not if you keep standing here bragging about it.”

—

I am in the entryway, just two steps from the court. I can hear the noise of the crowd. I can see, from my narrow vantage point, a sign in the far back of the arena that readsTake it to the finals, Carrie!

There are three people standing between Ingrid Cortez and me—the guard, my father, and her coach are acting as the buffer between us. I am glad for it.

Yesterday, she told one of the newspapers, “I expect a swift and decisive victory in my favor. But I will try not to make it too embarrassing for Soto.”

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