Page 77 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“I mean—”

“I don’t yell anymore.”

“Oh, come on…” I say.

“What?”

“I saw you at Indian Wells. Screaming at the umpire. You called him a crook.”

Bowe’s face falls. He closes his eyes. “I’m really trying, Carrie. I’m trying so hard to not do the shit I used to do. You think I want to be the guy that screams on the court because he’s not winning?” Bowe says. “Of course not. I know I fucked up at Indian Wells with that bad call. But I’m trying. And I wish you didn’t have to beright thereto remind me when I slip up.”

I look down at my shoes. They are covered in clay. “I get—”

“And by the way, what right do you have to come to Indian Wells and not tell me?” he says.

“What?”

“You’re just sitting there in the stands and you don’t tell me you’re watching my game? And you didn’t even bother to say hi? To wish me luck?”

“What are you, twelve? You need me to wish you luck?” I say.

Bowe shakes his head. “Forget it. I don’t know why I bother. Just serve the ball, Carrie. Or are you too nervous now and need to postpone until tomorrow?”

“I’m trying to get myself ready for Roland-Garros, all right? I’m sorry it’s not on your exact schedule.”

“You’re ready now!” he says. “You’re playing like it’s ten years ago. And somehow you’re still acting like ‘Oh jeez, am I good enough? I’d hate for anyone to see me unless I’m the greatest in the world.’ ”

“What do you care?” I ask.

“Because. You’re so afraid of losing that you fucked up my whole session today to avoid it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes!” he says. “You did! I don’t have much longer on this tour, Carrie. I don’t even know if I can finish the year. I pulled out of other tournaments to protect my back, and to be here, trying to play you in the hardest conditions possible. I want to give myself a real chance of doing something great.”

“Of course you’re going to finish the year.”

Bowe rolls his eyes. “Just serve the ball and let’s get this over with.”

“You have no chance of winning if that’s your attitude,” I say.

“I’m begging you to shut up, Soto.”

“See? This is your problem. One tiny little thing doesn’t go your way and you explode.”

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t walk away.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a quitter, Carrie. Now serve the ball.”

I watch him as he walks back to the baseline. When he gets there, he turns, expecting to see me ready to serve, but instead I am staring at him from the net.

“If you have something to say to me,” I say, “then say it.”

“I just said it,” he says.

I stare at him still.

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