Page 81 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I look over at Petra Zetov. She’s warming up her shoulder, stretching her legs as men in the crowd holler. She’s currently ranked the highest of her career, number eighty-nine. But she has a rabid fan base out of proportion to her ranking.

She’s stunningly beautiful—tall and thin, blond hair, blue eyes. She’s a model for Calvin Klein, does commercials for Diet Coke, and was in a Soul Asylum video.

And she has a burden I have never had. In order to keep getting paid, she has to keep looking beautiful on the court.

I wonder, briefly, if it weighs on her. Or, if, conversely, it frees her from the pressure I live with, the pressure to win.

Either way, it’s a prison. Both her beauty and my ability—they’ve both got an expiration date.

“It is an honor to play you,” she says.

I nod.

This will not be hard. I fully admit that I do not have what she has. But it is equally true that she doesn’t have what I have.

The coin is tossed; Zetov wins. She elects to serve first, her face bright and hopeful, as if she thinks this bodes well for her, as if she has a real chance.

I take the match in straight sets.

I take out Celine Nystromin the second round. Nicki defeats Avril Martin.

In the third, Nicki takes down Josie Flores. I beat Andressa Machado.

When I get back to the hotel after the match, I take a shower and open up a book.

I try to calm myself. The round of sixteen is tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow morning, I will practice with my father. So tonight, this quiet, is my respite.

The book I brought is an unauthorized biography of Daisy Jones and the Six. I’m only reading to see who slept with who, but I can’t focus.

The phone rings and I wonder for a moment if it’s Bowe.

“Hola, hija.”

“Hola, papá.”

“Tomorrow morning, eighta.m.”

“Yes,ya lo sé.”

“Just reminding you. And, I…Did you see Bowe’s match?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He played beautifully.” He defeated Nate Waterhouse in the round of sixteen.

“Maybe the best I’ve seen him all year.” Bowe’s now headed to the quarterfinals for the first time in a Slam since 1991.

I haven’t spoken to Bowe since our fight. When I hang up with my dad, I keep the phone in my hand. I consider calling Bowe’s hotel. My fingers hover over the buttons. But instead, I put down the receiver and go to bed.

—

“You’ve beaten Perez before,” my father says in the tunnel, right before I set out onto the court. “Just do it again.”

I turn back to him. “What?”

“You’ve beaten her once already,” he says. “You can do it again.”

“You said Perez,” I say.

“Right. So you play to her backhand, keep the pressure on her, hit hard to compensate for the clay. You got this.”

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