Page 9 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Game for Carrie,” my father said.

Chris’s face grew slightly red. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed. I smiled at him.

The rest of the match was over quick.

On the last serve, I tapped the ball over, unwilling to bother with any topspin or speed. But he still hit it wide.

“You are terrible at tennis,” I said to him when I shook his hand.

“Carolina!” my father called out.

“Sorry, but he is,” I said. I looked over at Chris. “You are.”

I watched Chris glance at his father on the side of the court. His father shook his head and put out the cigarette he’d been smoking, rolling his eyes.

I remember thinking,That’s why you should practice, Chris.

When we walked off the court, my father put his hand on my shoulder and said, “That was something.”

“I didn’t even have to try,” I said as we headed toward the locker rooms.

“Oh, you made that clear. And you were mean.”

“Why should I be nice to him? He called me a seven-year-old.”

“People are going to call you a lot of things in your life,” he said. “People always call people like us all kinds of things.”

“Because we aren’t members here?” I asked as I put my things down.

My father stopped in place. “Because we are winners. Do not grow a chip on your shoulder, Carolina,” he said. “Do not let what anyone says about you determine how you feel about yourself.”

I looked at him.

“If I say your hair is purple, does that mean it’s purple?” he asked.

“No, it’s brown.”

“Does it mean you have to prove to me it’s brown?”

I shook my head. “No, you can see it is.”

“You are going to be one of the greatest tennis players in the world someday,cariño.That is as true as your brown hair. You don’t need to show them. You just need to be.”

I considered.

“Next time you play a kid like Chris, I expect you to still play a beautiful game of tennis,” he said. “Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Está bien.”

“And we don’t cry when we lose, but we also don’t gloat when we win.”

“Bueno, entiendo.”

“You’re not playing your opponent, you understand that, yes?”

I stared at him, unsure. But I needed him to believe that I understood everything I was supposed to be—it seemed like an unbearable betrayal of our mission for me to be confused about any of it.

“Every time you get out on that court, you must play a better tennis game than you played the time before. Did you play your best game of tennis today?”

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