Page 101 of Carrie Soto Is Back

And now I laugh. “Yes, I suppose he is.”

We hang up the phone; I pull the curtains closed and put my eye mask on. I lie down on the gigantic bed.

The windows are thick, and the walls are thick too. My room is about as private and expansive as it gets in central London. And so, despite it being afternoon in a bustling city, things are eerily quiet.

I keep imagining my father coming over from the next room, knocking on my door to tell me he just had a brilliant idea. Or him bothering me to complain about a photo of him printed in the newspaper. Or some other thing that I would be annoyed by, as I tell him I want to go to sleep.

But he is not here.

I don’t know when I finally doze off. But when I wake the next morning, I am rested.

I brush my teeth, put on my sweats, grab my kit. The hum is in my bones.

I head out to the courts. Alone.

—

My father was absolutely right. I have needed to feel the specific crispness of grass.

The hitter I’m playing this morning is named Bridget. She’s fastbut not terribly powerful. And yet, still, I feel a thrill as I run from sideline to sideline, up and back from the net to the baseline. It is such a joy to play on grass. I relish the snap, the speed, the low bounces, the unpredictability, the strategy. It is an entirely different game—lawn tennis.

And I fucking love it.

At the end of the session, Bridget says, “I fear I did not give you much of a run for your money.” I have sweat on my forehead and upper lip. She’s drenched through her tank top.

“That’s all right,” I say. “You did your best.”

Her face tightens, and then she makes her way out. I sit down on the bench and drink some water. I begin running through what I want to work on with the ball machine—which shots I’ll start with. My slice, in particular, needs some sharpening.

I take stock of my grass game. My footwork feels good. My serves are sharp. I’m putting the ball where I want it. I’ve come such a long way since Melbourne.

Still, even on grass, I’m probably not as fast as Antonovich. So if I do come up against her again, I will have to find another way to offset her speed. But that’s what I’m here to do.

I look down at my yellow sneakers on the green turf. Maybe this whole season has been leading here. Maybe I just needed to come back to Wimbledon.

I stand up, trying to find one of the facility managers to get a ball machine. But when I scan the area, I see Nicki Chan walking past my court.

I pretend not to see her at first, but it soon becomes clear she’s not the type to let me get away with that. Why are people like this? Honestly. Let’s all just walk by each other all day and not stop to small-talk.

“Carrie,” she says, smiling, extending her hand.

“You practice here?” I ask. “I would have thought you’d—”

Nicki shakes her head. “This place is a bit quieter. And I needed some focus. I booked a court out here for the next few weeks until we all head over to Wimbledon Park. You did too, then?”

“Yep.”

Nicki laughs. “We both had the same good idea. All right, well,” she says. “Maybe one of these days we can grab a drink.”

“Maybe,” I say. “I mean, no, I’m probably not going to do that.”

Nicki laughs again. And I find it irritating, that laugh. It feels performative, like some false unflappability. “You know what somebody on the tour told me about you back in the day?” she asks.

“Oh great, here we go.”

“No, no, it’s not bad. Just…she said that you seem tough, you seem cold. But really, you’re one of those players who keep to themselves because you feel conflicted when you have to kick somebody’s ass.”

“I just think it keeps it a lot simpler…to not care too much for anybody.”

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