Page 116 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“They are well matched,” I say.

“Two of the greatest in the world,” my dad says. “Duking it out for who gets to play you.”

I laugh and then sit back on the couch and put my feet up.

My father and I stay on the phone throughout the entire match. Multiple times he worries about the long-distance charges, but I refuse to let him get off the call. We watch and we analyze. Sometimes we are stunned silent at the tension between Nicki and Cortez. It is a close one. Cortez is up, then Nicki is up. Both of them are breaking each other’s serves. Cortez slides across the court at one point and skins her knee. Then Nicki steps wrong on her ankle.

“Ouch,” I say.

“What is she doing?” my dad says. “Landing like that on her bad ankle? She can’t keep playing like this and stay in the game many more years.”

“I know.”

It’s the third set. 5–5. Anybody’s match.

On Cortez’s serve, Nicki is limping on her way back to the baseline after each point. Cortez holds the game.

“She plays through it, which is impressive,” my dad says. “It’s not stopping her. But I wish I could just reach through the TV and tell her she’s shortening her career.”

When it’s Nicki’s turn to serve, she can’t get the height she needs. I gasp when Cortez gets to 30–40. Match point.

“Oh no,” my dad says.

On the next serve, Cortez returns it right on the sideline. Nicki can’t run fast enough.

“Oh no,” my dad says again.

It’s over.

I can feel my heart drop as Nicki falls to her knees onto the grass.

“No, that can’t be,” my father says.

I close my eyes in disbelief.

I am not playing Nicki in the final. I’m playing Ingrid Cortez.

“Actually,” my father says, “this is fabulous.”

I can barely hold back my tone. “Why is it fabulous? It’s not fabulous! I wanted to play Nicki.Now.I wanted to put this whole thing to rest.”

“Nonsense,” my father says. “You will beat Cortez—she is the more predictable player. You already played her in Melbourne.”

“And lost.”

“But now you know what to do. And she will go down just like Antonovich did the second time. This is great news,” my father says. “This is it. This is your next Slam.”

—

The night before the final, I toss and turn.

I lie awake, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, thinking about what tomorrow holds.

The more I think about how important it is that I go to sleep, the more impossible it becomes. The harder I chase it, the more it eludesme.

I get up and check the time. It’s early evening in L.A. I think about calling my father. But, instead, I dial Bowe.

“Hi,” I say.

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