Page 31 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“I am not going to perform a triathlon every day andnotwhine about it,” I say.

My father starts to open his mouth, and I stop him. “I’m not a child anymore. Sometimes I’m going to have an opinion. Sometimes, when I’m ten miles and fifty laps in, I’m going to complain. But I’ll do what you say, and you deal with my attitude, and maybe one day soon, we’ll win another Slam title,¿Está bien?”

He looks at me, emotionless for a moment. And then he smiles and holds out his hand. “Perfecto.”

—

Every day for seven days, I put on my running shoes and take off.

I run as fast as I can as my father rides in a golf cart next to me, yelling, “¡Más rápido! ¡Más rápido!”

My feet hit the pavement, over and over and over again. He yells, “If you are not ahead, you are behind!”

“Sí,” I say each time. “Lo sé.”

“¡Vamos, más rápido!” he yells the second he can tell I’m slowing down. “We are not out for a nice jog! We are running to win a title!”

I try to yell back to him from time to time, in whatever language comes to me first. But by the end of ten miles, I stop wasting any extra breath.

The runs are manageable. It is after that, when I’m jumping rope as he stands there barking out things like “¡Más rápido!” and “¡No pares!” that make me want to scream.

Instead, I focus on the burning of my calves, the ache of my arms.

And then there is the swimming. Lap after lap. As my legs and shoulders start to slow from wear, my father stands on the edge of the pool chanting, “Usá esos brazos,” like some sort of military command.

Every day when I come out of the pool, my arms are limp, my legs wobbly. I am a newborn calf, unable to find my footing.

On the seventh day, after my last lap, I can barely get myself up the ladder. Everything hurts—my hamstrings and quads are sore, my shoulders and biceps ache. I wasn’t able to stay on my lap pace.

I lie down on the deck, and my father comes over and hands me a towel. He sits beside me.

I look up at him. I can feel his frown before it makes its way to his face.

“How bad is it?” I ask.

My father tilts his head from side to side. “You’re half a mile per hour too slow on the runs. Your form needs work. Your swimming is…” He inhales deeply. “Mirá,considering your age and how longyou’ve been off the court, it’s impressive. But you are not where you need to be to win a Slam,cariño.”

“Sí, lo sé.” I dry my face. I sit up. I shake my head and look up at the sky. It is clear and bright, not a single cloud, not a single impediment.

This whole thing is a fucking joke. A player coming out of retirement after this many years? And I think I’m going to win a Slam? Am I insane?

“I do think you are on the path,” he says.

I look up at him.

“You are the hardest-working person I know,” he says. “If you decide to dedicate yourself to this, you will do it.”

I nod, already resenting that we are starting with the old “effort” chestnut and not the “sheer talent” one. “Thanks.”

He bumps me on the shoulder and smiles. “What I’m telling you is even though there is a lot of ground to cover, I believe you can be the greatest in the world again. I have that faith.”

I start fiddling with the nails on my left hand. “Yeah?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. But listen,hija,” my father says, putting his arm around my shoulders and squeezing me. “It does not matter if I have faith.”

“It does, actually,” I say. There is an edge to my voice that startles us both.

My father nods but leaves it at that. Like me, he has no interest in excavating what is long buried.

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