Page 42 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Yes, I know,” Bowe says. “But still.”

My father rolls his eyes and goes inside to get more water. I sit down next to Bowe.

“Today went well for me,” I say. “I’m not going to lie.”

Bowe looks up. His brown eyes are so big and wide, and his hair is cut close to his head, gray creeping across his temples. His skin is sun-beaten. It has been a big ten years.

“You played well,” he says. “You’re not all that far from the Carrie I knew.”

I am surprised by his magnanimity. I would not possess it in his position.

“Thank you,” I say. “There is still a long way to go. Still seems like I’m running through mud out there.”

Bowe nods. “I know what you mean.”

“And it is not enough to begood,” I say. “It’s not even enough to be great. I have to be…”

“You have to be better than you’ve ever been,” Bowe says, “to go up against this crop of women. I’ve seen some of them. Chan’s a killer, but Cortez is deadly too.”

“I know,” I say, feeling myself tense up.

“Look, I’ve been in this part of my career for years now. Competing against people half my age, practically. Some of these women you’re going to face are twenty years younger than us. They have brand-new knees—fresh from the factory. Brand-new everything, not a stress fracture on them.”

“That is not helping—”

“Brand-new hearts too. They haven’t been shattered yet, haven’t taken a beating over and over. New hearts bounce back faster.”

“You’re not—”

“You know what my heart is—no, my soul? It’s like an oldmattress that’s been bounced on so many times that now, if you put your hand on it, it leaves a permanent imprint. That’s what my soul is now. Just a big old mattress showing every dent.”

“Were you always so good at self-pity?”

Bowe laughs. “Why do you think I drank so much?”

I turn from him and let a tennis ball roll away from me, just watching it drift farther and farther into the court.

I say, “Listen, I can’t get better unless you get better. I need to play somebody good, and I need itnow.So quit it with the crying and try to play the game.”

Bowe looks away. “I don’t know. It might be better to get someone else. Somebody on the WTA.”

I sigh. “It’s not that simple.” I look at the net, rattling in the breeze, and then back at him. “Nobody on the WTA will play me.”

Bowe’s eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”

“Bowe, I’ve heard it enough times; I don’t need it from you too. Nobody likes me––I get it.”

Bowe catches my gaze. “I always liked you.”

I roll my eyes. “Being attracted to me and liking me are two different things.”

Bowe looks at me a moment longer. “Huh,” he says. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I…you’re right.”

“You didn’t already know that?” I shake my head. “You’re almost forty. How emotionally stunted can you be?”

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