Page 46 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I get in position, and he serves it to me—fast, deadly. An ace.

I look to my father and see that his face is completely blank. I feel my shoulders tense.

So much of my game is coming back, as if my muscles have a long and generous memory. But sometimes I lose control of my swing, or I choose the wrong shots. And that is not a sign of a player who is ready for a Slam.

Bowe hits two more aces past me over the course of three games. When he sends a groundstroke down the center and I mis-hit, I nearly throw my racket. I glance at my father, whose face has grown tighter.

Bowe takes the next game, making it 4–1 in the second set. I want to stop the match. I do not want all these spectators watching me—it’s their first sight of me after five years and I amtanking.I want to jump out of my skin. On my next serve, I double-fault twice in a row.Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

My father pulls me aside. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.”

“I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of these people.”

“When you get out there, in the first round next week, everyone is going to be watching you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Get. It. Together,” he says. “You did not work this hard for the past four months to choke now.”

“I know that!” I say.

“Hija,you can either beat the other players out there or you can’t. This is when you will find out. But I have never known you to be afraid of the truth.”

I take a deep breath. The truth was always in my favor before.

“Let’s go!” Bowe yells. “No coaching during a match.”

“It’s not a real match, Huntley!”

“It is if I’m winning it, Soto!”

—

Three hours later, Bowe and I are sitting at a bar a few blocks from the arena. Bowe’s drinking a seltzer water with lemon. I’ve ordered an iced tea.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says as I pick up my glass. “You can have alcohol in front of me.”

“You’re not tempted?”

“I’m tempted every day. I just…It’s not your problem.”

“Why did you quit?” I ask.

“Is this therapy?” he says, and then sighs. “I quit because I don’t want the life I had when I was drinking. I’m ready for something quieter, less stressful, less dramatic. Less getting arrested for public intoxication, more staying in on Saturday nights.”

“It was only once, right?” I say. “You getting arrested?”

“Once was enough for me, thank you,” he says.

I am sitting with the sun in my face. The glare is making me squint.

“Do you want to switch spots?” Bowe asks. I shake my head; I have always liked the sun.

I look out into the bright afternoon. I can’t stop tapping my foot on the ground. I look back at Bowe. I beat him so easily on my home court just six weeks ago. But now, in Melbourne, when I should be playing even better, he’s just destroyed me.

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