Page 50 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I shake my head. “They just know it will make them money. To keep me in the tournament as long as they can.”

I look out over the small slice of Melbourne that we can see from my hotel, including the Yarra River as it crosses through the city. I have sat outside looking at this river so many times in my life—as a rookie, as a challenger, as a champion. Now it’s as a comeback. I am both stunned to find myself here again and positively sure I’ve never left.

“You’ll go out there tomorrow,” my father says, “and you’ll beat her,no le vas a dar tiempo ni de pensar.”

I inhale sharply—imagining the opposite of what my father is describing. What if tomorrow I lose in the first round? What if this whole thing is over before it’s even begun? The idea of it is so humiliating, I feel nauseated.

The phone rings, and the clang of it startles me. I walk into the bedroom to answer it. “Hello?”

“Good luck tomorrow,” Bowe says.

“You too.”

“Fucking crush her. Make her bleed.”

“Will do,” I say. “You too.”

“We can do this,” Bowe says. “At least, you can. I know it.”

“Thank you,” I say, almost choking on the words. I am suddenly embarrassed at how transparent the emotion in my voice is. “I guess this is it. No turning back now.”

“No, I suppose not,” he says. “But you wouldn’t turn back even if you could, Soto.”

THE 1995

AUSTRALIAN

OPEN

When I wake up inthe morning, I feel a hum in my bones that I have not felt in years. It is startling, the buzz of unexpected joy.

It is still early as I get out of bed. The sun has not yet risen. I feel a sense of control that I sometimes get when I wake up before the rest of the world. I have the feeling that the day’s events are mine to determine, that I hold everything in the palm of my hand.

I get up to get ready for a short run. I throw on dolphin shorts and a T-shirt, a pair of sneakers. I go down to the lobby. But before I can get out the front door of the hotel, the woman behind the check-in desk stops me.

“Ms. Soto?” she says.

“Yes?” I want to get running. “What is it?”

“A package arrived for you,” she says.

She hands me a padded envelope with a return address from Gwen. I rip the end off. Inside, there is a gift box not much bigger than a book. On top is a note in Gwen’s unmistakable cursive.

If anyone can do this, it is you.

Track One —G.

I open the gift box to see a Discman with a pair of headphones plugged in, a CD already in it. It is Elton John’sCaribou.I look at the first song and laugh.

“Ms. Soto?” the woman says, clasping her hands together.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind terribly if I asked for an autograph?”

I sigh, but then I remember there are a lot of people who wish I would crawl into a hole right now. So I’ll take a kind face over that. “Sure, yes, of course you can,” I say.

She hands me a piece of paper and a pen. “Oh, wow, Ms. Soto, this is…this is just amazing,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

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