Page 74 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Best of three or five?” my father asks.

I really want to earn it. I really want to run myself into the ground and see what I’m made of. “Five,” I say.

He nods. “Here we go.”

I serve first, and it’s a stunner. Sharp, fast, with a high bounce. “Fuck,” Bowe says after he misses it.

“Get used to it.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I will,” Bowe says, and I can’t help but laugh.

I keep it up but then find myself pulling back, going for the safe shots, worried that I’ll run out of steam too quickly. Bowe gets the edge on me and wins the first set, 7–5.

I need to find balance in my game, some ability to go hard and keep going, some power to draw on that will not deplete me. I look over at my father for guidance, but he’s making notes in his notebook.

I already know the answer, though. I need better shot selection. I need to go bigger on some shots—really take some risks. And I need to put more of the pressure on Bowe’s side of the court. I start lobbing more frequently, constructing longer points.

I take the second set, 6–3. “Uh-oh,” I say. “She’s coming for ya.”

“I’m not worried.”

I take the next.

“Ohhhh,” I say, teasing him as we stand by the net. “Now it’s starting to sting, right? Starting to feel a little pinch?”

“It’s out of five, Soto,” he says. “I know you’re used to two sets giving you the match, but you’re playing a man’s game now.”

“Kindly fuck off.”

My father shakes his head.

Bowe takes the fourth. I’m getting tired. My serve is softening.

“Oh shit,” Bowe says. “It’s anybody’s game now, Battle Axe.”

“You’re both terrible in the fifth set of any match,” my father calls out. “So let’s not trash-talk until one of you getsresults.”

Our fifth set goes to a tiebreak. Match point is on Bowe’s serve, which lands right on the T. I return it with a backhand down the line. It bounces high, and he can’t reach it.

“Yes!” I say, pumping my fist. “How do you like that?”

Bowe shakes his head, visibly pissed at himself for handing me that serve.

“You win,” he says. “You win this one.”

My father nods at me. “I’m going inside for a drink,” he says. “See you in ten to talk about what we can do better. I have a lot of notes. For both of you.”

Bowe grabs the ball on his side of the net and then meets me over by the bench. I take a long sip of water just as he takes one himself. But we catch each other’s gaze.

“How are you?” Bowe says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Chan.”

I sit down on the bench. “I feel like I set out to prove that I’m a better player than her. And I got a bit of a break with her ankle in Melbourne, but you know, I did plan on facing her eventually. I want the challenge.” This is what I’m telling myself, anyway.

“So it’s good, then, her coming back.”

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