Page 76 of Carrie Soto Is Back

My father nodded. “That’d be best.”

Bowe rolled his eyes. “Are we playing or what?”

My father looked at me. “Practicá sola,” he said, “dos días más. Después, tenés que estar lista para jugar con todos los ojos clavados en vos. ¿Entendido?”

“Bueno,” I said. “Está bien.”

“Esta noche, practicá sin mí.”

My father then grabbed his water and his hat. “Nos vemos después,” he said, and headed off, I was sure, to the nearest bistro.

Bowe looked at me. “What was that?”

“You really should learn Spanish,” I said.

“So I can understand your father?”

“So you can understand a lot of people. Including me sometimes.”

Bowe smirked. “Are we playing now or what?”

I started packing up my kit. “We are not. He said let’s do two more days with no one watching me. And then I need to be ready. So, I’m asking you, please, can we pick this match up later today when no one is here? You name the time.”

Bowe nodded. “Fine, how about eight? I’ll talk to Jean-Marc. I’ll make sure no one is here.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Truly.”

As I started to walk away, Bowe called out to me. “Take a moment to consider that I’m right about your mental game.”

I turned back to him. “And you, take a moment to shut the fuck up.”

—

Now, in the cool night air with no one around, my game is much better.

“Dammit!” Bowe yells as I win the current game. If I win one more, I’ll take the tiebreak set and win the match.

I laugh. “Whose mental game are you worried about now?” I ask.

Bowe rolls his eyes.

“Oh, poor baby is losing!” I say.

As I move across the court tonight, I’m feeling confident that I will last longer in Paris against heavy hitters like Cortez than I did back in Melbourne. I am doingwell.

I serve the ball, and Bowe returns it wide. I get there in time and send a cross-court forehand to the deep corner. He hits a backhand groundstroke. And then I have my two-shot strategy in place. First, an approach shot, an easy return. And then a drop shot.

“It’s almost too easy,” I say. “Too damn easy.”

“Dammit, Carrie,” Bowe says, his voice low and flat. “Have a little humility.”

“Humility?” I say. I have the ball in my hand, about to serve, but I put it in my pocket.

“You called off the match this afternoon when I was winning,” he says. “And now, when you’re winning, you’re gloating.”

“Oh no, here comes the Huntley tantrum.”

“I don’t throw tantrums,” he says. “C’mon. You’re playing into that sportscaster crap. And I don’t do that with you.”

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