And thank God, because I was about to use it to crush pretty Mary-Louise Bryant.
Love serving love.
Mary-Louise tossed the ball up in the air and then cut across it with her racket. As I ran for the ball, I thought that my best bet was to take it out of the air quick. But as I got in position, I saw Mary-Louise approach the net. She was assuming I didn’t have the power to hit a passing shot. And so, at the last minute, I hit a deep groundstroke. She had to rush her return and hit it into the net.
The first point was mine. Love serving 15.
I looked at my father as I made my way back to the baseline. Both he and Lars were watching me, and Lars’s eyes were wide. My father was fighting off a smile.
I crouched and waited for her next serve. Mary-Louise’s face was tight now. Suddenly, the ball came across the net, fast as a whip. I couldn’t return it.
15–all.
Serve after serve stunned me.
30–15.
40–15.
And just like that, she’d won the first game.
I glanced over at my father and saw his brow furrowed. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
Now it was my serve. I landed each one exactly where I wanted it to go. I was setting up my shots a few strokes ahead. I kept her running all over the court. But every time, she returned it. Our long rallies would inevitably end in her favor.
I stayed alert. I met the ball each time. But regardless of how good my shots were, it just didn’t matter.
She took the first set 7–5.
I was exhausted already. My father handed me a towel, not saying a single word. I breathed in deeply. I could not lose; it was not an option.
I thought that by getting that first point off her, I would have thrown her off. But I’d awakened her. I’d given her a reason to play her best.
I had to take away her opportunities to hit winners. I was going to try for aces, each and every serve. It was risky; I could double-fault. But it felt like my only shot.
My first serve was hard and bounced high. She dove for it and hit it out. 15–love.
I did it again. 30–love.
I glanced over at my father as I went to pick up the ball, and I saw a smile creep over his face.
I hit another flat serve, but this time I kept it close to the T. It whizzed past her. 40–love.
I had her. I could feel the tingle in the top of my head and down my back. I could feel the space in between my joints, the fluidity of my muscles. I felt a hum in my bones.
I served the ball low and fast. She returned it with spin that I understood innately. I knew where it would go, how it would bounce. I hit it back with the full force of my shoulder. Her return went long.
I went on to win the set. The score was now 1–1, and it would come down to who won the third.
Mary-Louise’s first serve on the next game had us rallying back and forth for the point but ended in her hitting a low groundstroke that whizzed past me. I wanted to scream as I saw the ball bounce past my racket. But I knew my father wouldn’t stand for that.
Here’s the thing about that hum: It can leave just as quickly as it comes.
Mary-Louise took control of the court. She broke my serve, and she held her own. I showed up to the ball. I ran like hell. But it wasn’t enough.
When she scored the last point, I fell to my knees. I felt like the world was splitting into pieces. I held on to the ground for a moment and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, Mary-Louise and Lars were by the bench talking calmly and my father was standing over me, offering me his hand.
My father had a warm face with curly dark hair. His eyelashes were long, his eyebrows were full, and his eyes were a soft brown. I had trouble meeting them.
“Vámonos,” he said. “We are ready to go.”
I stood up and focused my gaze on Mary-Louise. I knew what I had to do. I just had to find the will to do it.
I walked over to her. “You played a beautiful game,” I said. I could hear, as I was saying it, that I didn’t sound like myself. My voice remained hard and cold, its various melodies not available to me at that moment. I put my hand out for her to shake, and she smiled and took it immediately.
“Carrie,” she said. “That was the hardest match I’ve played in a long time.”
“Thank you for saying that,” I said. “But you won.”
“Still,” she said. “I would not have beaten you when I was eleven.”
“Thanks,” I said. But surely she knew that all that mattered was that I had lost.
My father and I packed up our stuff and walked back to the car. I zipped my racket in its cover and threw it into the back, then sank myself into the front seat.