Gwen nods. “You’re a smart one,” she says.
“Thanks. Taught by the best.”
Gwen holds my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Yes, you were. And you’ve absorbed it all.”
“Thank you.”
I get up as she keeps flipping through the pages.
“There’s a lot on Chan,” she says.
“Yeah, I have to study that section.”
“Well,” she says, “I’ll be in the players’ box for each and every match, all right?”
I nod. And then Gwen kisses me on the cheek and hugs Bowe goodbye and leaves.
I turn to Bowe. He is holding up a navy tank top and a white tennis skirt. He has put my yellow Break Points on the bed.
“I fucked up. I forgot socks,” he says. “When I was packing your things.”
“We will get some on the way,” I say. “It’s gonna be fine.”
THE 1995
US OPEN
I stand in the locker room, surrounded by other players—Martin and Carter are laughing in the corner. Zetov and Perez are ignoring each other. Antonovich comes in and smiles and greets everyone. When Perez sees me, she gives me a pat on the shoulder. Flores tells me she’s sorry for my loss. I say thank you.
When Madlenka Dvo?áková walks in, we catch each other’s eye. She looks so childlike in her white dress, her hair pulled back in two braids. We give each other a nod, and then I shut my locker and make my way to the training room.
It’s oddly quiet in here, just me and a few trainers. I take in the delicious solitude as I have my knees and elbows taped. But then, when I’m having my calves massaged, Nicki Chan walks in.
She’s smiling sweetly, greeting the trainers she recognizes with a levity I find puzzling. It is as if it is any other day to her—and not the first day of a two-week tournament in which she might just break another record or lose it altogether.
When she sits down next to me, I speak up. “Always so chipper.”
“Yes,” she says as she sits down on the bench next to mine. “It’s rather annoying, isn’t it? People tell me that all the time.” She laughs as the trainer begins taping her foot. I make a mental note to run her around the court, if I get the chance. Her ankle has to be hurting. She has to stop going so hard on it.
“Thank you for calling,” I say, my voice low. “The other day.”
Nicki nods. “Of course.”
“It was…kind of you.”
“Like I said,” she says, waving me off, “I want to skin you alive and eat your heart for breakfast.” She smiles at me and winks. “But I want to know I did it when you were at your strongest.”
I nod. “I get it,” I say. “And you will get your chance. And you will fail. And everything will go back to the way it should be.” I switch positions as one of the trainers starts massaging my forearms.
Nicki keeps her eyes focused entirely on watching the trainer wrap her foot. But her next words are aimed squarely at me. “I don’t think you’ve ever understood what I can do. What I am doing.”
“I do,” I say. “I see it.”
“I am better than you,” she says.
“Give me a break, Nicki.”
“You think that if this was 1982, I wouldn’t stand a chance against you,” Nicki continues.
“I know that if this was 1982, you wouldn’t stand a chance against me,” I say. “Because it’s 1995, and you don’t stand a chance against me.”
Nicki scoffs. “You just can’t see it.”
“How good you are?” I say. “I see how good you are.”
“You don’t respect what I’ve done for tennis the way I respect what you’ve done.”
“What have you done that I haven’t done?”
Nicki turns and looks at me. Her gaze is heavy. “I’m the first Asian woman to ever win Wimbledon. The first woman like me to do almost any of the things I’ve done in tennis—hitting these records. Because we both know tennis doesn’t make it easy for those of us who aren’t blond and blue-eyed.”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Absolutely.”
“I’ve increased the fastest serve recorded in tennis. Tennis is a quicker game now, since I served at 132 miles per hour. Now almost every player on the WTA is serving faster than we all were even ten years ago. My forehand averages 81 miles per hour. You can’t come close to me on that either. So pay me a little respect, Soto. I’ve won the US Open more than any woman in tennis history, including you. My forehand and backhand groundstrokes have more spin than any other female player ever—last year I topped two thousand revolutions per minute. I am currently the highest-paid female athlete in the world. For someone like me, do you understand what that means? And I’ve spent the most weeks at number one—which is currently three hundred and seventeen. You only have three hundred and—”