Nicki serves a kick serve. Antonovich returns. Nicki hits a groundstroke, bouncing just at the baseline and then into the stands. Nicki can anticipate the ball better than almost anyone I know.
“Fuck, she’s good,” I say.
Bowe nods. “She is.”
“And she’s got no coach,” I say. “She doesn’t have that magic in her back pocket, like I’ve had all these years. She’s doing this all herself.”
Nicki serves another, fast and ugly, like she’s dropping a bomb.
“Nicki’s gonna take it,” I say.
Nicki serves, jumping big and landing hard on the court as she follows it through. I’m not sure Antonovich can reach it. But then somehow Antonovich gets high up and manages to smash it back before she falls onto the court.
Bowe sits up. Gwen is leaning toward the TV. I get to my feet.
Nicki’s head looks up as the ball arches across the net. She’s running backward watching it. Antonovich, still on the court, is staring at it.
The ball soars through the air and careens down as Nicki rushes for it. It hits inches past the sideline. It’s out.
Natasha Antonovich pounds her arms on the court.
Nicki jumps into the air.
So here it is. Soto vs. Chan.
I wake up the next morning. The sun is shining; the air is cool. It is a perfect day to win the US Open.
Bowe is already up, despite the early hour. And when I come out into the living area, he is reading the paper. Beside him is a blueberry smoothie and a jar of unsalted almonds.
“Good morning, record breaker,” he says.
“You know better than to say shit like that before I’ve actually broken a record.”
Bowe shakes his head. “No, look,” he says. He shows me the paper he’s reading. The headline says Soto vs. Chan Guaranteed to Break Multiple Records.
I pick up the paper and read through the article. Among other facts of tonight’s match, I learn that between Nicki and me, one of us will be the oldest to win the US Open in the Open Era. Nicki, at almost thirty-two, will beat out Margaret Court by nine months. If I take it, I’ll beat Margaret Court by almost seven years.
I am officially the oldest player to make the women’s singles final of the US Open. I also stand to break the record for most aces in a tournament, and it is looking like Soto vs. Chan will create a new record for viewership numbers.
One record they don’t know about yet: Gwen called me last night to tell me AmEx has offered to buy out my contract with Elite Gold. And since Elite Gold now wants to keep my contract, AmEx is offering me the largest endorsement fee for any tennis player—male or female—in history.
I told her I’m directing every dollar to my youth center funds. Gwen said she’d donate too.
“I mean, I can do that and still retire off this check,” Gwen told me.
I laughed and told her to go for it.
“I’m going to do it, Carrie,” she said, her voice now serious. “I’m going to tell my partners I’m retiring next year. Officially.”
“Good for you,” I told her.
Now I hand the article back to Bowe.
“So many statistics,” I say. “Good God. It is exactly what my dad said all those years ago. You just pick one randomly and decide that’s the one you’re committed to. But when you take a step back, how can you say one means more than another?”
Bowe sips his coffee and nods. “Still,” he says. “？‘Most Slams’ means something to a lot of us, let’s not kid ourselves. You are defending the one that means the most to you.”
I take a breath. “Yeah,” I say. “But it didn’t ever mean as much to my dad. My dad just wanted me to play beautiful tennis.”
Bowe smiles. “And look at that,” he says. “You do.”
* * *
—
Walking through the tunnel, I can just see the edges of the court. The crowd is already loud. The lights are on, barely brighter than the evening air. When I get to the opening, I pull my shoulders down. I roll my neck. I wipe my shoes.
I inhale sharply. I let the air leave my body like a deflating balloon. I am loose. I am ready.
There is a guard standing behind me. And then I hear footsteps.
“Nicki,” I say.
She’s wearing a white shirt and a navy blue skirt. Her Nike 130s are white with a blue Swoosh. “Carrie.”
“You feeling all right?” I say. “How’s your ankle? How’s your back? Any injuries I should exploit?”
Nicki laughs. “Unfortunately for you, I’m feeling one hundred percent.”