Nicki Chan has won the US Open.
I lost. The match and my record, twice in one year.
I wait for the skies to open up and shame to rain down on me. I wait for my belly to split in half. For the grief to overtake me. But…it doesn’t come.
Bowe is smiling. And Gwen has her arms out, waiting to give me a hug. Ali is clapping wildly, even though I lost.
And the thing I don’t understand is that I still feel that hum. That hum in my bones. That sense of weightlessness and groundedness. That sense that the day is mine. That I can do anything.
Nicki Chan looks at me. And I smile at her.
I am no longer the greatest tennis player in the world.
For the first time in my life, I can be…something else.
One Year Later
CHAN VS. CORTEZ
1996 US Open
Final
It’s 5–4 in the deciding set. If Nicki breaks Cortez’s serve on this last game, she will set a new record.
I am sitting in the players’ box. Bowe is next to me. Nicki’s parents are on the other side of us. Her new girlfriend, who cannot stand me, is sitting with a tight smile on her face in the corner.
I watch as Nicki returns Cortez’s heavy forehand with a slice. I nod.
The Soto Slice was the first thing I taught her.
“You need to improve your volleys, your short game. That’s how I almost beat you back in New York,” I said, on our first day on the courts together.
“I don’t need a volley game when my baseline game is as good as it is,” she said.
“You will never win Wimbledon again with just your baseline game, and you know it. You’re gonna give up one-fourth of all Slams a year because you don’t want to perfect your volley?” I said. “Now, come on, de nuevo!”
Nicki frowned but then did what I told her to. Just like she did when I made her start going easier on her ankle—so she could extend her career a few years. She gets pissed and mouths off, but I can tell she’s always listening to me, even if she doesn’t act like it.
It makes me laugh—how often my father must have seen my own frown, knowing I’d still do what he said.
And now, here we are—coach and player—at the 1996 US Open, me sitting here in the stands, helpless to do anything but hope she can harness all the new skills we’ve worked on.
My God, how hard it must have been for my father to do this. To sit here, a ball of nerves, knowing that all of the control was in my hands. He could not think for me on the court, he could not hit the ball for me. He just had to have faith that I could play the way he’d taught me.
What a gift it is, to be able to guide someone to a point and then let them finish it themself. To give someone all the knowledge you have and then pray they use it right. It’s a skill I am learning, one I am determined to perfect.
Nicki’s now at break point. Which means she is at championship point.
She looks up at me. I nod at her. She nods back, a small smile erupting across her face.
If she takes the next point, she’ll win the US Open and hit a record-breaking twenty-three Slams—a feat that, just a few short years ago, was unheard of. But that’s Nicki for you. Unstoppable. Raising the bar for absolutely everyone.
Cortez tosses the ball into the air and sends it screaming over the net. Nicki starts backing up, stepping into position.
“She’s got it,” Bowe says, quietly under his breath. I stare straight ahead, bouncing my knees. He grabs my hand to calm me.
I sit forward, praying with all my might, as Nicki pulls back and swings—
To Brad Mendelsohn, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a coach
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I loved creating Carrie Soto with all of my heart and I only got to do it because of readers. So thank you, to every single person who picked up Malibu, or Daisy, or Evelyn, or One True Loves and any of the books that came before it. Thank you for showing up for these characters.
This is a story of a woman who often acts like she does it all on her own but, in fact, benefits greatly from the talented people around her. And because of that, I’ve dedicated this book to my manager, Brad Mendelsohn, who was the first member of the incredible team I have now—and directly and indirectly led me to the wildly talented people mentioned here whom I am incredibly fortunate to work with.
Thank you to my editor, Jennifer Hershey. You understood Carrie and pushed me to bring her fully to life with all of her flaws. I’m so thankful to you for your commitment to her. And to my agent, Theresa Park, thank you for seeing the joy and fun in this book and feeling it alongside me.
To the team at Ballantine—Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Susan Corcoran, Jennifer Garza, Allyson Lord, Quinne Rogers, Taylor Noel, Maya Franson, Paolo Pepe, Elena Giavaldi, Erin Kane, and Sydney Shiffman. I cannot believe I got so lucky as to be published by such a talented and powerful publishing house. Thank you for your passion and all of the effort that goes into getting these books into people’s hands. It doesn’t happen without you.