“That man is an embarrassment to tennis,” my father says. “Yelling at linesmen? Throwing his racket?”
“Bowe has stopped drinking. He got divorced last year. He’s in a period of…reflection. And, despite what you may think of his tantrums…he’s a very talented tennis player. Even still. But this is going to be his last year on the ATP.”
“He’s older than me,” I say.
“He’s thirty-nine.”
“He hasn’t won a Slam in almost a decade,” I remind her.
“Yes, that’s true. Though he does still win a title here and there. And he is a good guy. Truly. He left the agency to go over to YRTA about ten years ago, but we stay in touch. He’s not what he seems.”
“Yes,” my dad says. “I believe Carrie knows him…well.”
I glare at my father. “All right, keep it to yourself.”
Gwen looks at me. “The bottom line is, if it’s uncomfortable for you, don’t do it. But if you do want a player you can test yourself against…Bowe is in.”
“You already asked him?”
“I wasn’t going to get you on board without knowing if he would do it.”
I look at my dad.
“You can just get a hitter,” he says. “We can even do two-on-ones, to keep you running around the court.”
I consider it. I imagine myself growing more and more confident heading into Melbourne, hitting against amateurs. Only to be clobbered once I’m up against anybody on the circuit. The thought of it knocks the wind out of me.
But I also really don’t want to see Bowe Huntley. That knocks the wind out of me too.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I have to think about it.”
* * *
—
Later that evening, I am in my sweatpants with a seltzer water in my hand, sitting down to watch ER, when the phone rings. I mute the television just as the theme song begins.
I put my drink down and pick up the receiver, expecting it to be my father telling me he ran out of toilet paper or shampoo and asking me if I have any.
But it’s Bowe.
“Oh, hi,” I say.
“Long time,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it has been.”
“Well,” he says, “sorry to call so late, but Gwen said you might want to hit together, and I realized if we’re doing this, we need to make a plan ASAP.”
“You are interrupting my new favorite show, but fine, we can talk.”
Bowe laughs. “Are you watching ER? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know, I’m talking to you instead of watching because you think it’s all right to call people at ten at night.”
“Well, I’ll wait,” he says.
“You want me to tell you what’s happening on ER? You can’t just turn it on?”
“I’m staying at the home of a nice lady friend I just met who doesn’t believe in owning a television.”
“Oh, jeez,” I say. “I don’t know who is worse, you or her.” I turn to the TV. “Dr. Lewis is talking to Carter.” I pause. “Do you really want me to give you the play-by-play on this entire episode?”
“Sort of,” he says. “The rerun won’t be until summer.”
I sit down on my sofa, crossing my legs. “Okay, fine. Now they have rushed a teenager into an OR. Oh, here we go! Here’s George Clooney!”
“Love Dr. Ross.”
“I like the one who doesn’t put up with the bullshit. What’s his name?”
“Benton.”
“Yeah, he’s my favorite.”
“Of course he is,” Bowe says.
“Is this really why you called?” I ask. “To have ER narrated to you?”
“No,” he says. “I want to know if we’re doing this thing. Gwen said you weren’t fully on board with the idea.”
“I just said I wanted to think about it.”
“Well, what is there to think about?”
“I don’t know, Bowe. That’s why I need time.”
“You have to think about what to think about?”
“I’m trying to be thoughtful about everything I’m doing over the next few months.”
“Look,” he says. “This is a good idea. We can both help each other a lot. You need somebody who can help you get back in fighting shape. I need someone to help me…”
“Remember how to win a match?” I ask.
Bowe is silent for a moment, and then he says, “You are not as charming as you think you are.”