Jones: I’m not sure I agree with that. But your point, Briggs, I understand. Carrie Soto is a loud, abrasive player. She always has been. If we thought she’d mellow out, we were wrong.
Hadley: Unfortunately, Gloria, I agree with you on that. Looking forward, she’s up against Carla Perez. Perez is a tough opponent. Can Carrie hold her own?
Jones: I’m not saying no—
Lakin: I would not bet on her, I’ll say that.
I am sitting in my hotel room, watching Nicki play Andressa Machado. She has one set behind her; it’s 7–6 in the second. Machado is serving, and Nicki is running all over the court, making every shot. I don’t know how running with that much speed and hitting with that much intensity doesn’t deplete her.
Nicki gets Machado to match point. Machado serves it low and wide; Nicki runs and hits the backhand with full force. It flies past Machado, sealing the match for Nicki. The crowd cheers. The commentators are fawning over her. “Nicki Chan sails to the third round, as if anyone had any doubt!”
No one but me seems to notice that as Nicki walks off the court, she’s favoring her left ankle.
The phone rings, and I assume it’s my father. That ankle won’t have gotten by him either. But it isn’t my father at all, it’s Bowe.
“Oh, hi,” I say.
“I mopped the floor with Lomal,” Bowe says. I can hear his smile through the phone.
“I heard,” I say. “Congratulations.”
He says, “Congrats on beating Flores.”
“Thank you, thank you. She never stood a chance.”
“No,” he says. “She didn’t. But we all knew that, didn’t we?”
“Knew what?”
“That you were going to come back and it would be like you never left.”
“It might be a little early to say that,” I say.
“You have something, Carrie,” Bowe says. “You always have.”
“And so have you.”
“Do you really think that?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
Bowe is quiet for a moment—a second too long. “Are you still there?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, but his voice becomes low and quiet, breathy almost. “Carrie, let me come up to your room.”
I freeze.
“Carrie?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“That’s not what this is,” I say. “It’s not like that.”
“It could be like that,” Bowe says. “It was like that before.”
“That was more than a decade ago.”
“Please do not remind me how long I’ve been at this.”
“I’m just saying…things are different now.”
“Can’t they be different in a good way?” he asks. “Like this time you don’t tell me not to call you. Or if you do, I don’t listen?”
“Bowe,” I say, shaking my head. My heart is racing, and I immediately resent him for making me waste this much angst on something like sex, when I need to focus on my game. “No.”
“Okay,” he says, his voice sharper now, back to normal. “Message received. I won’t ask again.”
“Good, please don’t.”
“Good luck against Perez. I hope I get to see you crush her.”
“Who do you play next?” I ask.
“O’Hara.”
I inhale a bit too sharply, and he hears me.
“My thoughts exactly,” he says.
“You can take him. You can.”
“Uh-huh,” Bowe says, laughing. “You’re starting to sound like my sister. But I want you to sound like Carrie Soto.”
I think about it for a minute. “He’s going to exhaust you. If he gets you to five sets, you’re done for. So don’t let him get to five sets. Break his serve early in the first––that’s your shot for an upset.”
“Yeah,” Bowe says. “I was thinking that too. About me being toast if it goes to five.”
“So you do it in three,” I say.
“Oh, sure, just take O’Hara in straight sets?” Bowe says. “It’s that easy, huh?”
“It can be. If you want it bad enough.”
“That’s not always true, Soto. But thank you. I appreciate the pep talk.”
SOTO VS. PEREZ
1995 Australian Open
Third Round
It is scorching hot. I can feel the sweat across my forehead and on my upper lip. I wipe it away with the towel in my hand as I sit down on the sideline, catching my breath.