My father stands up to go to his house. “Did you see Bowe got to the quarters in Milan?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding.
“We gotta get you two back on the court. The better he gets, the better you’ll play. Until one day, you will play the greatest tennis you’ve ever played in your life, pichona.”
“No lo sé, papá,” I say.
“I’m telling you, hija, the greatest match of your career is ahead of you.”
It is such a kind thing for him to say—exactly the sort of thing a father like him would tell a daughter like me. Full of heart and love and belief, and maybe a little bit untrue.
MARCH 1995
Three months until Paris
My father, Gwen, and I pack our suitcases into Gwen’s SUV and head west for Indian Wells.
Gwen is driving, and I am in the passenger seat. TLC is playing on the radio, and Gwen’s stereo system makes me feel like they are right here in the car.
My father is in the back seat and falls asleep five minutes after we get onto the 10.
Gwen turns the radio down. “Look,” she says, her voice low. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay…” I say as we drive through downtown L.A.
“Elite Gold wants to pause on the photo shoot and commercials, for now.”
I turn to Gwen. “But I made it to the round of sixteen.”
She checks her mirrors and moves into the fast lane—which is almost at a standstill. “They were impressed with your showing in Melbourne. But they said clay is your worst surface and they don’t want to run a bunch of commercials about what a legend you are off of two…”
“Failures.”
“They used the word defeats.”
“I haven’t lost the French Open yet, and they are already counting me out?”
“I told them they were making a mistake. I said, ‘You have a contract with the most talked-about athlete of the year. You want to shoot her now so that when she wins this summer you have the campaign of the decade.’？”
“But they didn’t buy it.”
“They would rather wait and see.”
I kick her car door, and Gwen glares at me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sorry.”
“Look, you and I both know Melbourne was the beginning. You will win one by the end of the year.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask her.
“I believe in you. I think if you say something can be done, it will be done.”
I close my eyes for a moment and wonder how to tell her how much I needed to hear that. But I cannot find the words.
“So, Bowe,” Gwen says, looking at me for a split second before looking back at the road. “How did that all go? He said he got a lot out of it. Was it good? Did it help?”
“It was great, actually,” I say. “It was really helpful to have a sparring partner at that level.”
Gwen raises her eyebrow. “And that’s all?”
I look at her. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I saw a photo of you two out to dinner in Melbourne. And people are saying he came to your matches. I was wondering if…”
I shake my head. “Mind your own business.”
“Oh, c’mon!” she says. “I could tell that Bowe maybe still had a thing for you. I could tell.”
I turn to face the passenger-side window and watch us crawl through traffic. We are passing through the industrial side of Los Angeles at a snail’s pace. “You’re creating a soap opera in your head.”
“I really think you two would be good together. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s such a good person—just like someone else I know.”
“Gwen, give it up.”
“I just think it would be nice if you, you know, had someone in your life.”
My hand is on the door of the car, and I find myself tightening my fist. “Are you dissatisfied in your own relationship?” I ask. “Is that why you’re prying into my mine?”
“I’m not prying. I just want to see you happy. Is that wrong? To think it would do you good to be with someone for a change?”
I want to open the door and jump out on the side of the freeway. “You don’t get laid enough, Gwen,” I say, keeping my voice low, not wanting to wake up my father. “I’m going to tell Michael he needs to step it up so you get out of my business.”
Gwen rolls her eyes and waves me off. “Well, excuse me for wanting you to be loved.”