The phone rings in the kitchen, and my father gets up.
“It’s my phone, Dad,” I say. “I’ll answer it if I want it answered.”
He swats me away with a dish towel.
“Hello?” he says. And then he smiles and turns to me. “It’s Bowe.”
I bolt up and take the phone from him.
“Hey,” I say. “How are you? Nice job in Johannesburg.”
“Thank you,” Bowe says, but his voice is flat. He got to the third round and went down against Wash Lomal. But I saw the game, and he played beautifully. “Listen, I’m pulling out of Barcelona and Tokyo.”
“Oh,” I say, resting against the countertop. “Why?”
“My back is starting to hurt, and I want to save my energy. I need to regroup. Need to get ready for Roland-Garros.”
“Are you going to play Nice or Monte Carlo?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m going to go to Paris now. Set up there, practice on clay.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s a great idea. Javier and I were thinking of doing the same at Saddlebrook.”
“Well,” Bowe says. “That’s my question. What if you and Javier come to Paris instead and we train together?”
“You want us to come to Paris to train with you?” I ask.
My father hears this and immediately leaps out of his chair and starts nodding. “Tell him yes,” my father says. “You need it. You both do. Tell him I have ideas for him. Two words: Eastern grip.”
I laugh. “Did you get all that?” I say into the phone.
Bowe laughs too. “Every word, sadly. But…”
“What?”
“I don’t want to know if your dad wants you to come. I want to know if you want to come.”
I want to win the goddamn French Open with my whole gut. I want to shock every commentator out there who thinks I can’t do it. I want to make Elite Gold vomit regret. And then I want them all to sit at my feet and sob, begging for forgiveness.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do this. Let’s train and let’s win the French Open together.”
Bowe laughs. “It’s oddly sweet that you think I can win the French Open. But okay, yeah.”
“I guess if we’re being honest, I did mean me more than you.”
Bowe laughs again, this time wild and delighted. And I can’t help but smile.
“There you go. That’s the Carrie Soto we all know and love.”
* * *
—
My father and I are sitting in first class across the aisle from each other on our flight to Paris. Despite the fact that I am fully reclined and trying to watch the in-flight movie, my father is leaning over the space between us and quizzing me about strategy.
“The plan for Cortez is…” he says, after I’ve answered him about Perez, Moretti, and Antonovich.
“Enough for now,” I say. “People could be listening.”
My father lowers his voice to a whisper. “The plan for Cortez is…” he says again. I notice the older woman sitting next to him. She seems to recognize me but isn’t making a fuss about it, which I appreciate.
“The plan for Cortez is don’t be an asshole like last time and spin out,” I whisper. “Now let me watch the movie.”
My father sits back in his seat. “It wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for,” he says. “Pero bueno.”
He turns back to his tray, looking over his notebook. And then he looks back at me, nagging me again. “Bowe needs to work on his toss,” he says. “You agree with me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, ready to put on my in-flight headphones. They are playing a movie that has Sharon Stone in it and I love her. My dad continues to stare at me, not yet satisfied by my answer.
I sigh. “He’s hitting the ball too late on the toss. If he hits it sooner, his angle will be better. On all surfaces, honestly.”
My dad snaps his fingers. “Yes!” he says. “？Exacto! ?Gracias!”
The woman next to him smiles, as if charmed.
“You’re welcome. But be smart about how you tell him that.”
“A player needs to be open to anything that can make them better,” my dad says.
“Obviously, but each player needs to be coached differently.”
My father nods, considering. “You think I am coaching him?” he asks.
“Aren’t you?”
My father nods again. “Does he think of me as a coach?”