“How are you?” Bowe says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Chan.”
I sit down on the bench. “I feel like I set out to prove that I’m a better player than her. And I got a bit of a break with her ankle in Melbourne, but you know, I did plan on facing her eventually. I want the challenge.” This is what I’m telling myself, anyway.
“So it’s good, then, her coming back.”
I laugh. “Yes,” I say. “No. I don’t know. Yes, it’s good, if I’m as great as I say I am.”
“You are,” he says. “You’ll do it. I’m the one who needs a miracle,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say, smiling.
“I literally just told you you’re doing great. And you can’t return the favor?”
“What do you want me to do? Lie? Don’t fish for compliments,” I say.
“Christ, Carrie,” Bowe says. But he’s laughing. And I am too. And then suddenly my father is there, his head still in his notebook.
“Carrie, go to the baseline. We need to work harder on your second serve. Huntley, I assume you’re staying? I have notes for you, if you want them. Your game is getting better, but you still stink at the net. You could benefit from my expertise.”
Bowe rolls his eyes. “The two of you, man,” he says to my father and me. “Bulls in a china shop.”
“Let’s not pretend you’re such a prize,” my dad says, his eyebrows raised.
“Fine,” Bowe says. “I want your notes. I’m here to win, so…anything you got, I’m listening.”
My father’s face lights up. And I’m happy for him, to be back here doing this job that he does so well, this job that has defined him for as long as I can remember.
This is not just my comeback.
Soto vs. Huntley, Love?
Sub Rosa Magazine
The word out of Paris is that iconoclast Carrie Soto and former wild child Bowe Huntley might be dating again.
Those who were around for the whirlwind of Soto’s and Huntley’s respective dominance in the eighties will remember that the two were seen canoodling in Spain back in the day.
Now, almost fifteen years later, it appears they are cuddling up close once again.
Multiple sources say they’ve seen “the Battle Axe” and “Howlin’ Huntley” sparring on the court in preparation for the upcoming French Open.
But we have to think this isn’t all business…
MID-MAY
Two weeks until the French Open
It’s late, almost ten p.m. Bowe and I are about two hours into a practice match on a court just outside Paris. The court lights are bright. The clay is dense under our feet.
It’s just Bowe and me. My father went to bed.
Bowe and I decided to play tonight because, earlier in the day, people had started gathering by the court we were on, trying to catch a glimpse of us. I felt myself getting more and more tight, with all of their eyes on me.
“I need privacy,” I told my father in between games. “Clay is my worst surface. I need to get everything ready and in control first, and then people can watch me.”
Bowe started walking toward us. I gathered he heard the last part of my complaint because he raised his eyebrows at me.
“You’re in your head too much,” Bowe said, pointing at his temple. “Didn’t I tell you that?”
My father frowned at Bowe. “Hi, I missed the meeting where I hired you as assistant coach.”
“The two of you comment on my game constantly!” Bowe said.
My father’s face did not soften. Bowe put his hands up, giving in. “Fine, you both say whatever thoughts come into your head and I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”
My father nodded. “That’d be best.”
Bowe rolled his eyes. “Are we playing or what?”
My father looked at me. “Practicá sola,” he said, “dos días más. Después, tenés que estar lista para jugar con todos los ojos clavados en vos. ?Entendido?”
“Bueno,” I said. “Está bien.”
“Esta noche, practicá sin mí.”
My father then grabbed his water and his hat. “Nos vemos después,” he said, and headed off, I was sure, to the nearest bistro.
Bowe looked at me. “What was that?”
“You really should learn Spanish,” I said.
“So I can understand your father?”
“So you can understand a lot of people. Including me sometimes.”