Bowe smirked. “Are we playing now or what?”
I started packing up my kit. “We are not. He said let’s do two more days with no one watching me. And then I need to be ready. So, I’m asking you, please, can we pick this match up later today when no one is here? You name the time.”
Bowe nodded. “Fine, how about eight? I’ll talk to Jean-Marc. I’ll make sure no one is here.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Truly.”
As I started to walk away, Bowe called out to me. “Take a moment to consider that I’m right about your mental game.”
I turned back to him. “And you, take a moment to shut the fuck up.”
* * *
—
Now, in the cool night air with no one around, my game is much better.
“Dammit!” Bowe yells as I win the current game. If I win one more, I’ll take the tiebreak set and win the match.
I laugh. “Whose mental game are you worried about now?” I ask.
Bowe rolls his eyes.
“Oh, poor baby is losing!” I say.
As I move across the court tonight, I’m feeling confident that I will last longer in Paris against heavy hitters like Cortez than I did back in Melbourne. I am doing well.
I serve the ball, and Bowe returns it wide. I get there in time and send a cross-court forehand to the deep corner. He hits a backhand groundstroke. And then I have my two-shot strategy in place. First, an approach shot, an easy return. And then a drop shot.
“It’s almost too easy,” I say. “Too damn easy.”
“Dammit, Carrie,” Bowe says, his voice low and flat. “Have a little humility.”
“Humility?” I say. I have the ball in my hand, about to serve, but I put it in my pocket.
“You called off the match this afternoon when I was winning,” he says. “And now, when you’re winning, you’re gloating.”
“Oh no, here comes the Huntley tantrum.”
“I don’t throw tantrums,” he says. “C’mon. You’re playing into that sportscaster crap. And I don’t do that with you.”
“I mean—”
“I don’t yell anymore.”
“Oh, come on…” I say.
“What?”
“I saw you at Indian Wells. Screaming at the umpire. You called him a crook.”
Bowe’s face falls. He closes his eyes. “I’m really trying, Carrie. I’m trying so hard to not do the shit I used to do. You think I want to be the guy that screams on the court because he’s not winning?” Bowe says. “Of course not. I know I fucked up at Indian Wells with that bad call. But I’m trying. And I wish you didn’t have to be right there to remind me when I slip up.”
I look down at my shoes. They are covered in clay. “I get—”
“And by the way, what right do you have to come to Indian Wells and not tell me?” he says.
“What?”
“You’re just sitting there in the stands and you don’t tell me you’re watching my game? And you didn’t even bother to say hi? To wish me luck?”
“What are you, twelve? You need me to wish you luck?” I say.
Bowe shakes his head. “Forget it. I don’t know why I bother. Just serve the ball, Carrie. Or are you too nervous now and need to postpone until tomorrow?”
“I’m trying to get myself ready for Roland-Garros, all right? I’m sorry it’s not on your exact schedule.”
“You’re ready now!” he says. “You’re playing like it’s ten years ago. And somehow you’re still acting like ‘Oh jeez, am I good enough? I’d hate for anyone to see me unless I’m the greatest in the world.’？”
“What do you care?” I ask.
“Because. You’re so afraid of losing that you fucked up my whole session today to avoid it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes!” he says. “You did! I don’t have much longer on this tour, Carrie. I don’t even know if I can finish the year. I pulled out of other tournaments to protect my back, and to be here, trying to play you in the hardest conditions possible. I want to give myself a real chance of doing something great.”
“Of course you’re going to finish the year.”
Bowe rolls his eyes. “Just serve the ball and let’s get this over with.”
“You have no chance of winning if that’s your attitude,” I say.
“I’m begging you to shut up, Soto.”