But then Bowe appears on the screen. He’s live in the press room, sitting slightly hunched over, a baseball cap over his barely dry hair. He has on a blue T-shirt. And the second I catch sight of him, I know he is in physical pain.
“Can you walk us through what happened?” a male reporter asks. “Out on the court today?”
Bowe leans into the microphone. “I tore the cartilage between my ribs during the second set. It was hurting this morning before the match even started, but I ignored it, and now here we are.” He winces as he sits back.
“How does it feel to lose today, because of an injury, when you were doing so well?” a woman asks him.
“It feels really great, Patty,” Bowe says. “Best day of my life.”
My father laughs and I look at him, surprised. “He’s grown on me,” he says. “He’s funny.”
“What if he’s really hurt?” I say.
My father nods. “Maybe it’s a small tear. With a little bit of time…he can get back in fighting shape.”
“For Wimbledon?”
“No,” my dad says. “But maybe by the US Open. If he’s still in this thing.”
“He won’t give up,” I say. The trainer comes around and starts massaging my other calf. “He’d rather lose than give up.”
My father looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, he does have that sense of honor about him.”
“So, will you be going home?” a reporter asks Bowe. “You are still currently scheduled to play Queen’s Club next month. Will you pull out?”
“I’m pulling out of all my events next month. Focusing on recovery. But…I’m not going home. I’m going to stick around and watch Carrie Soto,” he says. “I think what she’s doing here is remarkable. And I want to be able to say I saw it happen.”
* * *
—
That night, after I go back to my hotel room, I lie down on the sofa and try to read the French gossip magazines that Gwen sent over to my hotel. They have some good tidbits about Pam and Tommy Lee, but other than that, it’s too difficult trying to piece together, in another language, who all the French celebrities are. I throw the magazine back down onto the coffee table and stare up at the ceiling.
Then I stand up, grab my room key, and walk to the elevator.
Bowe’s hotel is two blocks over and soon enough, I’m standing in the lobby asking the concierge to tell him I’m here.
I sit in the lobby, in an overstuffed velvet chair, taking in the shine of the marble floors and the gold fixtures. And then Bowe is in front of me in chinos and a T-shirt, his baseball cap on. He’s holding his ribs.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
“I was really mean,” I say. “The other day.”
Bowe nods and bites his lip. “I wasn’t great either.”
“Are you okay?”
Bowe looks down at his torso. “I honestly do not know.”
“What happened?” I saw the replay—the way he twisted and then fell to the ground.
Bowe nods at the elevators, and we head toward them. A young teenage boy and his father sneak into the elevator just as we are about to head up, and I watch their faces as they realize who we are.
“You’re—” the teenager says as he begins to point at us. His father immediately pushes his hand down.
“Jeremy, don’t point at people,” he says, and then turns to us. “I’m sorry.”
Bowe waves them off. “Not a problem.”
“Congrats,” the dad says to me. “Great match today against Moretti.”
I say, “Thank you.”
“Sorry about Alderton,” the dad says to Bowe. “Rough break.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The doors open, and the boy and his father get off. Bowe and I are now left in the elevator together.
“It’s not always so easy,” Bowe says. “Standing next to you.”
“I’m not going to apologize for it,” I say.
“No,” Bowe says, shaking his head. “Nor would I want you to.”
The elevator opens on his floor. He gestures for me to go first, and we walk into his room.
It is smaller than I expected. He does not have a suite but instead a single bed, not much of a view.
When he closes the door behind us, I turn to look at him. “What is your plan?” I say, pointing to his ribs.
Bowe sits on the edge of his bed, softly. He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”