Sos mi vida, pichona, my father mouths to me. He taps a finger to his chest, right over his heart.
I smile and rest my head on his shoulder for a split second.
And then we all walk back to the hotel—a walk that feels comfortable and familiar, even though there is so much about it that is new.
The Inevitability of Chan
By Rachel Berger
Op-Ed, Sports Section
California Post
Carrie Soto has made no secret of her intention to prevent Nicki Chan from overtaking her record. So it must have made the cut that much deeper when Chan won last night.
Some have been dismissive of Soto’s attempt at a comeback. But I am among the growing number of those who cannot help but marvel at the attempt.
Many have been quick to forget what Carrie Soto has done for women’s tennis. She set the bar for many of the things we now take for granted: incredibly fast serves, brilliant matches that broke multiple records at a time. And we have all but lost the most exquisite thing she brought to the sport: the grace of the game.
I do not care how hard Nicki Chan can hit a groundstroke or how fast her serve can be—she cannot hold a candle to the beauty with which Carrie Soto has played. Each shot executed to perfection, every dive for the ball as graceful as a ballet. So I join Carrie Soto in mourning her loss.
And yet, we cannot deny that the tide has turned.
Carrie Soto is the past. Nicki Chan is the future.
The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.
I wake up to the hotel phone ringing. Bowe hands it to me, half-asleep.
It’s Gwen.
“Elite Gold is officially pausing the campaign,” she says. “I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.”
I want to scream or throw the phone or bury my head under my pillow, but I don’t. “Okay, I understand.”
“AmEx is exploring buying them out, but they haven’t committed,” she says.
“It’s your job to convince them,” I say.
“Yes, it is. And it’s your job to remember I warned you this could happen. And you told me it was worth the risk.”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I did.”
“It will be okay. This will all work out in the end.”
“Yeah,” I say. But neither of us sounds convinced.
* * *
—
A few hours later, I do my best to put it behind me as we all get on the plane back to Los Angeles. I switch seats with my father, who has the one next to Bowe. He does not tease me or raise an eyebrow—which I appreciate. He takes my spot two rows ahead.
A couple of college-age girls approach us early in the flight and ask us for our autographs. We agree, but then more people start coming down the aisle.
Soon enough, Bowe starts telling people that he’s a Bowe Huntley impersonator, and I stare—mouth half-open—when they actually seem to believe him. I try it on the next woman who comes up, and she just frowns at me and says, “You can’t just sign one lousy piece of paper? Unbelievable.”
When she storms off, Bowe rolls his eyes and then puts his head on my shoulder. I push it away.
“Everyone on this flight recognizes us,” I say.
“So?”
“So when this thing between us goes tits-up, I don’t want to have to answer questions about it in a post-match.”
Bowe looks at me, his eyebrows high and furrowed. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I just mean…” I add.
“No, I got it,” he says, shifting his weight to the window. “Enough said.”
“I’m just saying we don’t know what we’re doing yet.”
“Okay,” he says. “I got it. Let’s drop it.”
He’s quiet for an hour or two. But when the flight attendants come by offering chocolates, he wordlessly hands me his.
The plane lands a few hours later, and Bowe reaches for my dad’s carry-on from the overhead compartment, despite the fact that it clearly kills his ribs.
“Here you go, Jav,” he says.
“Jav?” I say. “You’re on a nickname basis now?”
“Of course we are,” my dad says. Though he’s joking around, he seems tired. “Thanks, B.”
“Bowe is already short for Bowen,” I say. “You don’t need to shorten it again.”
My dad waves me off. “Mind your own business, Care.”
Bowe laughs, and I throw up my hands.
The line begins to move, and the flight attendants gesture for us to go. The three of us exit the row and get off the plane.
“What is our next meal?” Bowe says. “Is it dinner?”