“Absolut and soda, please,” I say to the bartender, who nods but then looks back up at me. “Are you Carrie Soto?” she says.
I look at Nicki, who smiles as she takes a sip of her gin.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Wow, big fan of yours,” she says. “I mean, I don’t know much about tennis, but I love your sneakers.”
I laugh. “Well, good, I’m glad to hear it.”
She heads down the bar, and Nicki laughs, shaking her head. “I’ve been sitting here talking to that beautiful woman for at least ten minutes, and somehow she doesn’t recognize me. Even though my tennis shoes are better than yours, by the way.”
Her line is with Nike. They are called 130s—a reference to the fact that she once hit a serve that clocked in at 130 miles per hour. They are the second bestselling women’s tennis shoe in the UK.
“It appears she disagrees,” I say.
“It’s not that I want to be recognized, mind you,” she says. “But if she’s going to recognize you and not me…well, c’mon.”
“You know,” I say, sitting down, “I once showed up to cut a ribbon at a tennis center named after me in Arizona, and the woman at the front door wouldn’t let me in because I wasn’t on the list.”
Nicki laughs and takes another sip of her drink. “It’s a weird life.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m not always sure I like it.”
My drink arrives, and I take a sip of it. “Not always much to like.”
“Isn’t it strange? How you get into this because you like to hit a ball around a court…？ And then, suddenly, you don’t belong to yourself anymore? As if it’s okay for people to call you ‘the Beast’ just because you’re strong? And they can comment on your clothes and your hair? And make racist comments and pretend they are just joking? Just wait until they find out I’m a lesbian.”
Nicki looks at me out of the corner of her eye, as if expecting me to spit out my cocktail. But I have long suspected she is gay, and I couldn’t care less. Romantic relationships are so goddamn impossible, I’m honestly impressed with anyone who can keep one going at all.
Though, it’s occurring to me now, that probably doesn’t account for how hard it is for her to deal with the world’s hang-ups about it. Or how hard it must be to decide who to confide in.
And she confided in me. And fuck if it doesn’t make me like her more. Goddamn her.
“You don’t have to tell me how shitty the press are. You’re talking to a woman referred to as ‘the Bitch,’？” I remind her.
Nicki laughs. “I just wanted to play the game. And now, instead, I’m shooting TV commercials and telling twelve-year-old girls to believe in their dreams and agreeing to be a guest host on breakfast television. It just feels like…so many things get in the way of the actual point.”
I look at her, and then I look down. I turn the glass. “Once you retire, then it’s only about the TV commercials. And the charity functions and playing to the crowd for exhibition games. And the real tennis just sort of goes. Poof. Gone.”
Nicki frowns. “No, I don’t believe that.”
I shrug. “Believe whatever you want.”
“When I retire, I want to take up at my place in the Cotswolds and quit all the rest. Just spend my days playing on my court in the countryside.”
“But against who?” I say. “There’s no one to play except maybe other retirees. You’re not gonna play the neighborhood girl—that’s not fun. And you’re not going to play anyone in the WTA, because they are busy on tour. And they certainly don’t want to be beaten by you. The exhibition games are all right, but they are just for show––there’s no real intensity. There’s no one to play in any serious way. I swear there were days I’d wake up and my right hand would be jittery, wondering where the racket was.”
Nicki nods. “So that’s why you’re back, then? Your right hand is jittery?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I came back to destroy you.”
Nicki cackles so loud that people turn and stare. When she quiets, she leans in toward me. “I don’t buy it for a second,” she says, smiling. “It’s about more than that.”
“No, I’m dead serious. I want my fucking record back.”
“Of course,” Nicki says. “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”