“And you took it.”
“I didn’t take it,” Nicki says. “I earned it. The same way you did. But just one more Slam than you.” She winks at me and then takes a drink.
“You haven’t had to go up against anyone great,” I say. “In the past six years, there’s been almost nobody who can hold a candle to you.”
“Exactly.”
“Give me a break. It’s easier to win when you don’t have a Stepanova. Or somebody like Mary-Louise Bryant, who started out so stunning. Or me, even. The field has been leveled for you. It’s not the same as the way I set the record.”
Nicki shakes her head. “You sound like every pundit on ESPN.”
“What?” I say. “Are you kidding me? Every sportscaster in the world is tripping over themself to crown you the best!”
“That’s how it may seem to you. But what I hear—over and again—is that even when I beat your record, it’s not good enough. I will never be Carrie Soto. I’ll never be as graceful as you. I’ve never had a truly formidable opponent. Yes, I’m good on clay and hard court, but ‘Carrie Soto reigns in London.’ This is my hometown, but somehow it still belongs to you.”
She takes another sip of her gin. “And then,” she adds, “just when it looks like I’m finally going to silence them all, it becomes ‘Wow! Carrie Soto is back!’ And they all do cartwheels over you.”
“I mean this from the bottom of my heart: Are you fucking high?” I say.
Nicki laughs.
“Try being told—over and over and over again—that if you do manage to win anything this year, you will set a record for being the oldest bitch to ever do it.”
Nicki laughs. “Yes, I’m sure it’s terribly awful to know that if you win Wimbledon, you will set two records and match mine.”
My fists clench. It takes everything I have not to slam my hand on the bar and remind her who had that record first, who made that record. There is no you without me.
But I have no leg to stand on anymore. I lost it back in Paris.
“Do you have any idea,” I say, “how hard it is to work your entire life toward one goal—one goal—and then to have someone else come in and try to take it away?”
Nicki looks at me, incredulous. “Yes!” she says. “In fact, I do.”
I look at her and realize what I’ve just said. I cannot help but laugh, and neither can Nicki.
“God, you must hate me,” I say. “I would. I would hate me.”
Nicki downs the rest of her glass. “I don’t hate you. I told you before. I’m thankful.”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“I’m serious,” Nicki says. “I can’t fight unless I have something to fight against. And I like fighting. I like it even more than winning.”
“I…” I say. “Okay.”
“Without you, I wouldn’t have much left to fight against. It would be like trying to knock out a deflated punching bag. And without me, you’d be back home, shooting a commercial for Gatorade, would you not?”
I huff, knowing she’s right. “Yeah, maybe. Yes.”
“But instead, we’re here, training, living for something bigger than the two of us.”
I take a sip of my vodka soda. And consider her. “I’m not sure I ever thought of it that way with Paulina,” I say.
“Stepanova?” Nicki says, rolling her eyes. “Who would? She faked injuries every time she was down, and then the one time she actually messes up her ankle, she doesn’t have the courage to either retire or play through.”
“Thank you!” I say.
“Crocodile tears, the whole lot of them.”
“Yes!”
“She was not a worthy opponent for you.”
“That’s what I said from the beginning!”
“But I am,” Nicki says, her eyes focusing in on me.
I look at her. “I guess that’s what remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” I say.
“Yes, I believe it does.”
Nicki throws down thirty pounds and stands up. She pats me on the shoulder. “What time are you practicing tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Depends on whether I can sleep.”
“All right. Well, work hard. I want to know, when I beat you, that you were playing at your best. I want to know that I can beat the greatest tennis player of all time. I need it. And I need the world to see it.”