I know that he is right. For decades, my talent and drive were utterly devastating to those who stood in my wake. If each person is blessed with an individual gift, determination is mine.
“Do you think you can beat her?” my father says.
I respond quicker than I intend. “Yes.”
“And will you be able to bear it if you don’t?”
That one takes me far longer to answer. “No.”
He closes his eyes and then nods. “All right,” he says, sighing. “Then there is no time to waste.”
I sit down in a chair in my agent’s office, next to her floor-to-ceiling windows. I’ve been with Gwen for about seven years now.
I signed with her after being at two different agencies run by men who kept telling me to “be reasonable” about things I was already being reasonable about. I took meetings with every agency in town, and then at one, in walked Gwen Davis. She is a Black woman born and raised in L.A. who had been a talent agent at a massive agency, and then pivoted to sports stars and struck out on her own.
“If you need to, I expect you to tell me to fuck off,” she said in that first meeting. “And if I need to, I’m going to throw it right back at you. We have to have a relationship that is brutally honest. I’m not interested in being your yes man. It’s not worth your time or mine.”
I signed with her right then and there.
Today, in her office, I look out over Beverly Hills—the palm trees and wide streets and large lots. From here, I can see the golden crown that sits atop city hall.
I turn toward Gwen as she sits down on the sofa next to me. She’s in her late fifties, dressed in a red pantsuit and mules. Sometimes I wonder if she’s in the wrong field; she’s too striking, too glamorous to be the one behind the scenes.
Ali, her assistant, comes in. Her long black hair is pulled into a bun with a pen, and it is already falling apart. She’s in a flannel shirt and black jeans with a pair of boots. Something about the fact that Gwen doesn’t care what her assistant wears in the office while she, herself, looks like a runway model makes me like them both even more.
“An herbal tea for you,” Ali says as she hands me a mug. “With a muffin I know you won’t eat.”
I laugh. “I have to be back on the court this afternoon, and I don’t even like muffins,” I say.
“Next time, I’ll get you raw unsalted almonds,” Ali says. And I know she’s making fun of me, but honestly, I would rather have the almonds.
Ali hands Gwen a coffee and then leaves.
Gwen takes a sip from her mug and then looks at me. She raises her eyebrow as she gently sets her mug on the glass table, next to a coffee table book with my face on it. It was released in 1990 and features shots of me at Wimbledon spanning about fifteen years. Soto on Grass.
Gwen meets my eye as she leans back on the sofa. “Are you sure about returning?”
“I would not be here if I wasn’t sure.”
“It’s not something to be taken lightly,” she adds.
“Do I look like I’m taking it lightly?”
“Well, your sponsorships…”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to shoot the new Elite Gold campaign this spring.”
“I know.”
“And Gatorade is running the ‘Champions’ commercial soon too, with you front and center.”
I nod.
“Your Break Points are outselling all other tennis shoes for Adidas right now.”
One of the most surprising things about my retirement was that it turned out to be very lucrative. Apparently, when I wasn’t around anymore, people forgot how much they disliked me—and remembered how much they liked my shoes.
“I know that too,” I say.
“These endorsements are all based on the premise that you are now a legend. That you were one of the very best athletes in the world.”
“Right, and I’m going to prove that I still am.”
“But if…”
I look her dead in the eye, daring her to say it.
She pivots. “If it’s a matter of earning, I think, for you, there is more money to be made as a commentator or a WTA official than as a player. We position you as an elder stateswoman of tennis. That’s how we keep you relevant and active.”
“First of all, nobody wants to hear what I have to say,” I tell her.
Gwen raises her eyebrows, considering, and then nods, conceding the point.
“But second of all, it’s not a matter of money. It’s a matter of honor.”
Gwen reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. “I need you to really think about this, Carrie. Honor is…sometimes just a nice word for ego. And I will always choose money over ego. Personally.”
I look at her. “I appreciate your advice, but it’s not up for debate.”
“I’m just trying to look out for your future,” Gwen says, pulling back. She picks up the muffin, tears a piece off, and eats it.
“Gwen, all I’ve ever had is this game,” I say.
She nods. “I know that.”
“And now it’s about to be ripped from my hands. Leaving me with nothing.”
“That’s not tr—”
“Yes,” I say, cutting her off. “It is true. I cannot let Nicki overtake the record. And I need you on board.”
Gwen takes a sip of her coffee, then puts the mug back down. “And you are confident this is the right move?”
“It is the only move. I cannot conceive of any other future.”
“Okay,” she says. “Then I’m on board. I’m all in.”
I can tell from the timid look on her face that she is worried I’m about to lose us both a lot of money. And while I feel a spark of rage at her lack of confidence, I’m smart enough to take the win.
“Thank you,” I say. “And get ready to be proven wrong.”
“There’s nothing to prove me wrong about,” she says. “I believe in you. So what’s the plan?”
“I’m going to play in all four Slams this year, and I am going to win at least one to reclaim my record.”
“So your first year out of retirement, you’re confident you can win a Slam?” Gwen says.
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
“And what if Nicki wins another one first?”
My shoulders tense, and I try to unclench my teeth. “Let me worry about that.”
“Okay,” she says. “Understood. And you’re not rejoining the full WTA tour?”
I shake my head. “No, I just want to play select tournaments. But I don’t know my standing with the ITF or the WTA.”
Gwen gets up and hits the intercom on her desk phone. “Ali, can you get someone from ITF or WTA on the line and find out—as coyly as possible, please—whether a player like Carrie would get wild cards at all four Slams if she entered?”
“On it.”
Gwen lets go of the intercom. “Okay, what’s next? What else do you need?”
“Well, I could use a good hitter, if you have any ideas. Not just someone to rally with. I need someone really high-level. So I can gauge whether I’m ready for the best players.”
Gwen nods. “You need someone at the top of the game, somebody who can help you get to where Nicki is.”
I wince at the implication that we are that far apart. “Well, Nicki’s…yeah, someone at top level.”
“We can make some calls,” Gwen says. “And see who wants to practice with you.”
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. But not Suze Carter––I can’t stand her. Or Brenda Johns. But anyone else is fine. The two of them are just so…perky. What about Ingrid Cortez? She keeps giving Nicki a run for her money in the final. Maybe she and I can work together a little.”
“Anything else?”
“I need Wilson to send me new rackets. I’ll need Adidas to send outfits and new Break Points in this season’s colors. Should I hire an assistant again? To book my travel and coordinate hotels?”
“If it’s just four tournaments, Ali can do it.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“But you’re packing your own luggage. I’m not your mother.”
The joke sits there, heavy in the air for a moment. When your mother is dead, it follows you everywhere—popping up in offhand remarks. I notice them all the time, even if the person speaking doesn’t. I can tell that Gwen realizes what she said was insensitive, and I appreciate that she decides to breeze past it. There is nothing worse than having to make someone else feel better that your mom died.