I turn to Gwen. “But I made it to the round of sixteen.”
She checks her mirrors and moves into the fast lane—which is almost at a standstill. “They were impressed with your showing in Melbourne. But they said clay is your worst surface and they don’t want to run a bunch of commercials about what a legend you are off of two…”
“Failures.”
“They used the word defeats.”
“I haven’t lost the French Open yet, and they are already counting me out?”
“I told them they were making a mistake. I said, ‘You have a contract with the most talked-about athlete of the year. You want to shoot her now so that when she wins this summer you have the campaign of the decade.’?”
“But they didn’t buy it.”
“They would rather wait and see.”
I kick her car door, and Gwen glares at me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sorry.”
“Look, you and I both know Melbourne was the beginning. You will win one by the end of the year.”
“Do you really believe that?” I ask her.
“I believe in you. I think if you say something can be done, it will be done.”
I close my eyes for a moment and wonder how to tell her how much I needed to hear that. But I cannot find the words.
“So, Bowe,” Gwen says, looking at me for a split second before looking back at the road. “How did that all go? He said he got a lot out of it. Was it good? Did it help?”
“It was great, actually,” I say. “It was really helpful to have a sparring partner at that level.”
Gwen raises her eyebrow. “And that’s all?”
I look at her. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“I saw a photo of you two out to dinner in Melbourne. And people are saying he came to your matches. I was wondering if…”
I shake my head. “Mind your own business.”
“Oh, c’mon!” she says. “I could tell that Bowe maybe still had a thing for you. I could tell.”
I turn to face the passenger-side window and watch us crawl through traffic. We are passing through the industrial side of Los Angeles at a snail’s pace. “You’re creating a soap opera in your head.”
“I really think you two would be good together. He’s rough around the edges, but he’s such a good person—just like someone else I know.”
“Gwen, give it up.”
“I just think it would be nice if you, you know, had someone in your life.”
My hand is on the door of the car, and I find myself tightening my fist. “Are you dissatisfied in your own relationship?” I ask. “Is that why you’re prying into my mine?”
“I’m not prying. I just want to see you happy. Is that wrong? To think it would do you good to be with someone for a change?”
I want to open the door and jump out on the side of the freeway. “You don’t get laid enough, Gwen,” I say, keeping my voice low, not wanting to wake up my father. “I’m going to tell Michael he needs to step it up so you get out of my business.”
Gwen rolls her eyes and waves me off. “Well, excuse me for wanting you to be loved.”
“I’ll just call him and tell him now,” I say. “That he needs to learn how to satisfy you so you’re not trying to live vicariously through me.” I pick up her car phone and hit the speed dial, assuming it will be her husband. It starts to ring.
Gwen snatches the phone out of my hand as Michael picks up.
“Hi,” she says. “Just letting you know we’re off and running, headed out to the…”
I stop listening as traffic opens up and we start actually moving on the freeway. I glance at Gwen when she hangs up the phone. “You take shit too far sometimes,” Gwen says.
I turn and look out my window as Gwen puts her foot on the gas and speeds us farther down the 10, headed to the desert.
* * *
—
My father is wearing sunglasses and a hat, like he’s going to be unrecognizable sitting ten rows back on the ground floor of the venue. We are watching Ingrid Cortez play Madlenka Dvo?áková. My father watches every stroke, making notes on both players in a black leather book he bought the other day. He hasn’t used a notebook since I was a teenager. I wonder if he’s using one now because he’s old and doesn’t trust his memory—or because I’m old and we can’t take any chances.
Dvo?áková holds the first set, which is a shock. I clap and cheer.
My father turns to me.
“What?” I say.
“You’re cheering,” he says. “For the worse player.”
“I don’t like Cortez.”
“But she’s a phenomenal player. Certainly you respect her game? Her talent?”
“Sure,” I say. “I mean, yes. But Dvo?áková is working so hard. It’s gonna take everything in her to give Cortez a run for her money. So I’m clapping for her, all right?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re getting soft in your old age.”
I ignore him and look down at the schedule. “Once we watch Cortez for a bit more, we should stop by Perez versus Zetov too,” I say. “Gwen is there now, I think.”
I am lucky that Gwen is not one to hold a grudge. She was cold to me for the rest of the drive out here, but the next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. I had formulated a few different apologies in my head, but the words never made their way out of my mouth.
My father nods. “And we need to see Antonovich and Moretti tonight.”
“Yes, agreed.”
“This is fun!” he says. He bumps my shoulder with his. “God, I love this sport.”
I bump his shoulder back. I wonder how it feels to be able to love tennis without it threatening to forget you with every passing match.
A couple of days later, I wake up early in the rental house, unable to quiet my mind.
I look at the clock and see that it is just before five. I decide to go for a run.
In the early desert morning, my body is hotter than the crisp air. I run in the center of the road, through the empty neighborhood streets, slow but steady, pounding my feet over the pavement.
If I don’t make it far enough in the French Open, I may lose sponsorships.
I do not care about the money. Ever since I paid off the mortgage on my compound, most of my money goes to funding youth centers across the United States and in Argentina through my foundation. I’ve invested well, so I will still be able to afford to donate without a single other sponsorship.
It’s not about profit.
It’s about the look on Gwen’s face if she has to tell me they’re officially pulling out. It’s walking onto the court at Wimbledon while the news of my being dropped is hitting the papers. It’s about sitting at a table in a restaurant and everyone around me knowing the result of my hubris.
It is about being cut down to size, just as some people have long wanted me to be.
I’d hate to give them the satisfaction.
I run with no attention to where I am going—finding myself standing outside the rental house again before I even realize I’ve run in a circle.
I take a shower. With my hair still wet, I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and I get in the car. I don’t know where I’m going—only that I need to move. I drive through the desert—pale red mountains and beige plains, palm trees and strip malls.
What if I’ve fucked this all up?
I can’t let that happen. I have to practice, and I have to plan. I have to work.
My ambition has long felt oppressive. It is not a joy––it is a master that I must answer to, a smoke that descends into my life, making it hard to breathe. It is only my discipline, my willingness to push myself harder, that has been my way through.
But right now, I can feel that my intuition is lacking. I need to be able to improvise, to think faster than I did back in Melbourne, to understand my opponents instinctively.
Before I know what I’m doing, I drive to the arena.
There, I take a seat in the middle of the stands, and I watch.