There are entire weeks of the spring when it seems like the craziest thing in the world that I could have doubted myself. I can do this. This is what I do.
One evening in early April, my father and I are eating dinner in my kitchen. We have spent the day working on my second serve. It is one of the first days in a long time when I am not exhausted, when hitting at the very best of my abilities did not take everything out of me. I remember this feeling from my twenties—this sense of sheer accomplishment without the weight of the cost. It has eluded me all year, but I finally have it back.
My father and I are eating his grilled chicken.
“It’s bone dry,” I say. “Why didn’t you make chimichurri? Or a white wine sauce? Something?”
“I’d like to see you make dinner,” he says.
“I don’t cook,” I say. “I order takeout. Because if I made chicken, it would taste like this.”
The phone rings in the kitchen, and my father gets up.
“It’s my phone, Dad,” I say. “I’ll answer it if I want it answered.”
He swats me away with a dish towel.
“Hello?” he says. And then he smiles and turns to me. “It’s Bowe.”
I bolt up and take the phone from him.
“Hey,” I say. “How are you? Nice job in Johannesburg.”
“Thank you,” Bowe says, but his voice is flat. He got to the third round and went down against Wash Lomal. But I saw the game, and he played beautifully. “Listen, I’m pulling out of Barcelona and Tokyo.”
“Oh,” I say, resting against the countertop. “Why?”
“My back is starting to hurt, and I want to save my energy. I need to regroup. Need to get ready for Roland-Garros.”
“Are you going to play Nice or Monte Carlo?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I’m going to go to Paris now. Set up there, practice on clay.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s a great idea. Javier and I were thinking of doing the same at Saddlebrook.”
“Well,” Bowe says. “That’s my question. What if you and Javier come to Paris instead and we train together?”
“You want us to come to Paris to train with you?” I ask.
My father hears this and immediately leaps out of his chair and starts nodding. “Tell him yes,” my father says. “You need it. You both do. Tell him I have ideas for him. Two words: Eastern grip.”
I laugh. “Did you get all that?” I say into the phone.
Bowe laughs too. “Every word, sadly. But…”
“What?”
“I don’t want to know if your dad wants you to come. I want to know if you want to come.”
I want to win the goddamn French Open with my whole gut. I want to shock every commentator out there who thinks I can’t do it. I want to make Elite Gold vomit regret. And then I want them all to sit at my feet and sob, begging for forgiveness.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s do this. Let’s train and let’s win the French Open together.”
Bowe laughs. “It’s oddly sweet that you think I can win the French Open. But okay, yeah.”
“I guess if we’re being honest, I did mean me more than you.”
Bowe laughs again, this time wild and delighted. And I can’t help but smile.
“There you go. That’s the Carrie Soto we all know and love.”
* * *
—
My father and I are sitting in first class across the aisle from each other on our flight to Paris. Despite the fact that I am fully reclined and trying to watch the in-flight movie, my father is leaning over the space between us and quizzing me about strategy.
“The plan for Cortez is…” he says, after I’ve answered him about Perez, Moretti, and Antonovich.
“Enough for now,” I say. “People could be listening.”
My father lowers his voice to a whisper. “The plan for Cortez is…” he says again. I notice the older woman sitting next to him. She seems to recognize me but isn’t making a fuss about it, which I appreciate.
“The plan for Cortez is don’t be an asshole like last time and spin out,” I whisper. “Now let me watch the movie.”
My father sits back in his seat. “It wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for,” he says. “Pero bueno.”
He turns back to his tray, looking over his notebook. And then he looks back at me, nagging me again. “Bowe needs to work on his toss,” he says. “You agree with me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, ready to put on my in-flight headphones. They are playing a movie that has Sharon Stone in it and I love her. My dad continues to stare at me, not yet satisfied by my answer.
I sigh. “He’s hitting the ball too late on the toss. If he hits it sooner, his angle will be better. On all surfaces, honestly.”
My dad snaps his fingers. “Yes!” he says. “?Exacto! ?Gracias!”
The woman next to him smiles, as if charmed.
“You’re welcome. But be smart about how you tell him that.”
“A player needs to be open to anything that can make them better,” my dad says.
“Obviously, but each player needs to be coached differently.”
My father nods, considering. “You think I am coaching him?” he asks.
“Aren’t you?”
My father nods again. “Does he think of me as a coach?”
“I don’t know, Dad, you need to ask him.”
I move to put the headphones on, but he doesn’t stop looking at me. “Are the two of you dating?” he says.
I suddenly have the burning desire to eject myself from the plane. “We’re not doing this, Dad,” I say. “We’ve never done it. Let’s not start now.”
“But you are dating him?”
I shake my head and close my eyes. “I’m not dating anyone. You can pretty much always assume that.”
“Don’t be that way, pichona. Please keep your heart open. Please don’t close it. Please.”
“Dad,” I say, holding my breath, losing patience. “Let me watch my movie now.” That boy from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape is in it too, and he is so good. I really want to watch this. The only thing that saves me is the woman next to my father, who finally speaks up.
“Excuse me,” she says to him. She looks to be in her sixties, and she is gorgeous. She has big brown eyes and long eyelashes. “Are you Javier Soto?”
I turn away from them, but I’m too nosy not to eavesdrop.
“I am,” my father says, putting on his showstopper smile. He would get recognized a lot on the circuit in the seventies. He’d be the center of attention, other coaches and tennis parents and players trying to corner him for advice. When he did his book tour, he was the man of the hour. Everyone wanted to get a little bit of whatever gold dust he had to spread around. It doesn’t happen as often anymore.
He sits a bit straighter, pulls back his shoulders, and puts his hand out to her. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m Coral,” she says. “I’m a big fan.”
“Of my daughter’s?” he asks.
“Well, yes, but of you too.”
“Of me?” he says.
“Yeah, the Jaguar.”
My father blushes. He blushes.
“I’m a tennis player,” she continues. “I have been all my life. I’ve always loved what you said about a classic, well-executed game. I loved your book, Beautiful Fundamentals.”
“Well, thank you,” my dad says. “I appreciate it.”
I finally put my headphones on and watch the movie, though I’ve missed a good twenty minutes of the beginning. A few times, I look over to see my dad and Coral laughing together. Or talking back and forth, Coral even touching his forearm.
When the flight attendants serve the meals, I see them trade salt and butter. He gives her his dessert. She smiles sweetly; there is something girlish about the way she accepts it.
At some point after my movie ends, they start playing something called 3 Ninjas Knuckle Up, and I doze off to sleep. But I wake up a few hours later, when we are about to land, and I see that my father and Coral are still talking.
She asks him something that I cannot make out for the life of me, and my dad puts his hand on her hand for the briefest of seconds and gives a very slight shake of the head.
As we all stand up to get off the plane, Coral nods at my father and says, “Goodbye, Javier, it’s been a pleasure,” and then walks away.
Soon, my father is walking faster than me off the concourse and into the airport. I catch up with him quickly, though. “What’s the deal?” I say.
He looks at me. “What deal?”
“Did you ask Coral out or what?”