My father scoffs. “No, I did not ask her out.”
“Well, why not? Weren’t you just telling me to open my heart?”
“I was talking about you, not me,” he says as we get onto the escalator. “I have had my love.”
* * *
—
When we get to the hotel, the concierge gives me a message from Gwen, telling me to call her, no matter the time. I look at my watch. It’s almost midnight in Paris but only afternoon in L.A.
My father and I walk up to my room. I find the phone and call.
“Hi,” Ali says. “One second.”
I put it on speaker as Gwen picks up the line.
“So,” Gwen says.
It’s either that Elite Gold is pulling out or Nicki Chan is back in. And I’m not sure which I dread more.
“Chan,” Gwen says. “She’s playing the French Open.”
Ah, fuck. That’s the one I hate more. I look at my father, who looks back at me.
“You’ve got this,” Gwen says. “Clay is her surface, but you can take her down.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. All right, talk soon.”
I hang up the phone and say, “If she takes the French Open…before I’ve been able to win one…”
My father nods. “It’s not good.”
I stand up. “But she’s not going to win the French Open.”
“No, she’s not. You’re going to win the French Open.”
“Because I am the greatest tennis player of all time.”
My dad walks up to me and puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “You are the greatest warrior the world has ever seen.”
Transcript
SportsHour USA
The Mark Hadley Show
Mark Hadley: And now that Nicki Chan has announced she will be playing in the French Open—how does that change everyone’s prospects?
Gloria Jones: Well, we don’t know what sort of player we are going to see. A lot of people are saying she’s coming back too soon after her injury. There are rumors she’s intent on taking another Slam title to break the tie between her and Soto and she’s rushed her return in order to do it.
Briggs Lakin: I have to say, Gloria, I’m hearing the opposite. I’m hearing the Beast is playing the best she’s ever played. Meanwhile, Soto’s only chance at a Slam was one where she wouldn’t have to face Nicki. That was Melbourne. I think it’s safe to say, for the Battle Axe, it’s all over.
END OF APRIL
One month until the French Open
We meet Bowe on the practice court at eight a.m. There’s not another soul around. He is wearing gym shorts and a white T-shirt, tapping his racket against his shoes. Bright white, they stand out in stark contrast to the burnt orange clay.
“Even with your back bothering you, you’ve been kicking ass,” I say as I make my way onto the court. My father walks just two steps behind me.
“Thank you,” Bowe says. “Though I suspect you’re fighting at peak level right now. I’m a little scared.”
“You should be,” I say.
“All right, kids, shall we?” my father says.
Bowe shakes my hand. “May the best player win,” he says.
“Don’t worry, I will.”
“Best of three or five?” my father asks.
I really want to earn it. I really want to run myself into the ground and see what I’m made of. “Five,” I say.
He nods. “Here we go.”
I serve first, and it’s a stunner. Sharp, fast, with a high bounce. “Fuck,” Bowe says after he misses it.
“Get used to it.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure I will,” Bowe says, and I can’t help but laugh.
I keep it up but then find myself pulling back, going for the safe shots, worried that I’ll run out of steam too quickly. Bowe gets the edge on me and wins the first set, 7–5.
I need to find balance in my game, some ability to go hard and keep going, some power to draw on that will not deplete me. I look over at my father for guidance, but he’s making notes in his notebook.
I already know the answer, though. I need better shot selection. I need to go bigger on some shots—really take some risks. And I need to put more of the pressure on Bowe’s side of the court. I start lobbing more frequently, constructing longer points.
I take the second set, 6–3. “Uh-oh,” I say. “She’s coming for ya.”
“I’m not worried.”
I take the next.
“Ohhhh,” I say, teasing him as we stand by the net. “Now it’s starting to sting, right? Starting to feel a little pinch?”
“It’s out of five, Soto,” he says. “I know you’re used to two sets giving you the match, but you’re playing a man’s game now.”
“Kindly fuck off.”
My father shakes his head.
Bowe takes the fourth. I’m getting tired. My serve is softening.
“Oh shit,” Bowe says. “It’s anybody’s game now, Battle Axe.”
“You’re both terrible in the fifth set of any match,” my father calls out. “So let’s not trash-talk until one of you gets results.”
Our fifth set goes to a tiebreak. Match point is on Bowe’s serve, which lands right on the T. I return it with a backhand down the line. It bounces high, and he can’t reach it.
“Yes!” I say, pumping my fist. “How do you like that?”
Bowe shakes his head, visibly pissed at himself for handing me that serve.
“You win,” he says. “You win this one.”
My father nods at me. “I’m going inside for a drink,” he says. “See you in ten to talk about what we can do better. I have a lot of notes. For both of you.”
Bowe grabs the ball on his side of the net and then meets me over by the bench. I take a long sip of water just as he takes one himself. But we catch each other’s gaze.
“How are you?” Bowe says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Chan.”
I sit down on the bench. “I feel like I set out to prove that I’m a better player than her. And I got a bit of a break with her ankle in Melbourne, but you know, I did plan on facing her eventually. I want the challenge.” This is what I’m telling myself, anyway.
“So it’s good, then, her coming back.”
I laugh. “Yes,” I say. “No. I don’t know. Yes, it’s good, if I’m as great as I say I am.”
“You are,” he says. “You’ll do it. I’m the one who needs a miracle,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say, smiling.
“I literally just told you you’re doing great. And you can’t return the favor?”
“What do you want me to do? Lie? Don’t fish for compliments,” I say.
“Christ, Carrie,” Bowe says. But he’s laughing. And I am too. And then suddenly my father is there, his head still in his notebook.
“Carrie, go to the baseline. We need to work harder on your second serve. Huntley, I assume you’re staying? I have notes for you, if you want them. Your game is getting better, but you still stink at the net. You could benefit from my expertise.”
Bowe rolls his eyes. “The two of you, man,” he says to my father and me. “Bulls in a china shop.”
“Let’s not pretend you’re such a prize,” my dad says, his eyebrows raised.
“Fine,” Bowe says. “I want your notes. I’m here to win, so…anything you got, I’m listening.”
My father’s face lights up. And I’m happy for him, to be back here doing this job that he does so well, this job that has defined him for as long as I can remember.
This is not just my comeback.
Soto vs. Huntley, Love?
Sub Rosa Magazine
The word out of Paris is that iconoclast Carrie Soto and former wild child Bowe Huntley might be dating again.
Those who were around for the whirlwind of Soto’s and Huntley’s respective dominance in the eighties will remember that the two were seen canoodling in Spain back in the day.
Now, almost fifteen years later, it appears they are cuddling up close once again.
Multiple sources say they’ve seen “the Battle Axe” and “Howlin’ Huntley” sparring on the court in preparation for the upcoming French Open.
But we have to think this isn’t all business….
MID-MAY
Two weeks until the French Open
It’s late, almost ten p.m. Bowe and I are about two hours into a practice match on a court just outside Paris. The court lights are bright. The clay is dense under our feet.