It’s just Bowe and me. My father went to bed.
Bowe and I decided to play tonight because, earlier in the day, people had started gathering by the court we were on, trying to catch a glimpse of us. I felt myself getting more and more tight, with all of their eyes on me.
“I need privacy,” I told my father in between games. “Clay is my worst surface. I need to get everything ready and in control first, and then people can watch me.”
Bowe started walking toward us. I gathered he heard the last part of my complaint because he raised his eyebrows at me.
“You’re in your head too much,” Bowe said, pointing at his temple. “Didn’t I tell you that?”
My father frowned at Bowe. “Hi, I missed the meeting where I hired you as assistant coach.”
“The two of you comment on my game constantly!” Bowe said.
My father’s face did not soften. Bowe put his hands up, giving in. “Fine, you both say whatever thoughts come into your head and I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”
My father nodded. “That’d be best.”
Bowe rolled his eyes. “Are we playing or what?”
My father looked at me. “Practicá sola,” he said, “dos días más. Después, tenés que estar lista para jugar con todos los ojos clavados en vos. ?Entendido?”
“Bueno,” I said. “Está bien.”
“Esta noche, practicá sin mí.”
My father then grabbed his water and his hat. “Nos vemos después,” he said, and headed off, I was sure, to the nearest bistro.
Bowe looked at me. “What was that?”
“You really should learn Spanish,” I said.
“So I can understand your father?”
“So you can understand a lot of people. Including me sometimes.”
Bowe smirked. “Are we playing now or what?”
I started packing up my kit. “We are not. He said let’s do two more days with no one watching me. And then I need to be ready. So, I’m asking you, please, can we pick this match up later today when no one is here? You name the time.”
Bowe nodded. “Fine, how about eight? I’ll talk to Jean-Marc. I’ll make sure no one is here.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Truly.”
As I started to walk away, Bowe called out to me. “Take a moment to consider that I’m right about your mental game.”
I turned back to him. “And you, take a moment to shut the fuck up.”
* * *
—
Now, in the cool night air with no one around, my game is much better.
“Dammit!” Bowe yells as I win the current game. If I win one more, I’ll take the tiebreak set and win the match.
I laugh. “Whose mental game are you worried about now?” I ask.
Bowe rolls his eyes.
“Oh, poor baby is losing!” I say.
As I move across the court tonight, I’m feeling confident that I will last longer in Paris against heavy hitters like Cortez than I did back in Melbourne. I am doing well.
I serve the ball, and Bowe returns it wide. I get there in time and send a cross-court forehand to the deep corner. He hits a backhand groundstroke. And then I have my two-shot strategy in place. First, an approach shot, an easy return. And then a drop shot.
“It’s almost too easy,” I say. “Too damn easy.”
“Dammit, Carrie,” Bowe says, his voice low and flat. “Have a little humility.”
“Humility?” I say. I have the ball in my hand, about to serve, but I put it in my pocket.
“You called off the match this afternoon when I was winning,” he says. “And now, when you’re winning, you’re gloating.”
“Oh no, here comes the Huntley tantrum.”
“I don’t throw tantrums,” he says. “C’mon. You’re playing into that sportscaster crap. And I don’t do that with you.”
“I mean—”
“I don’t yell anymore.”
“Oh, come on…” I say.
“What?”
“I saw you at Indian Wells. Screaming at the umpire. You called him a crook.”
Bowe’s face falls. He closes his eyes. “I’m really trying, Carrie. I’m trying so hard to not do the shit I used to do. You think I want to be the guy that screams on the court because he’s not winning?” Bowe says. “Of course not. I know I fucked up at Indian Wells with that bad call. But I’m trying. And I wish you didn’t have to be right there to remind me when I slip up.”
I look down at my shoes. They are covered in clay. “I get—”
“And by the way, what right do you have to come to Indian Wells and not tell me?” he says.
“What?”
“You’re just sitting there in the stands and you don’t tell me you’re watching my game? And you didn’t even bother to say hi? To wish me luck?”
“What are you, twelve? You need me to wish you luck?” I say.
Bowe shakes his head. “Forget it. I don’t know why I bother. Just serve the ball, Carrie. Or are you too nervous now and need to postpone until tomorrow?”
“I’m trying to get myself ready for Roland-Garros, all right? I’m sorry it’s not on your exact schedule.”
“You’re ready now!” he says. “You’re playing like it’s ten years ago. And somehow you’re still acting like ‘Oh jeez, am I good enough? I’d hate for anyone to see me unless I’m the greatest in the world.’?”
“What do you care?” I ask.
“Because. You’re so afraid of losing that you fucked up my whole session today to avoid it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes!” he says. “You did! I don’t have much longer on this tour, Carrie. I don’t even know if I can finish the year. I pulled out of other tournaments to protect my back, and to be here, trying to play you in the hardest conditions possible. I want to give myself a real chance of doing something great.”
“Of course you’re going to finish the year.”
Bowe rolls his eyes. “Just serve the ball and let’s get this over with.”
“You have no chance of winning if that’s your attitude,” I say.
“I’m begging you to shut up, Soto.”
“See? This is your problem. One tiny little thing doesn’t go your way and you explode.”
“Yeah, well, at least I don’t walk away.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a quitter, Carrie. Now serve the ball.”
I watch him as he walks back to the baseline. When he gets there, he turns, expecting to see me ready to serve, but instead I am staring at him from the net.
“If you have something to say to me,” I say, “then say it.”
“I just said it,” he says.
I stare at him still.
He deflates. “I just want you to serve the ball,” he says.
I start walking backward, still glaring at him as I make my way to the baseline. “Call me a quitter again, asshole. I dare you.”
“Serve the ball, Carrie.”
With lightning speed, I toss it up in the air and slam it across the court. It flies from my racket straight across the net and into the ground. It bounces out of reach before Bowe gets to it.
“Break point,” I say.
“Goddammit,” Bowe says as he throws his racket.
I shake my head and start heading toward the bench to drink some water.
Bowe picks up his racket and walks to the bench too. When he gets to me, he has calmed slightly. But the racket in his hand is broken—half the frame hanging by the strings.
I nod toward it. “That’s what happens when you don’t know how to control your emotions.”
“Yeah, maybe I should just quit every time I think I’m losing.”
“One time!” I say. “One time! I asked you to reschedule a match because I didn’t want people looking at me. One time! And you’re so bent out of shape about it that you’re gonna wreck your racket? C’mon. You’re an adult man. Get ahold of yourself.”
“I truly cannot stand,” he says as he packs up his other rackets, “to be lectured by you.”