—
When I get down to the American Bar at the Savoy, Nicki is already there. She’s talking to the bartender, who slides over a cocktail glass.
There’s something so casually confident about Nicki, so unbothered. We’re in an elegant bar and she’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a T-shirt with a pair of Doc Martens. Her long hair hangs down her back.
Nicki waves to me, and I make my way over to the bar. She’s drinking what seems to be gin with a twist.
“Absolut and soda, please,” I say to the bartender, who nods but then looks back up at me. “Are you Carrie Soto?” she says.
I look at Nicki, who smiles as she takes a sip of her gin.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Wow, big fan of yours,” she says. “I mean, I don’t know much about tennis, but I love your sneakers.”
I laugh. “Well, good, I’m glad to hear it.”
She heads down the bar, and Nicki laughs, shaking her head. “I’ve been sitting here talking to that beautiful woman for at least ten minutes, and somehow she doesn’t recognize me. Even though my tennis shoes are better than yours, by the way.”
Her line is with Nike. They are called 130s—a reference to the fact that she once hit a serve that clocked in at 130 miles per hour. They are the second bestselling women’s tennis shoe in the UK.
“It appears she disagrees,” I say.
“It’s not that I want to be recognized, mind you,” she says. “But if she’s going to recognize you and not me…well, c’mon.”
“You know,” I say, sitting down, “I once showed up to cut a ribbon at a tennis center named after me in Arizona, and the woman at the front door wouldn’t let me in because I wasn’t on the list.”
Nicki laughs and takes another sip of her drink. “It’s a weird life.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m not always sure I like it.”
My drink arrives, and I take a sip of it. “Not always much to like.”
“Isn’t it strange? How you get into this because you like to hit a ball around a court…? And then, suddenly, you don’t belong to yourself anymore? As if it’s okay for people to call you ‘the Beast’ just because you’re strong? And they can comment on your clothes and your hair? And make racist comments and pretend they are just joking? Just wait until they find out I’m a lesbian.”
Nicki looks at me out of the corner of her eye, as if expecting me to spit out my cocktail. But I have long suspected she is gay, and I couldn’t care less. Romantic relationships are so goddamn impossible, I’m honestly impressed with anyone who can keep one going at all.
Though, it’s occurring to me now, that probably doesn’t account for how hard it is for her to deal with the world’s hang-ups about it. Or how hard it must be to decide who to confide in.
And she confided in me. And fuck if it doesn’t make me like her more. Goddamn her.
“You don’t have to tell me how shitty the press are. You’re talking to a woman referred to as ‘the Bitch,’?” I remind her.
Nicki laughs. “I just wanted to play the game. And now, instead, I’m shooting TV commercials and telling twelve-year-old girls to believe in their dreams and agreeing to be a guest host on breakfast television. It just feels like…so many things get in the way of the actual point.”
I look at her, and then I look down. I turn the glass. “Once you retire, then it’s only about the TV commercials. And the charity functions and playing to the crowd for exhibition games. And the real tennis just sort of goes. Poof. Gone.”
Nicki frowns. “No, I don’t believe that.”
I shrug. “Believe whatever you want.”
“When I retire, I want to take up at my place in the Cotswolds and quit all the rest. Just spend my days playing on my court in the countryside.”
“But against who?” I say. “There’s no one to play except maybe other retirees. You’re not gonna play the neighborhood girl—that’s not fun. And you’re not going to play anyone in the WTA, because they are busy on tour. And they certainly don’t want to be beaten by you. The exhibition games are all right, but they are just for show––there’s no real intensity. There’s no one to play in any serious way. I swear there were days I’d wake up and my right hand would be jittery, wondering where the racket was.”
Nicki nods. “So that’s why you’re back, then? Your right hand is jittery?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I came back to destroy you.”
Nicki cackles so loud that people turn and stare. When she quiets, she leans in toward me. “I don’t buy it for a second,” she says, smiling. “It’s about more than that.”
“No, I’m dead serious. I want my fucking record back.”
“Of course,” Nicki says. “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”
“And you took it.”
“I didn’t take it,” Nicki says. “I earned it. The same way you did. But just one more Slam than you.” She winks at me and then takes a drink.
“You haven’t had to go up against anyone great,” I say. “In the past six years, there’s been almost nobody who can hold a candle to you.”
“Exactly.”
“Give me a break. It’s easier to win when you don’t have a Stepanova. Or somebody like Mary-Louise Bryant, who started out so stunning. Or me, even. The field has been leveled for you. It’s not the same as the way I set the record.”
Nicki shakes her head. “You sound like every pundit on ESPN.”
“What?” I say. “Are you kidding me? Every sportscaster in the world is tripping over themself to crown you the best!”
“That’s how it may seem to you. But what I hear—over and again—is that even when I beat your record, it’s not good enough. I will never be Carrie Soto. I’ll never be as graceful as you. I’ve never had a truly formidable opponent. Yes, I’m good on clay and hard court, but ‘Carrie Soto reigns in London.’ This is my hometown, but somehow it still belongs to you.”
She takes another sip of her gin. “And then,” she adds, “just when it looks like I’m finally going to silence them all, it becomes ‘Wow! Carrie Soto is back!’ And they all do cartwheels over you.”
“I mean this from the bottom of my heart: Are you fucking high?” I say.
Nicki laughs.
“Try being told—over and over and over again—that if you do manage to win anything this year, you will set a record for being the oldest bitch to ever do it.”
Nicki laughs. “Yes, I’m sure it’s terribly awful to know that if you win Wimbledon, you will set two records and match mine.”
My fists clench. It takes everything I have not to slam my hand on the bar and remind her who had that record first, who made that record. There is no you without me.
But I have no leg to stand on anymore. I lost it back in Paris.
“Do you have any idea,” I say, “how hard it is to work your entire life toward one goal—one goal—and then to have someone else come in and try to take it away?”
Nicki looks at me, incredulous. “Yes!” she says. “In fact, I do.”
I look at her and realize what I’ve just said. I cannot help but laugh, and neither can Nicki.
“God, you must hate me,” I say. “I would. I would hate me.”
Nicki downs the rest of her glass. “I don’t hate you. I told you before. I’m thankful.”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“I’m serious,” Nicki says. “I can’t fight unless I have something to fight against. And I like fighting. I like it even more than winning.”
“I…” I say. “Okay.”
“Without you, I wouldn’t have much left to fight against. It would be like trying to knock out a deflated punching bag. And without me, you’d be back home, shooting a commercial for Gatorade, would you not?”
I huff, knowing she’s right. “Yeah, maybe. Yes.”
“But instead, we’re here, training, living for something bigger than the two of us.”
I take a sip of my vodka soda. And consider her. “I’m not sure I ever thought of it that way with Paulina,” I say.
“Stepanova?” Nicki says, rolling her eyes. “Who would? She faked injuries every time she was down, and then the one time she actually messes up her ankle, she doesn’t have the courage to either retire or play through.”
“Thank you!” I say.