“Crocodile tears, the whole lot of them.”
“Yes!”
“She was not a worthy opponent for you.”
“That’s what I said from the beginning!”
“But I am,” Nicki says, her eyes focusing in on me.
I look at her. “I guess that’s what remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” I say.
“Yes, I believe it does.”
Nicki throws down thirty pounds and stands up. She pats me on the shoulder. “What time are you practicing tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Depends on whether I can sleep.”
“All right. Well, work hard. I want to know, when I beat you, that you were playing at your best. I want to know that I can beat the greatest tennis player of all time. I need it. And I need the world to see it.”
“Feel free to fuck right off with that bullshit,” I say.
Nicki laughs. “It is only by playing you at your best that I can get better,” she says. “Just like you up against Stepanova with that slice all those years ago. I’m the best player in the WTA. I need someone else—someone great—to push me up against the ropes. And here you come back, just in time. Just for me.”
“Not for you,” I say.
“Right, for you,” she says. “I’m just the excuse you needed.”
She’s right, despite how it irritates me. I was never really done before. I was always going to do this: show up and fight one last time.
“Either way, one of us is the catalyst for the other reaching their greatest height yet.”
“All right,” I say. “Good night, Nicki.”
“Good night, mate.”
“I’m not your mate,” I say, shaking my head. “I may have had a drink with you, but we are not mates.”
“We are mates,” Nicki says. “And that’s good—do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because if you’d made a few mates during your time in the WTA the first go-round, I don’t think you would have had such a jittery right hand these past few years.”
I look up at her and it’s clear she meant to cut, but I can’t tell whether she knows how deep the knife just went in.
“All right,” I say. “That’s my cue to leave.”
The bartender pops her head up. Her eyes go wide, looking at the two of us. “Wait, are you Nicki Chan?”
Nicki smiles wide and lopsided, a dimple forming. “Why, yes, I am,” she says. “Number one in the world. Record holder for the most Grand Slam singles ever.”
“And yet she’s only won Wimbledon twice,” I say to the bartender. “Isn’t that funny?”
* * *
—
Two days before the start of Wimbledon, I find out that my father is being released from the hospital, and I breathe out so completely that I wonder how long I’ve been holding that breath. When the draft comes in, I call him at home to discuss.
“Read it to me,” my father says over the phone.
“I play Cami Dryer in the first round,” I say, looking at the pages that had been faxed to my hotel earlier today. I throw myself down on the sofa.
“Piece of cake, she can’t anticipate,” my dad says. “Hit your marks, you’ll be fine. Who is after that?”
I gauge who is likely to win the other match. “Probably Lucy Cameron.”
“She’s easy to ruffle,” my dad says.
I look up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Break her early and I’m probably good. Then after that it’s…” I pull the chart up to my eyeline for a second. “Martin or Nystrom.”
“It will be Nystrom, most likely,” my dad says.
“No way,” I say. I’m up now, pacing. “Martin is the better player.”
“Martin has had a lot of trouble in the past adjusting her game to grass. She plays too far back on the court. It will be Nystrom, unless Martin has gotten a better coach.”
“Well, Nystrom I can take. Her volley game is good, but her serve is shit—I can break her in the first game.”
“Exactly. Next?”
“Could be Johns.”
“Slow as an ox,” my dad says. “She can’t keep up. If she gets to you, just keep the ball moving quick. If you set the pace from the jump and don’t let up, she’s out.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Who’s next?”
“Don’t you think you should be relaxing?” I say.
“No, I don’t,” my father says. “Not while my daughter prepares for Wimbledon. Now, who is next?”
“Probably Moretti,” I say. “By the looks of it.”
“Who else could it be?” he says.
“Maybe Machado.”
“I’d put money on Machado,” he says.
“Why?”
“She’s an underestimated player, but she adjusts very quickly. Moretti only has one mode of play: power. Machado has more shots. I think it’s Machado.”
“So then what do I do?” I say.
“If it does end up Moretti, she’s not strong on the run, so keep her there and her game will fall apart. If it’s Machado…I think you stay economical at the beginning, play percentage tennis. If you win the first set, you’re well on your way. If you don’t, you have to win the next two sets, but you’re not as tired as she is.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sure.”
“Who’s next?”
I look at the chart. “Uh, hard to say,” I tell him. I look out the window at the river. “Could be Antonovich, though.”
My father is quiet for a moment.
I turn my attention back to the phone. “But I have a plan for Antonovich.”
“What’s your plan?”
“She’s faster than me, and she’s good on grass,” I say.
He pauses and then says, “Okay.”
“So I follow your advice from Paris. I don’t try to match her speed. I won’t win that game. If anything, I slow the game down.”
“Sí, es un buen plan…”
“But I’ve played on Wimbledon grass my whole life, so I know better than anyone where that ball is going.”
“That’s right.”
“So I disguise my shots, don’t let her figure out where I’m going. I aim for brown spots in the grass, I watch for bad bounces. If I can get her to three sets, I will win. Because by that point, I’ll have run far less than her.”
My father takes a deep breath and then lets it out. “Yes, I like it.”
“Is it what you would have said?”
“I’d add this: She’s going to anticipate that you have something to prove after last time. She’ll be expecting that you’re coming in hot. So hold back, and make it seem like you’re giving it your best, until she realizes you’re only getting started.”
“Okay,” I say. “Yes. That will work.”
It is what Cortez did to me in Melbourne.
“And then?” my dad asks. “Who’s next?”
“Chan.”
“No Cortez?”
“Chan will defeat Cortez in the semis when I’m up against Antonovich.”
“All right, so assuming I’ve called these correctly—which is absolutely impossible…”
I laugh.
“In two weeks, you’re standing there holding a tenth silver plate.”
“That easy, huh?”
“Not easy at all, pichona,” he says. “But if anyone can do it, you can. And I’ll be watching it all from right here.”
“Gracias, papá.”
“Bowe wants to talk to you,” he says. “He’s taking the phone from me—he’s literally taking it out of my hands.”
“Hi,” Bowe says. His voice is warm, and I wish he were here with me instead of thousands of miles away.
“Hi,” I say. “How are your ribs?”
“Fine,” Bowe says. “Better. Your father and I are a real pair over here.”
“Thank you for what you’re doing. I don’t think I could stand to be here if you weren’t there.”
“Don’t mention it, honestly,” he says. “But, hey, listen, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay…” I’m worried he’s going to ask me if I want him to visit or how things will be between us when I get back. And I don’t want to have to think about that right now.
“Have you given any thought to the Self 1, Self 2 thing?” he asks.
“What?”
“All that strategy you and your dad were talking about…”
“Yeah?”
“Look, you’re a better player than almost anyone on the court. And I don’t just mean over the course of your career. I mean right now.”