“My dad would like that,” I say. “If I did that.”
“I completely agree.”
I walk toward him and put my arms around his torso, lean my head against his chest. Here is someone else who knew my father, someone else who knows what I have lost, someone who lost something too.
“I’m gonna go and I’m going to win the whole goddamn thing,” I say, pulling back.
“I love it,” Bowe says, nodding and smiling. “Yes, I’m gonna do that too.”
Both of us laugh, and I don’t have a shred of guilt for feeling joyful without my father on this earth. This is the tiniest beginning of a terrible, beautiful whole new life.
The morning of my match against Dvo?áková, there is a knock at the door of my hotel suite, and Bowe answers it. Gwen comes in holding a blueberry smoothie.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say.
Gwen smiles softly. “Yes, you did, honey,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m here.” She hands me the smoothie.
Bowe is gathering my kit and my clothes. But when I watch him do it, I realize I didn’t do any of the packing. He did it all back in L.A. And now he is doing it all here.
So far this morning, as well as asking Gwen to get the smoothie, he’s woken me up, called down for almonds, run the shower, put me in it, and then when I just stood there, he got in with me and washed my hair.
“You’re playing Dvo?áková?” Gwen says.
“Yeah.”
Gwen looks at Bowe. “And you’re playing Gustavo?”
Bowe nods. “If I win, I’ll play Ortega, probably. And then maybe Griffin or Bracher. But, you know, when I lose, that’s it for me.”
“You’re retiring,” Gwen says.
“Yeah. I’m done. I’m ready to be done.”
Gwen nods. “And are you retiring?” she says, looking at me. “After this?”
I don’t have an answer. I can barely consider this afternoon.
“Okay,” Gwen says. “We’ll prepare for all scenarios.”
Bowe returns to whatever he’s doing and then pops his head back up a second later. “Oh, don’t forget your notebook.”
He hands it to me, and I breathe in. I’ve read every line of it over and over again since I first found it. I fell asleep reading it last night. I read the page on Dvo?áková three times this morning alone. I look at my watch. I’m playing her in a matter of hours.
“What is that?” Gwen says.
I open my mouth to explain, but I can’t. I can’t get the words out.
“Jav put it together,” Bowe says. “His coaching plan. So Carrie’s gonna follow it and win.”
Gwen nods. “I love it.”
“Do you want to see it?” I say.
“Your coaching plan that your father gave you?” Gwen says. “You don’t have to share that with me. Or with anyone if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” I say. “Check it out.”
I crack the book open, and I take her through each page. When we get to Dvo?áková, Gwen and I read through it together.
Since Carrie beat her back in Melbourne, she’s gotten stronger. Her baseline work is better. But she wants to be a power baseliner so bad, even though she’s better at serve and volley. Keep her playing at the baseline. It will thrill her, but she won’t be able to keep up.
I start to feel that hum in my bones. It feels small, right now, like a nascent flame. But I know it will grow. I know soon it will roar.
Gwen looks up at me. “You’ve got this,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Plus, my dad didn’t write it down, but Dvo?áková is intimidated by me. I’ve beaten her every time I’ve played her so far. So if I don’t let her get a foothold at the beginning, I think she’ll go down like a house of cards.”
Gwen nods. “You’re a smart one,” she says.
“Thanks. Taught by the best.”
Gwen holds my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Yes, you were. And you’ve absorbed it all.”
“Thank you.”
I get up as she keeps flipping through the pages.
“There’s a lot on Chan,” she says.
“Yeah, I have to study that section.”
“Well,” she says, “I’ll be in the players’ box for each and every match, all right?”
I nod. And then Gwen kisses me on the cheek and hugs Bowe goodbye and leaves.
I turn to Bowe. He is holding up a navy tank top and a white tennis skirt. He has put my yellow Break Points on the bed.
“I fucked up. I forgot socks,” he says. “When I was packing your things.”
“We will get some on the way,” I say. “It’s gonna be fine.”
THE 1995
US OPEN
I stand in the locker room, surrounded by other players—Martin and Carter are laughing in the corner. Zetov and Perez are ignoring each other. Antonovich comes in and smiles and greets everyone. When Perez sees me, she gives me a pat on the shoulder. Flores tells me she’s sorry for my loss. I say thank you.
When Madlenka Dvo?áková walks in, we catch each other’s eye. She looks so childlike in her white dress, her hair pulled back in two braids. We give each other a nod, and then I shut my locker and make my way to the training room.
It’s oddly quiet in here, just me and a few trainers. I take in the delicious solitude as I have my knees and elbows taped. But then, when I’m having my calves massaged, Nicki Chan walks in.
She’s smiling sweetly, greeting the trainers she recognizes with a levity I find puzzling. It is as if it is any other day to her—and not the first day of a two-week tournament in which she might just break another record or lose it altogether.
When she sits down next to me, I speak up. “Always so chipper.”
“Yes,” she says as she sits down on the bench next to mine. “It’s rather annoying, isn’t it? People tell me that all the time.” She laughs as the trainer begins taping her foot. I make a mental note to run her around the court, if I get the chance. Her ankle has to be hurting. She has to stop going so hard on it.
“Thank you for calling,” I say, my voice low. “The other day.”
Nicki nods. “Of course.”
“It was…kind of you.”
“Like I said,” she says, waving me off, “I want to skin you alive and eat your heart for breakfast.” She smiles at me and winks. “But I want to know I did it when you were at your strongest.”
I nod. “I get it,” I say. “And you will get your chance. And you will fail. And everything will go back to the way it should be.” I switch positions as one of the trainers starts massaging my forearms.
Nicki keeps her eyes focused entirely on watching the trainer wrap her foot. But her next words are aimed squarely at me. “I don’t think you’ve ever understood what I can do. What I am doing.”
“I do,” I say. “I see it.”
“I am better than you,” she says.
“Give me a break, Nicki.”
“You think that if this was 1982, I wouldn’t stand a chance against you,” Nicki continues.
“I know that if this was 1982, you wouldn’t stand a chance against me,” I say. “Because it’s 1995, and you don’t stand a chance against me.”
Nicki scoffs. “You just can’t see it.”
“How good you are?” I say. “I see how good you are.”
“You don’t respect what I’ve done for tennis the way I respect what you’ve done.”
“What have you done that I haven’t done?”
Nicki turns and looks at me. Her gaze is heavy. “I’m the first Asian woman to ever win Wimbledon. The first woman like me to do almost any of the things I’ve done in tennis—hitting these records. Because we both know tennis doesn’t make it easy for those of us who aren’t blond and blue-eyed.”