I win the toss and elect to serve first.
Nicki’s forehand is brutal, so everyone serves to her backhand. Not me. My first serve is low, short, fast, and wide to her forehand. She has to scramble to meet the ball. She returns it just past the net. I chip it back. She doesn’t get under it in time. 15–love.
Nicki looks at me and nods calmly.
I hold the first game.
* * *
—
Her first serve comes at me like it was shot from a gun—exactly as I knew it would. I return it right to her backhand. She returns it deep. I send it back with a drive volley, pulling her up closer to the net.
Nicki succeeds by getting people to play her type of tennis. Carrie can meet her at that level, but Nicki cannot meet Carrie at hers. Carrie should lure Nicki into Carrie’s kind of tennis—the kind of tennis where a centimeter matters. I believe the best Carrie will beat the best Nicki. And that means GET HER TO THE NET.
Nicki runs up to meet my shot and makes it just in time. But her return is too long. The first point in her service game is mine. Love–15.
Still, she holds the game.
* * *
—
We each hold our games—neither able to break the other. 1–1 becomes 2–2. 2–2 becomes 3–3, 4–4, 5–5.
* * *
—
At 6–6, we move to a tiebreaker.
Nicki clobbers me with her serves. On my serves, she hammers her returns. The tiebreak quickly gets to 0–4, Nicki’s favor. I have to adjust.
I try cutting off the pace of the ball, hitting slices, stopping her short. It works quickly, and I am unyielding until she gets the hang of it.
Now we’re 4–4.
5–5.
6–6 in the tiebreaker.
The crowd is beginning to rumble.
Nicki hits a winner past me, bringing her to 6–7. But she’s got to win by two.
It’s my serve, and I send a fast shot right at her heels. She misses it. 7–7.
Minutes later, Nicki is up 12–11. It’s her serve.
I stare at her, watching her toss, trying to guess where it’s going. By now I can see that she does have a small tell. She holds her shoulder ever so slightly lower when she’s going cross-court.
I watch her, see her shoulder high. I know she’s sending it down the line, to my forehand.
It whistles through the air so fast it’s gone by the time I hear it. I reach wide, but I can’t snag it. Fuck. The crowd screams.
At 13–11 in the tiebreak, the first set is hers.
* * *
—
I haven’t been looking at anyone during the changeovers. Not Gwen, not Bowe, not Ali. Not the crowd. I keep my head down. I focus on drinking water, drying my face, keeping my father in my head. I only want to hear his voice right now.
If Nicki wins the first set, Carrie has a better chance of winning the second. We can use Nicki’s confidence—her arrogance???—against her here. And we should. Stay the course. Keep at it. Don’t change it up. If we don’t take the first set, we can win the second.
The second set begins. I move her up to the net. I hit the balls low and soft so she can’t get as much power off them.
We trade games. 1–1. 2–2. 3–3.
But soon, Nicki starts getting the hang of it. She is staying closer to the net, hitting with more control. Our rallies go ten, twelve, sometimes fifteen times back and forth.
Nobody breaking anyone’s serve.
It begins to feel like a perfect rhythm—the ball back and forth, the two of us meeting it. No unforced errors, no mistakes. Perfect execution. Just a dance.
There are times I am looking at the ball and other times I am watching her. I can feel her watching me. I know, as I’m swinging, that she can see the skill in what I’m doing. I can barely take my eyes off the gorgeous brutality of her power. She swings with such concentrated force, screaming as she does it.
I zero in on the yellow dot as it barrels toward me time and again. I feel the ease of my arm pulling back, over and over, my racket gliding on in the follow-through.
I’m playing the best goddamn game I can, moment by moment, shot by shot.
When it’s 5–6, her serve, it’s time to knock her out. I volley it back to her; she runs up to the net. And just when it seems as if she has settled into this fast, volleying tennis, I hit a flat crushing groundstroke past her.
And then I do it again, and again. Just when she hangs back, I send a drop shot. Just when she thinks I’m pulling up short, I hit it long. It’s her serve but she’s on the run, one step behind me, trying to catch up. 30–40.
And now here I am. The moment in which I know I can take the set.
Break point.
If Carrie gets to break point, she will convert it to a win. She is great at turning momentum into points. Nicki is a good defensive player—players rarely get to break point against her anymore. And she’s a fan of Carrie, she knows Carrie. She knows Carrie lives at break point. We just need to get Carrie to break point once every set. And the rest will fall into place.
Nicki serves the ball. It goes right up against the line but lands inside, bounces high. I jump and hit a smash overhead.
She takes it out of the air early. And I can tell she’s expecting a groundstroke return; the ball has too much fire on it for me to try a softer shot. But rather than send it cross-court, I go for the winner. I send it right down the line, along the sideline. She has to rush across the court to get her hands on it. I watch her running, and I can see her ankle roll a bit as she slides.
And she’s too late. The ball bounces once, and she can’t save it. When she stands up, I can tell her ankle hurts. And thank God, because both my knees, especially my bad one, are starting to ache.
“Set is Soto’s,” I hear over the loudspeaker as the crowd jumps out of their seats. Everyone begins to scream.
I smile at Nicki, expecting a smile back. But she looks pissed, on the verge of throwing her racket. I don’t blame her. I’ve been there. She thought the match would be hers by now.
But I’m stealing it out of her hands.
This is fun, I think. How did I forget this is so fucking fun?
* * *
—
I sit down on the chair and wipe my face dry. I take a drink of water. I look over at Nicki, who will not look at me, her jaw clenched. She unscrews the top of a Gatorade and takes a big swig. If I had to guess, her ankle is swelling. Clouds have started to settle in over the arena. It cools the air, and I am grateful.
Gwen catches my eye. She points at me, right at my chest.
I tap my flat palm to my heart and point back at her.
* * *
—
The deciding set. Nicki’s serves get faster, harder. They come at me with a whistle. It is startling. But I don’t worry myself with trying to outdo her. My serves are accurate down to the inch. They are sniper shots.
Nicki’s playing at full capacity right now. She’s fast and watching my tosses. I have to keep my serves unpredictable and sharp.
1–1 to 2–2, 2–2 to 3–3. When I take the ball low, she gets under it. When she goes deep, I get there. When I go short, she pulls up.
She is breathing heavily. I am sweating.
The crowd is going wild with every rally, screaming at every winner.
4–4. 5–5.
My dad was right. The third set is when Nicki plays her hardest.
When she slams another groundstroke past me, I return it just in time, only to see her setting up for another. I am in awe of the firepower of her arm. The way it crushes the ball when it makes contact. I’ve never seen power like this. Certainly not with this much intuition about where the ball is going, what the ball will do.
My left knee is twinging, my right knee not far behind. I’m breathing harder than when I was running on sand all those months ago. Sweat is pouring off my face. The sky is getting darker. But I’m not letting up. And neither is she. I can tell by the way her eyes have lost their brightness, her shoulders have tightened. Even her gait seems angry as she limps away from the net after every point.
Nicki Chan is a great player. But not great enough to destroy me as quickly as she wanted.
* * *
—