Page 113 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I see Gwen applauding, Ali hollering. I wonder if Bowe is cheering in front of the television.

But I do not need to imagine my father’s reaction. I know he is clapping and smiling ear to ear, for once unworried that the cameras will get an unflattering picture of him.

—

Antonovich catches up faster than I’d like. She’s starting to read my serve. I need to do a better job of disguising my ball toss.

And I need to do it quick, because I’m not getting any more aces off her. I can see her gaining confidence as she starts returning more and more of my junk shots too.

We are now tied 6–6 in the second set.

She’s serving for the set. She sends three kick serves in a row, and each one bounces differently. It knocks me out of my flow.

The second set is hers.

—

It’s the final set, 4–4.

I’m sweating down my back, across my forehead, on the backs of my knees. There’s a flutter—an unrest—in my stomach. I can barely hear the crowd. The dominating sound is the propulsive and angrywhooshof my pulse in my own ears.

My knee is burning.

My strategy is shot. I had hoped to run Antonovich down, but the games are happening too fast. We have such short rallies that I can’t wear her out.

During the changeover, I sit down to drink my water. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes. I have to rethink my strategy here.Antonovich has settled into the game. She is anticipating better. She is moving smarter.

I need a way to get her on the run again, to unnerve her.

When I stand up, I find myself looking into the players’ box to meet my father’s eye. But of course he isn’t there. Instead, Gwen and Ali are smiling at me.

What would he say? I give myself the briefest of seconds before I walk back onto the court.

Slow the game down.

I walk out onto the court and get into position, my own voice churning through my head.Do not let this slip through your fingers, Soto. You’re so goddamn close. And if you fuck this one up, you’ll be zero and three.

My hand tenses around the racket.

I am afraid.

I am afraid of losing. I am afraid of how it will look to the world. I’m afraid of this match being the last match my father ever sees me play. I am afraid of ending this all on a loss. I am afraid of so much.

I loosen my grip on the racket. I clear my mind. I let go. I have to.

Instead of racing to serve the next one, I take a moment on the baseline. I imagine myself serving the ball. I imagine how it will feel in my calves to get up high on my toes, I imagine the swing of my arm, the way my ribs will follow the line of my shoulder.

My body knows what to do. Now I just have to let it do it.

When I open my eyes, I see her crouched in place, waiting. My eye goes right to her feet. I’m going to piss her off. I toss the ball in the air and serve the first shot of the game so that it will bounce straight to her toes. She has to jump out of the way, and she missesit.

Ace.15–love.

She walks back to position, shaking her head.

It’s working. This time, I wait as long as I can to serve the next one. I bounce the ball over and over, not indicating when I might finally toss it. Then I hit the exact same serve again. She gets in position better, but she still can’t return it.

30–love.

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