Page 12 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I stayed alert. I met the ball each time. But regardless of how good my shots were, it just didn’t matter.

She took the first set 7–5.

I was exhausted already. My father handed me a towel, not saying a single word. I breathed in deeply. I could not lose; it was not an option.

I thought that by getting that first point off her, I would have thrown her off. But I’d awakened her. I’d given her a reason to play her best.

I had to take away her opportunities to hit winners. I was going to try for aces, each and every serve. It was risky; I could double-fault. But it felt like my only shot.

My first serve was hard and bounced high. She dove for it and hit it out.15–love.

I did it again.30–love.

I glanced over at my father as I went to pick up the ball, and I saw a smile creep over his face.

I hit another flat serve, but this time I kept it close to the T. It whizzed past her.40–love.

I had her. I could feel the tingle in the top of my head and down my back. I could feel the space in between my joints, the fluidity of my muscles. I felt a hum in my bones.

I served the ball low and fast. She returned it with spin that Iunderstoodinnately. I knew where it would go, how it would bounce. I hit it back with the full force of my shoulder. Her return went long.

I went on to win the set. The score was now 1–1, and it would come down to who won the third.

Mary-Louise’s first serve on the next game had us rallying back and forth for the point but ended in her hitting a low groundstroke that whizzed past me. I wanted to scream as I saw the ball bounce past my racket. But I knew my father wouldn’t stand for that.

Here’s the thing about that hum: It can leave just as quickly as it comes.

Mary-Louise took control of the court. She broke my serve, and she held her own. I showed up to the ball. I ran like hell. But it wasn’t enough.

When she scored the last point, I fell to my knees. I felt like the world was splitting into pieces. I held on to the ground for a moment and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Mary-Louise and Lars were by the bench talking calmly and my father was standing over me, offering me his hand.

My father had a warm face with curly dark hair. His eyelashes were long, his eyebrows were full, and his eyes were a soft brown. I had trouble meeting them.

“Vámonos,” he said. “We are ready to go.”

I stood up and focused my gaze on Mary-Louise. I knew what I had to do. I just had to find the will to do it.

I walked over to her. “You played a beautiful game,” I said. I could hear, as I was saying it, that I didn’t sound like myself. My voice remained hard and cold, its various melodies not available to me atthat moment. I put my hand out for her to shake, and she smiled and took it immediately.

“Carrie,” she said. “That was the hardest match I’ve played in a long time.”

“Thank you for saying that,” I said. “But you won.”

“Still,” she said. “I would not have beaten you when I was eleven.”

“Thanks,” I said. But surely she knew that all that mattered was that I had lost.

My father and I packed up our stuff and walked back to the car. I zipped my racket in its cover and threw it into the back, then sank myself into the front seat.

When my dad got in, I stared at the glove box, trying to hold back the tears that were forming in my eyes.

“Hablemos,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have made me play her,” I said, my voice catching and breaking.

My father shook his head. “Ni lo intentes,” he said. “That was not the lesson you should take from this. Try again.”

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