Page 128 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“But then she was gone. And you were left with such…heartache. And I don’t…I don’t know how to do that…to live that way,” I say.

“If you did not know how to do something on the court, it would not stop you from figuring it out.” He grabs my hand. “I was so broken when your mother died that I buried my heart in the earth. And I taught you to as well. I thought I was showing you how to move on, but I was showing you how to never open up to anybody. I taught you the wrong thing. But I’ve told you that now, and it’s on you to fix it. Okay?”

“Yeah, Dad,” I say. “I already knew it. But thank you.”

“I know you did. Sometimes, you’re much smarter than me. So much stronger too. You’re like a bright diamond, one shiny, tough…”

“Bitch,” I offer.

My dad laughs. “Okay, sure. One shiny, tough bitch.”

I laugh, and he pulls me back to him. “Te amo, cielo.Being your father is the best thing that has ever happened to me. My Achilles. Greatest of the Greeks.”

“Dad…” I say.

“No,” he says. “Just accept it. Let me feel it and say it. You’re the meaning of my life.”

—

That afternoon, Bowe comes over and we play a set with my father barking at us from the sidelines through his megaphone.

“Bowe, get higher up on your toes when you make contact,” he says. “And Carrie, don’t get lazy on that follow-through!”

Bowe squeaks out a win against me—he’s getting better and better, almost by the hour, lately. And it stings to fall just short of him.

At the end of the session, my father gives me a few pointers, but it is Bowe he’s focused on. “I think you need a more open stance,” he says as Bowe zips his racket into its case. “So your weight is on the right foot as you prepare to move for the return.”

“I told you I’m not messing with my footwork now,” Bowe says. “Not when it feels right and feels intuitive. I just beat one of the greatest players in the world with my stance. C’mon.”

“Good is the enemy of great,” my father says.

Bowe looks at me and then my father. “Spoken like a Soto.”

Bowe puts his kit over his shoulder, and my father starts discussing dinner.

“See you all tomorrow,” Bowe says, waving goodbye as he heads toward his car. I watch him go, so casually, with no expectations.

I look at my father, who looks back at me, incredulous.

Oh, fine.

“Bowe!” I call out.

He turns around.

“Stay for dinner,” I say.

Bowe looks at both my father and me. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yes.”

I walk toward him and take his kit off his shoulder. “Stay. Please.”

He watches me take his racket bag and put it down on the bench. When I catch his eye, I can tell that he wants to ask me many different questions. But I have just one simple, precarious answer. “I want you to stay.”

He smiles. “Okay,” he says.

He claps his hands together and says, “All right, let’s do this. What are we having? Javier, don’t even try me with the steak or the salty food right now. You know what? Why don’t I fire up the grill and make chicken?”

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