Page 52 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Linesmen, ready.”

Players play.

“Players play.”

I stand on the baseline and hold the ball in my hand. I brush the felt with my thumb, feel the roughness of it in my palm. And then I bounce it, over and over. Until my mind is clear.

I throw the ball up in the air, pull my arm back, and even before I hit the ball I know—I can feel—it is a stunner.

It whistles past Dvoráková so fast she barely has time to step toward it. First point is mine.

I feel the roar of the crowd underneath my feet, ringing into my bones. I look to my father, who nods.

I hold the first game.

On the second, the crowd grows wild when I get to break point. They scream when I break Dvoráková’s serve, taking the second game.

I hold the third. It is now three games to none.

In the next, Dvoráková gets some fire in her, and she holds the fourth. But she and I both know the set is mine. I win the next three.

“Set is Soto’s.”

The crowd cheers, some boo. I try not to pay attention. I stay focused. I cannot let up.

Halfway through the second set, Dvoráková’s groundstroke is getting weaker, but I am now only getting stronger. Perhaps it is the adrenaline of the fight, or the fact that I’ve been training even hardersince my conversation with Bowe, but I have full control of my power. I am not letting up. I come in for the kill time and again.

I start smiling during the changeovers, nearly giddy. I am delighted by all of these sounds I’ve missed—the crowd screaming, the ball girls scrambling on and off the court, the linesmen calling shots.

I am winning this thing.

My last serve in the second set flies right past her. I jump into the air and pump my fist as the ball lands clean inside the lines with Dvoráková nowhere near it. My first match back, and it’s mine in straight sets.

As the stadium cheers, I catch a glimpse of Dvoráková’s face. Her jaw is tight, her head down. She looks completely blindsided by the way I have pummeled her. A twenty-two-year-old ranked in the bottom fifty, not a Slam title to her name, and she assumed she’d take me.

“Who’s next?” I call out, racket in hand. I’m not sure anybody in the stands hears me, but it feels so good to scream into the roar of the crowd.

When I walk off the court, my father is standing there in the tunnel, waiting for me.

“¡Excelente!” he says. “Absolute perfection. You warrior, you king.”

“The first of many,” I say to him.

My father smiles but says nothing. His smile grows bigger as he turns and guides me toward the locker room, and soon he’s laughing.

“What?” I ask him. “What are you thinking right now?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just that…this is the part I missed the most. Me and you, in the tunnel.”

In my next match, Ibeat an American I’ve never met before, a woman named Josie Flores, in straight sets. When I cinch the match with an ace, I jump into the air and spin. I bounce on both my feet, side to side, and throw my hands up.

In the post-match press conference, I am still jumpy, still pumped. My victories, no matter how early in the tournament, areundeniable.And I feel a near absence of worry.

Months of preparing, months of lying awake at night scared. But now the test is here, and I am killing it.

The first few questions are the usual softballs. “How does it feel to be back on the court?” “Did you expect to win your first two matches?” “What is it like to have your father coaching you again?”

I answer honestly. “It feels great to be back out there.” “I expect to win every single match I play.” “My father and I are both thankful for this opportunity to work together again.”

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