Page 60 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“Since when was losing something to be proud of?”

In a moment, I’ll have to shower and head to the press room for an interview. Cortez is already in there—gloating, I’m sure. Which is her right. She won, after all.

I’m the fucking loser who has to go out there and face all of them, knowing I’ve been both outsmartedandoutplayed. And what makes it worse is that I know,I know,that she is not a better tennis player than me. That is the full weight of my failure.

“You have no patience,” my father says, shaking his head. “And I know it is not my fault, because I tried to instill it in you. But you still don’t understand that you can’t have everything the second you want it.”

“I’m going to ignore you right now,” I say, sitting up and taking the ice pack off. “And go talk to the press about throwing away my chanceat a title. But feel free to remember that lecture word for word and give it to me later.”

“Carolina—” my father says.

“I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”

My father keeps talking, but I’m not listening. I walk away, into the locker room—past all the other players—and straight into the shower.

At the post-match press conference, the cameras and reporters are all over me.

“Cortez is a strong opponent, but one who probably could not have beaten you at your height,” a female reporter says before I’ve even sat down. “How does that feel?”

“I did not play my best today. And I have to live with that.”

“After three successful matches marking your return,” a man says, “does this loss today take you by surprise? What are you feeling in this moment?”

“I am feeling like I played poorly and a bunch of reporters are asking me questions about how it feels to suck. I’m not happy right now. Obviously. I will use it as fuel to play better in the future, as I always have.”

“But at some point,” another man says, “everyone’s game declines. Is that what we are seeing here?”

“Why don’t you go ask Dvoráková, Flores, and Perez if they think my game is declining?”

“What will you do now?” a woman asks.

“I will go home and get back to work, ready to win in Paris.”

“Yes, but, clay is historically your toughest surface,” this woman says. “You’ve only won the French once, in 1983.”

“Yeah, well,” I say. “Watch me win it again in ’95.”

They continue to ask questions, but I get up from the table and walk out the door.

—

Back at the hotel, I get in the elevator and head to my room. But as I round the corner, I see Bowe standing in the hallway with his suitcase.

I stop right in my tracks.

“I wasn’t sure if you’re a ‘wants company when they lose’ sort of person or an ‘everyone get away from me’ sort of person,” he says.

I say, “I’m an ‘everyone get away from me’ person.”

Bowe nods. “Roger that,” he says as he grabs his suitcase. “I’ll be going.”

I walk toward him. “You didn’t have to move your flight,” I say.

Bowe looks at his suitcase and then back up at me. “I did, actually,” he says. “I…I didn’t stand a chance against O’Hara. But I wouldn’t have stood a chance against any of the players I’ve beaten in this tournament if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Practicing together?” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “But also…the fact that you’re doing this. That you’ve shown up and said, ‘I still have more to do.’ Randall’s retired, Stepanova’s gone. McEnroe. Borg looked like a fool out there, coming back after so many years with his wooden racket. But not you. You look like a mercenary. And it…it makes me feel less stupid, I guess. That I’m trying too.”

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