Page 67 of Carrie Soto Is Back

I stop listening as traffic opens up and we start actually moving on the freeway. I glance at Gwen when she hangs up the phone. “You take shit too far sometimes,” Gwen says.

I turn and look out my window as Gwen puts her foot on the gas and speeds us farther down the 10, headed to the desert.

—

My father is wearing sunglasses and a hat, like he’s going to be unrecognizable sitting ten rows back on the ground floor of the venue. We are watching Ingrid Cortez play Madlenka Dvoráková. My father watches every stroke, making notes on both players in a black leather book he bought the other day. He hasn’t used a notebook since I was a teenager. I wonder if he’s using one now because he’s old and doesn’t trust his memory—or because I’m old and we can’t take any chances.

Dvoráková holds the first set, which is a shock. I clap and cheer.

My father turns to me.

“What?” I say.

“You’re cheering,” he says. “For the worse player.”

“I don’t like Cortez.”

“But she’s a phenomenal player. Certainly you respect her game? Her talent?”

“Sure,” I say. “I mean, yes. But Dvoráková is working so hard. It’s gonna take everything in her to give Cortez a run for her money. So I’m clapping for her, all right?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re getting soft in your old age.”

I ignore him and look down at the schedule. “Once we watch Cortez for a bit more, we should stop by Perez versus Zetov too,” I say. “Gwen is there now, I think.”

I am lucky that Gwen is not one to hold a grudge. She was cold to me for the rest of the drive out here, but the next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. I had formulated a few different apologies in my head, but the words never made their way out of my mouth.

My father nods. “And we need to see Antonovich and Moretti tonight.”

“Yes, agreed.”

“This is fun!” he says. He bumps my shoulder with his. “God, I love this sport.”

I bump his shoulder back. I wonder how it feels to be able to love tennis without it threatening to forget you with every passing match.

A couple of days later,I wake up early in the rental house, unable to quiet my mind.

I look at the clock and see that it is just before five. I decide to go for a run.

In the early desert morning, my body is hotter than the crisp air. I run in the center of the road, through the empty neighborhood streets, slow but steady, pounding my feet over the pavement.

If I don’t make it far enough in the French Open, I may lose sponsorships.

I do not care about the money. Ever since I paid off the mortgage on my compound, most of my money goes to funding youth centers across the United States and in Argentina through my foundation. I’ve invested well, so I will still be able to afford to donate without a single other sponsorship.

It’s not about profit.

It’s about the look on Gwen’s face if she has to tell me they’re officiallypulling out. It’s walking onto the court at Wimbledon while the news of my being dropped is hitting the papers. It’s about sitting at a table in a restaurant and everyone around me knowing the result of my hubris.

It is about being cut down to size, just as some people have long wanted me to be.

I’d hate to give them the satisfaction.

I run with no attention to where I am going—finding myself standing outside the rental house again before I even realize I’ve run in a circle.

I take a shower. With my hair still wet, I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and I get in the car. I don’t know where I’m going—only that I need to move. I drive through the desert—pale red mountains and beige plains, palm trees and strip malls.

What if I’ve fucked this all up?

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