Page 88 of Carrie Soto Is Back

But Antonovich just keeps coming. It doesn’t matter if I run her around the court––she just glides into position, nicks the ball with the edge of her racket, puts it where she wants it.

We’re at 5–5. Then 5–6.

Now she’s serving for the match. If I don’t break her serve on this game, it’s over.

I crouch down low. I move the weight back and forth from one foot to the other. She tosses the ball. This is my moment. My moment to take it all back.

She serves one deep into the corner. I run like hell, even though my knee is starting to ache. I return it into the net.

15–love.

30–love.

40–love.

CARRIE! For fuck’s sake, pull it together!

Her serve. Match point.

She sends the ball screaming over. I return it, fast and clean. She hits a groundstroke. I return to her backhand. I can feel the hum in my bones. I can feel this match coming to me—later than I want, but it’s here.

Antonovich takes the ball out of the air early. I reach it, return it cross-court. Before I complete my follow-through, she’s under it, chipping it over the net. I dive, my chest hitting the ground, sliding with my racket outstretched.

The ball hits the clay and I’m still feet away. It’s over.

The crowd erupts for Antonovich. I lie frozen, staring at the dent in the clay where the ball landed.

When I finally get up and dust myself off, I am covered in redclay—my shoes, my knees, my skirt, and tank top are all rust. It is in my hair and in my mouth. It feels like it is in my lungs.

My eye lands on a woman in the crowd a few rows back. She is in her twenties or so, and she’s holding a sign that saysOui, oui, Carrie!

I cannot bear the sight of her.

“I didn’t play my best!So if that’s what you’re about to say, Dad…don’t.”

I am standing in the tunnel about to head to the showers. My knee is screaming. I need a massage and ice. I need a lot of things.

Antonovich comes up behind me and passes by. I can feel her trying to catch my eye as she walks into the locker room, but I continue to stare at my father instead.

He is standing against the wall, his eyes closed.

“Carolina,” he says. His voice is calm and slow. “Now is the time for perspective. We talked about this.”

“Dad!” I say. “Don’t pretend that what I did out there was good enough! It wasn’t!”

“I understand that you didn’t win the match as you’d hoped….”

“Didn’t win the match as I’d hoped?” I yell. I can hear the other coaches and players coming down the tunnel, so I pull him into anopen room off the corridor. “I just lost my second shot at a title,” I say. “I only have four chances!”

“I understand that.”

“I think we should all be prettyfuckingworried that I am not going to be able to do what I set out to do!”

“Do not swear at me. I told you yesterday I was concerned about this possibility.”

“I went out there and told everyone that I am the greatest living tennis player, and now I’m proving myself wrong! In front of the entire world!”

My father nods but says nothing.

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