Taylor Jenkins Reid - Carrie Soto Is Back : A Novel

My entire lifes work rests on the outcome of this match.

My father, Javier, and I sit front row center at Flushing Meadows, the sidelines just out of reach. The linesmen stand with their arms behind their backs on either side of the court. Straight in front of us, the umpire presides over the crowd high in his chair. The ball girls crouch low, ready to sprint at a moments notice.

This is the third set. Nicki Chan took the first, and Ingrid Cortez squeaked out the second. This last one will determine the winner.

My father and I watchalong with the twenty thousand others in the stadiumas Nicki Chan approaches the baseline. She bends her knees and steadies herself. Then she rises onto her toes, tosses the ball in the air, and with a snap of her wrist sends a blistering serve at 126 miles per hour toward Ingrid Cortezs backhand.

Cortez returns it with startling power. It falls just inside the line. Nicki isnt able to get to it. Point Cortez.

I let my eyes close and exhale.

Cuidado. The cameras are watching our reactions, my father says through gritted teeth. Hes wearing one of his many panama hats, his curly silver hair creeping out the back.

Dad, everyones watching our reactions.

Nicki Chan has won two Slam titles this year alreadythe Australian Open and the French Open. If she wins this match, shell tie my lifetime record of twenty Grand Slam singles titles. I set that record back in 1987, when I won Wimbledon for the ninth time and established myself as the greatest tennis player of all time.

Nickis particular style of playbrash and loud, played almost exclusively from the baseline, with incredible violence to her serves and groundstrokeshas enabled her to dominate womens tennis over the past five years. But when she was starting out on the WTA tour back in the late eighties, I found her to be an unremarkable opponent. Good on clay, perhaps, but I could beat her handily on her home turf of London.

Things changed after I retired in 1989. Nicki began racking up Slams at an alarming rate. Now shes at my heels.

My jaw tenses as I watch her.

My father looks at me, his face placid. Im saying that the photographers are trying to get a shot of you looking angry, or rooting against her.

I am wearing a black sleeveless shirt and jeans. A pair of tortoiseshell Oliver Peoples sunglasses. My hair is down. At almost thirty-seven, I look as good as Ive ever looked, in my opinion. So let them take as many pictures as they want.

What did I always tell you in junior championships?

Dont let it show on your face.

Exacto, hija.

Ingrid Cortez is a seventeen-year-old Spanish player who has surprised almost everyone with her quick ascent up the rankings. Her style is a bit like Nickispowerful, loudbut she plays her angles more. Shes surprisingly emotional on the court. She hits a scorcher of an ace past Nicki and hollers with glee.

You know, maybe its Cortez whos going to stop her, I say.

My father shakes his head. Lo dudo. He barely moves his lips when he talks, his eye consciously avoiding the camera. I have no doubt that tomorrow morning, my father will open the paper and scan the sports pages looking for his photo. He will smile to himself when he sees that he looks nothing short of handsome. Although he lost weight earlier this year from the rounds of chemo he endured, he is cancer-free now. His body has bounced back. His color looks good.

As the sun beats down on his face, I hand him a tube of sunscreen. He squints and shakes his head, as if it is an insult to us both.

Cortez got one good one in, my father says. But Nicki saves her power for the third set.

My pulse quickens. Nicki hits three winners in a row, takes the game. Its now 33 in the third set.

My father looks at me, lowering his glasses so I can see his eyes. Entonces, what are you going to do? he asks.

I look away. I dont know.

He puts his glasses back on and looks at the court, giving me a small nod. Well, if you do nothing, that is what you are doing. Nothing.

S, pap, I got it.

Nicki serves wide. Cortez runs and scrambles to catch it on the rise, but it flies into the net.

I look at my father. He wears a slight frown.

In the players box, Cortezs coach is hunched over in his seat, his hands cupping his face.

Nicki doesnt have a coach. She left her last one almost three years ago and has taken six Slams since then without anyones guidance.

My dad makes a lot of cracks about players who dont have coaches. But with Nicki, he seems to withhold judgment.

Cortez is bent over, holding her hand down on her hips and trying to catch her breath. Nicki doesnt let up. She fires off another serve across the court. Cortez takes off running but misses it.

Nicki smiles.

I know that smile. Ive been here before.

On the next point, Nicki takes the game.

Dammit, I say at the changeover.

My father raises his eyebrows. Cortez crumbles as soon as she doesnt control the court. And Nicki knows it.

Nickis powerful, I say. But shes also hugely adaptable. When you play her, youre playing somebody who is adjusting on the fly, tailoring their game to your specific weakness.

My father nods.

Every player has a weak spot, I say. And Nicki is great at finding it.

Right.

So whats hers?

My father is now holding back a smile. He lifts his drink and takes a sip.

What? I ask.

Nothing, my father says.

I havent made a decision.

All right.

Both players head back out onto the court.

Nicki is just a tiny bit slow, I say, watching her walk to the baseline. She has a lot of power, but shes not fastnot in her footwork or her shot selection. Shes not quite as quick as Cortez, even today. But especially not as quick as Moretti, Antonovich, even Perez.