“I look nothing like Mom,” I said finally. She had been so undeniably beautiful, her worth written right across her face.
“Yes, you do,” he said. “And you are strong like her.”
My eyes took in my broad shoulders, my powerful arms. Luckily, I did not need to be pretty. My body was built to wage war.
And thank God, because I was about to use it to crush pretty Mary-Louise Bryant.
Love serving love.
Mary-Louise tossed the ball up in the air and then cut across it with her racket. As I ran for the ball, I thought that my best bet was to take it out of the air quick. But as I got in position, I saw Mary-Louise approach the net. She was assuming I didn’t have the power to hit a passing shot. And so, at the last minute, I hit a deep groundstroke. She had to rush her return and hit it into the net.
The first point was mine. Love serving 15.
I looked at my father as I made my way back to the baseline. Both he and Lars were watching me, and Lars’s eyes were wide. My father was fighting off a smile.
I crouched and waited for her next serve. Mary-Louise’s face was tight now. Suddenly, the ball came across the net, fast as a whip. I couldn’t return it.
15–all.
Serve after serve stunned me.
30–15.
40–15.
And just like that, she’d won the first game.
I glanced over at my father and saw his brow furrowed. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
Now it was my serve. I landed each one exactly where I wanted it to go. I was setting up my shots a few strokes ahead. I kept her running all over the court. But every time, she returned it. Our long rallies would inevitably end in her favor.
I stayed alert. I met the ball each time. But regardless of how good my shots were, it just didn’t matter.
She took the first set 7–5.
I was exhausted already. My father handed me a towel, not saying a single word. I breathed in deeply. I could not lose; it was not an option.
I thought that by getting that first point off her, I would have thrown her off. But I’d awakened her. I’d given her a reason to play her best.
I had to take away her opportunities to hit winners. I was going to try for aces, each and every serve. It was risky; I could double-fault. But it felt like my only shot.
My first serve was hard and bounced high. She dove for it and hit it out. 15–love.
I did it again. 30–love.
I glanced over at my father as I went to pick up the ball, and I saw a smile creep over his face.
I hit another flat serve, but this time I kept it close to the T. It whizzed past her. 40–love.
I had her. I could feel the tingle in the top of my head and down my back. I could feel the space in between my joints, the fluidity of my muscles. I felt a hum in my bones.
I served the ball low and fast. She returned it with spin that I understood innately. I knew where it would go, how it would bounce. I hit it back with the full force of my shoulder. Her return went long.
I went on to win the set. The score was now 1–1, and it would come down to who won the third.
Mary-Louise’s first serve on the next game had us rallying back and forth for the point but ended in her hitting a low groundstroke that whizzed past me. I wanted to scream as I saw the ball bounce past my racket. But I knew my father wouldn’t stand for that.
Here’s the thing about that hum: It can leave just as quickly as it comes.
Mary-Louise took control of the court. She broke my serve, and she held her own. I showed up to the ball. I ran like hell. But it wasn’t enough.
When she scored the last point, I fell to my knees. I felt like the world was splitting into pieces. I held on to the ground for a moment and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, Mary-Louise and Lars were by the bench talking calmly and my father was standing over me, offering me his hand.
My father had a warm face with curly dark hair. His eyelashes were long, his eyebrows were full, and his eyes were a soft brown. I had trouble meeting them.
“Vámonos,” he said. “We are ready to go.”
I stood up and focused my gaze on Mary-Louise. I knew what I had to do. I just had to find the will to do it.
I walked over to her. “You played a beautiful game,” I said. I could hear, as I was saying it, that I didn’t sound like myself. My voice remained hard and cold, its various melodies not available to me at that moment. I put my hand out for her to shake, and she smiled and took it immediately.
“Carrie,” she said. “That was the hardest match I’ve played in a long time.”
“Thank you for saying that,” I said. “But you won.”
“Still,” she said. “I would not have beaten you when I was eleven.”
“Thanks,” I said. But surely she knew that all that mattered was that I had lost.
My father and I packed up our stuff and walked back to the car. I zipped my racket in its cover and threw it into the back, then sank myself into the front seat.
When my dad got in, I stared at the glove box, trying to hold back the tears that were forming in my eyes.
“Hablemos,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have made me play her,” I said, my voice catching and breaking.
My father shook his head. “Ni lo intentes,” he said. “That was not the lesson you should take from this. Try again.”
“I hate tennis,” I said, and then I kicked the glove box.
“Get your foot off my car,” he said. “You know better.”
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe. When I opened them, I couldn’t look at my father. I looked out the window and watched as, across the street, a woman came out of her house and got her mail. I wondered if she was having a terrible day too. Or maybe her life looked nothing like mine. Maybe she lived free from all this pressure, this sense that she lived or died by how good she was at something. Was she burdened by the need to win everything she did? Or did she live for nothing?
I looked up at my father, but he didn’t turn back at first. And that was when I suspected that I had finally failed him, that I had proven myself unworthy of all the faith he had in me.
“Are you done?” he said as he turned to look at me. “With the hysterics?”
“Do you still…want to coach me?” I asked.
My father’s face contorted in ways I could not read. He shook his head and put his hand on my cheek, wiping away my tears with his thumb. “Cari?o, how could you ever ask that?” He lowered his gaze until he caught mine. “I am prouder to be your father and your coach today than I have ever been in my life.”
“How is that possible?”
“I know you’re upset because you lost,” he said.
“I lost,” I said. “Which makes me a loser.”
Dad shook his head with the smile still on his face. “You are so much like me, hija. But listen now, please,” he said. “I have been so focused on teaching you how to win that I have not taught you that everybody loses matches.”
“I’m not everybody. I’m supposed to be the greatest.”
My father nodded. “And you will be. Today you proved that. You played the best you’ve ever played in your life today.”
I looked up at him.
“Have you ever hit that many groundstrokes that bounced just in front of the baseline?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Have you ever served three aces in a row like you did today?”
I started tapping my foot as I listened to him. “No,” I said. “My first serve was great today.”
“You were on fire, cari?o,” he said. “You ran down the ball almost every shot.”
“Yeah, but then I hit it into the net half the time.”
“Because you are not yet who you will one day be.”
I looked up at him, my guarded heart opening ever so slightly.
“Every match you play, you are one match closer to becoming the greatest tennis player the world has ever seen. You were not born that person. You were born to become that person. And that is why you must best yourself every time you get on the court. Not so that you beat the other person—”
“But so that I become more myself,” I finished.
“Now you’re getting it,” my father said. “You played the best tennis you’ve ever played in your life.”
“And you’re happy,” I said. “With me. Because I played great.”