Nicki laughs. “Unfortunately for you, I’m feeling one hundred percent.”

  “Good,” I say. “The win will be sweeter.”

  Nicki shakes her head. “I read an interview with you years ago, when I was still a kid,” she says. “Where you said your father called you ‘Achilles.’ ”

  “Yeah,” I say. “The greatest of the Greeks.”

  “I was always jealous of that. That sense of destiny you seemed to have. Do you remember what Achilles said to Hector after Hector killed Patroclus?”

  It has been a long time since I’ve actually read The Iliad. I shake my head.

  She smiles. “He says, ‘There can be no pacts between men and lions. I will make you pay in full for the grief you have caused me.’ ”

  SOTO VS. CHAN

  1995 US Open

  Final

  Too many people, possibly even Nicki, believe that Nicki is new tennis. That my Carrie is old tennis. They don’t realize I taught Carrie to play any tennis. So Carrie should start wild and powerful, start with a splash. Make it clear, from the beginning, that whatever version of Carrie Nicki prepared for, she didn’t prepare for this.

  I win the toss and elect to serve first.

  Nicki’s forehand is brutal, so everyone serves to her backhand. Not me. My first serve is low, short, fast, and wide to her forehand. She has to scramble to meet the ball. She returns it just past the net. I chip it back. She doesn’t get under it in time. 15–love.

  Nicki looks at me and nods calmly.

  I hold the first game.

  * * *

  —

  Her first serve comes at me like it was shot from a gun—exactly as I knew it would. I return it right to her backhand. She returns it deep. I send it back with a drive volley, pulling her up closer to the net.

  Nicki succeeds by getting people to play her type of tennis. Carrie can meet her at that level, but Nicki cannot meet Carrie at hers. Carrie should lure Nicki into Carrie’s kind of tennis—the kind of tennis where a centimeter matters. I believe the best Carrie will beat the best Nicki. And that means GET HER TO THE NET.

  Nicki runs up to meet my shot and makes it just in time. But her return is too long. The first point in her service game is mine. Love–15.

  Still, she holds the game.

  * * *

  —

  We each hold our games—neither able to break the other. 1–1 becomes 2–2. 2–2 becomes 3–3, 4–4, 5–5.

  * * *

  —

  At 6–6, we move to a tiebreaker.

  Nicki clobbers me with her serves. On my serves, she hammers her returns. The tiebreak quickly gets to 0–4, Nicki’s favor. I have to adjust.

  I try cutting off the pace of the ball, hitting slices, stopping her short. It works quickly, and I am unyielding until she gets the hang of it.

  Now we’re 4–4.

  5–5.

  6–6 in the tiebreaker.

  The crowd is beginning to rumble.

  Nicki hits a winner past me, bringing her to 6–7. But she’s got to win by two.

  It’s my serve, and I send a fast shot right at her heels. She misses it. 7–7.

  Minutes later, Nicki is up 12–11. It’s her serve.

  I stare at her, watching her toss, trying to guess where it’s going. By now I can see that she does have a small tell. She holds her shoulder ever so slightly lower when she’s going cross-court.

  I watch her, see her shoulder high. I know she’s sending it down the line, to my forehand.

  It whistles through the air so fast it’s gone by the time I hear it. I reach wide, but I can’t snag it. Fuck. The crowd screams.

  At 13–11 in the tiebreak, the first set is hers.

  * * *

  —

  I haven’t been looking at anyone during the changeovers. Not Gwen, not Bowe, not Ali. Not the crowd. I keep my head down. I focus on drinking water, drying my face, keeping my father in my head. I only want to hear his voice right now.

  If Nicki wins the first set, Carrie has a better chance of winning the second. We can use Nicki’s confidence—her arrogance???—against her here. And we should. Stay the course. Keep at it. Don’t change it up. If we don’t take the first set, we can win the second.

  The second set begins. I move her up to the net. I hit the balls low and soft so she can’t get as much power off them.

  We trade games. 1–1. 2–2. 3–3.

  But soon, Nicki starts getting the hang of it. She is staying closer to the net, hitting with more control. Our rallies go ten, twelve, sometimes fifteen times back and forth.

  Nobody breaking anyone’s serve.

  It begins to feel like a perfect rhythm—the ball back and forth, the two of us meeting it. No unforced errors, no mistakes. Perfect execution. Just a dance.

  There are times I am looking at the ball and other times I am watching her. I can feel her watching me. I know, as I’m swinging, that she can see the skill in what I’m doing. I can barely take my eyes off the gorgeous brutality of her power. She swings with such concentrated force, screaming as she does it.

  I zero in on the yellow dot as it barrels toward me time and again. I feel the ease of my arm pulling back, over and over, my racket gliding on in the follow-through.

  I’m playing the best goddamn game I can, moment by moment, shot by shot.

  When it’s 5–6, her serve, it’s time to knock her out. I volley it back to her; she runs up to the net. And just when it seems as if she has settled into this fast, volleying tennis, I hit a flat crushing groundstroke past her.

  And then I do it again, and again. Just when she hangs back, I send a drop shot. Just when she thinks I’m pulling up short, I hit it long. It’s her serve but she’s on the run, one step behind me, trying to catch up. 30–40.

  And now here I am. The moment in which I know I can take the set.

  Break point.

  If Carrie gets to break point, she will convert it to a win. She is great at turning momentum into points. Nicki is a good defensive player—players rarely get to break point against her anymore. And she’s a fan of Carrie, she knows Carrie. She knows Carrie lives at break point. We just need to get Carrie to break point once every set. And the rest will fall into place.

  Nicki serves the ball. It goes right up against the line but lands inside, bounces high. I jump and hit a smash overhead.

  She takes it out of the air early. And I can tell she’s expecting a groundstroke return; the ball has too much fire on it for me to try a softer shot. But rather than send it cross-court, I go for the winner. I send it right down the line, along the sideline. She has to rush across the court to get her hands on it. I watch her running, and I can see her ankle roll a bit as she slides.

  And she’s too late. The ball bounces once, and she can’t save it. When she stands up, I can tell her ankle hurts. And thank God, because both my knees, especially my bad one, are starting to ache.

  “Set is Soto’s,” I hear over the loudspeaker as the crowd jumps out of their seats. Everyone begins to scream.

  I smile at Nicki, expecting a smile back. But she looks pissed, on the verge of throwing her racket. I don’t blame her. I’ve been there. She thought the match would be hers by now.

  But I’m stealing it out of her hands.

  This is fun, I think. How did I forget this is so fucking fun?

  * * *

  —

  I sit down on the chair and wipe my face dry. I take a drink of water. I look over at Nicki, who will not look at me, her jaw clenched. She unscrews the top of a Gatorade and takes a big swig. If I had to guess, her ankle is swelling. Clouds have started to settle in over the arena. It cools the air, and I am grateful.

  Gwen catches my eye. She points at me, right at my chest.

  I tap my flat palm to my heart and point back at her.

  * * *

  —

  The deciding set. Nicki’s serves get faster, harder. They come at me with a whistle. It is startling. But I don’t worry myself with trying to outdo her. My serves are accurate down to the inch. They are sniper shots.

  Nicki’s playing at full capacity right now. She’s fast and watching my tosses. I have to keep my serves unpredictable and sharp.

  1–1 to 2–2, 2–2 to 3–3. When I take the ball low, she gets under it. When she goes deep, I get there. When I go short, she pulls up.

  She is breathing heavily. I am sweating.

  The crowd is going wild with every rally, screaming at every winner.

  4–4. 5–5.

  My dad was right. The third set is when Nicki plays her hardest.

  When she slams another groundstroke past me, I return it just in time, only to see her setting up for another. I am in awe of the firepower of her arm. The way it crushes the ball when it makes contact. I’ve never seen power like this. Certainly not with this much intuition about where the ball is going, what the ball will do.

  My left knee is twinging, my right knee not far behind. I’m breathing harder than when I was running on sand all those months ago. Sweat is pouring off my face. The sky is getting darker. But I’m not letting up. And neither is she. I can tell by the way her eyes have lost their brightness, her shoulders have tightened. Even her gait seems angry as she limps away from the net after every point.

  Nicki Chan is a great player. But not great enough to destroy me as quickly as she wanted.

  * * *

  —

  On her next service game, Nicki starts serving so fast it feels like a blitz.

  I can feel the fatigue in my legs. They are starting to give out, my thighs quivering when I squat. My knees are screaming. She shuts me out of the game.

  I can barely hold her off on my service game. But I do.

  It’s now 6–6 in the third set. We’re going to another tiebreak.

  And then lightning cracks, and the sky roars. I look up at the clouds, and rain starts falling.

  * * *

  —

  Gwen, Bowe, and Ali all rush into the locker room during the delay.

  “Guys,” I say. “I’m fine. I’ve got this.”

  “You are dominating!” Gwen says. It is the most intense I’ve ever seen her. “Raining sheer motherfucking terror!”

  I laugh. “Thank you.”

  Bowe smiles. “She’s right.”

  I lock eyes with him and smile. “I have to stay focused on winning the tiebreak. Do we know how long the delay will be?”

  Ali speaks up. “The storm is passing already. They don’t think more than twenty minutes.”

  “In that case, everyone get out of here,” I say. And then I add, “Please.”

  Bowe grabs my shoulder and squeezes it, then escorts the two of them out. He turns back to me at the last second.

  “This is a beautiful match,” he says. “An absolutely beautiful match.”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. He just taps the doorframe and leaves.

  Suddenly, it is so quiet around me that I can hear the churn of the pipes in the walls.

  I try to think of what my father would say to me right now. I open my locker and look through the notebook. I read his notes again. He says nothing about a tiebreak for the third set. I flip through the pages, searching for something—anything—but there’s nothing I haven’t already read.

  What would he say if he were here? What would he have written in this book if he’d had more time? There are still things I need to know; there is still advice I need to get from him. There is more to do together.

  I run through strategies—start slow, let her get tired; come out fast, don’t let her get a foothold; go for the big serves; now’s not the time for big serves—desperately trying to assess which one sounds the most like him.

  But…I don’t know. I don’t know what he would say.

  I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. From this moment forward, I do not have him with me. I do not know what he would be thinking. I do not know any more of his strategy, his plan. His logic. His advice. Because he is gone. And he will never be back. I have come to the end.

  Suddenly, I feel as if the pain is enough to level me.

  I pick up the notebook and put it back in the locker. If I win this tiebreak, it will be because I know how to beat her on my own. And if I don’t, it will be because she is the better player. This is the test I asked for.

  The door opens, and Nicki comes in.

  “I was waiting in the training room,” she says. “I didn’t want to see you.”

  “Oh.”

  “But now it’s gonna be at least another ten.”

  “Okay.”

  She sits down next to me on the bench. She doesn’t say anything for a long time. And neither do I. I just sit next to her with my eyes closed, trying to control my breathing, trying to ignore the pain in my knees.

  “This should be mine already,” Nicki says, finally.

  I open my eyes and look at her. “Well, it’s not, sunshine.”

  Nicki shakes her head. “You are the best player I have ever played, then and now,” she says. “You bitch.”

  I laugh.

  “I’m trying to be funny to hide how much I hate you with every atom in my body,” she says. I check her face, and she’s not smiling.

  “Don’t hate me,” I say. “It is a waste of your time.”

  Nicki huffs.

  “You’re playing some of the best tennis I’ve ever seen you play,” I tell her. “Thanks to me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Okay, Soto.”

  I add, “You deserve every single place you claim in history.”

  Nicki looks me in the eye. “I am going to beat you.”

  “No,” I tell her. “You are not.”

  Nicki laughs, despite herself. A coordinator comes in and tells us they are preparing for us to head back out. We both stand up, and Nicki puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Playing you this year…beating these records—with Carrie Soto, against Carrie Soto—it’s been a dream come true.”

  I look her in the eye and nod, unsure quite how to tell her that this match has meant the same for me.

  “And now I’m going to shoot an arrow right into your heel so I can say I was the one who finally took down Achilles.”

  And that I instantly have the words for: “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

  * * *

  —

  The tiebreaker begins.

  A point for Nicki, a point for me.

  For Nicki. For Nicki.

  For me. For me. For Nicki.

  Around and around in circles. It is the most fun I’ve had in years.

  This will be the last tournament that I will ever play. And I can’t help but enjoy it.

  I did not pick up a racket to grow tense and weary and afraid of failing. I picked it up to feel the joy of smashing a ball as hard as I can. I picked it up to spend time with my dad.

  This is it. My last moment of what he and I started together. This match. This tiebreaker. I could live in it forever.

  Me. Then Nicki.

  Then me. Then Nicki.

  Then me. Then Nicki. Then me.

  I serve my sharpest, most deadly serve, trying to get an ace off her. But she returns it just as fast. And I can’t match her power now. Her point.

  Nicki serves maybe the fastest serve I’ve ever seen in my life. But I gear up and return it. She hits a smash so high I have to leap into the air despite my knees. But I jump higher than I think I’ve ever jumped before, and I manage to graze the ball with my racket, somehow landing it where she can’t reach. My knee is killing me now, but it’s my point.

  I serve it, and she returns with a groundstroke. I hit a cross-court backhand and watch as it bounces in. But she’s too far from it. No one can get across the court in the time she has, certainly not with her ankle. I watch as the ball flies over the net. Nicki is running too fast. I can tell. She’s going to overshoot. But the ball bounces lower than I think it’s going to.

  It shouldn’t have bounced that low. It’s a fresh ball, and I sent it over hard. But sometimes you get a bad bounce, and the ball doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. And usually, in those moments, the returner misses the shot.

  But not Nicki. Not now. Somehow she saw it happening before it happened. She meets the ball outside the line and skids across the court as she drops low to her knees. She leans back, overextended, and gets under the ball just as it’s flying past her, her shin already bleeding from the skid.

  She turns ever so slightly and returns it with a shot I can’t touch.

  Her point. It’s now 16–15.

  And for the first time, I know something as terrifying as it is freeing.

  Nicki Chan might just understand the ball better than I do.

  She serves the ball again, whipping it at me. I return it so deep it hits at the baseline and then bounces high off the court. Nicki jumps into the air and returns it with a lob.

  It glides, slowly, above us. I watch it as gravity brings it back toward the ground. I move two steps to the right, one step back. I hedge my footing, staying on my toes, ready to run whenever it lands. My left knee feels like steel grinding against steel. The pain rings through me, reverberating, absorbing into every part of my body.

  I do not care.

  The ball descends toward the court. I have to decide whether to hit it before the bounce or get it on the rise. I cycle through my options, all my shots. And then, instead of choosing, I just let my arms fly.

  I take it out of the air, quick—send it careening back. Nicki starts running.