Autorentext
Taylor Jenkins Reid is the New York Times bestselling author of eight novels, including Malibu Rising, Daisy Jones & The Six, and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their daughter.

Zusammenfassung
*#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “An epic adventure about a female athlete perhaps past her prime, brought back to the tennis court for one last grand slam” (Elle), from the author of Malibu Rising, Daisy Jones & The Six, and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo*

“A heart-filled novel about an iconic and persevering father and daughter.”—Time

“Gorgeous. The kind of sharp, smart, potent book you have to set aside every few pages just to catch your breath. I’ll take a piece of Carrie Soto forward with me in life and be a little better for it.”—Emily Henry, author of Book Lovers and Beach Read**

Carrie Soto is fierce, and her determination to win at any cost has not made her popular. But by the time she retires from tennis, she is the best player the world has ever seen. She has shattered every record and claimed twenty Grand Slam titles. And if you ask Carrie, she is entitled to every one. She sacrificed nearly everything to become the best, with her father, Javier, as her coach. A former champion himself, Javier has trained her since the age of two.

But six years after her retirement, Carrie finds herself sitting in the stands of the 1994 US Open, watching her record be taken from her by a brutal, stunning player named Nicki Chan.

At thirty-seven years old, Carrie makes the monumental decision to come out of retirement and be coached by her father for one last year in an attempt to reclaim her record. Even if the sports media says that they never liked “the Battle-Axe” anyway. Even if her body doesn’t move as fast as it did. And even if it means swallowing her pride to train with a man she once almost opened her heart to: Bowe Huntley. Like her, he has something to prove before he gives up the game forever.

In spite of it all, Carrie Soto is back, for one epic final season. In this riveting and unforgettable novel, Taylor Jenkins Reid tells her most vulnerable, emotional story yet.

Leseprobe
**US Open

September 1994**

My entire life’s 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 moment’s 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 watch—­along with the twenty thousand others in the stadium—­as 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 Cortez’s backhand.

Cortez returns it with startling power. It falls just inside the line. Nicki isn’t 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. He’s wearing one of his many panama hats, his curly silver hair creeping out the back.

“Dad, everyone’s watching our reactions.”

Nicki Chan has won two Slam titles this year already—­the Australian Open and the French Open. If she wins this match, she’ll 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.

Nicki’s particular style of play—­brash and loud, played almost exclusively from the baseline, with incredible violence to her serves and groundstrokes—­has enabled her to dominate women’s 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 a clay court, 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 she’s at my heels.

My jaw tenses as I watch her.

My father looks at me, his face placid. “I’m 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 I’ve ever looked, in my opinion. So let them take as many pictures as they want.

“What did I always tell you in junior championships?”

“Don’t 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 Nicki’s—­powerful, loud—­but she plays her angles more. She’s surprisingly emotional on the court. She hits a scorcher of an ace past Nicki and hollers with glee.

“You know, maybe it’s Cortez who’s 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. It’s now 3–­3 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 don’t 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.”

“Sí, papá, 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, Cortez’s coach is hunched over in his seat, his hands cupping his face.

Nicki doesn’t have a coach. She left her last one almost three years ago and has taken six Slams since then without anyone’s guidance.

My dad makes a lot of cracks about players who don’t 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 doesn’t let up. She fires off another serve across the court. Cortez takes off running but misses it.

Nicki smiles.

I know that smile. I’ve 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 doesn’t control the court. …