He was supposed to be indestructible. He was supposed to be humble despite being brilliant, affable despite his sheer domination on the court. He was not supposed to be out in the early rounds and pitied by his wife.

Enter: Carrie Soto.

Carrie Soto was considered the greatest female tennis player of all time. Brandon had met Carrie before but they had never had a conversation until one day back in May in Paris. He was at the French Open without Nina because he’d insisted she stay home.

He was sitting on a bench outside the locker room at Roland-Garros just before his first match, adjusting the sweatband on his head. Carrie Soto walked by him, with her tense body and perfect posture in her tennis whites.

Her dark hair was pulled back, under her visor. Her rosy skin, wide eyes, and button nose made her seem cute. But then when she got in earshot of Brandon, she leaned over and said to him, “Your nice guy routine doesn’t fool me. You’re as bloodthirsty as the rest of us. Get your serve in line, and murder them all.”

Brandon turned and looked at her, his eyes wide.

She smiled at him. And he smiled back.

Brandon won his first match. Then another. And by the skin of his teeth, over the course of two weeks, he earned the Coupes de Mousquetaires. When he won the last match of the finals, he pumped his fist into the air.

Meanwhile, Carrie Soto crushed every single opponent she had with force and determination. She grunted with every serve, yelped as she volleyed, dove with abandon, smearing her tennis whites with the red clay of the court. And she won the Coupe de Suzanne Lenglen.

The night after he won, Brandon ran into Carrie at their hotel, the two of them raging champions pacing in an elevator. Brandon felt victorious and vulnerable, gleeful and unguarded.

“I told you you could be vicious,” Carrie said, grinning.

“I guess you’ve got my number,” Brandon said.

There was a pause as the elevator rose. When it stopped at Brandon’s floor, he said, “Let me know if you want to split something from the minibar.”

Ten minutes later they were in his room.

Carrie Soto was on top of him, and he could feel her muscles in his hands. He could feel, as she moved, how hard her thighs were, how tight her butt was, how swollen her calves and forearms were. He could feel, as he touched her, her strength and agility. He was holding her power in his hands.

And for one small moment, while he was lying underneath her, he thought he’d found the other half of himself.

When he woke up the next morning, his head throbbed with the realization of what he had done. But just before Carrie left Paris, she told him she thought, just maybe, this could be something serious. And that made him wonder if all of this wasn’t just cheating but perhaps something else, like a love affair.

He’d never thought it before, but maybe Nina was wrong for him. Maybe that was why she made him feel so small. And maybe Carrie was right for him. That was why she made him feel so strong.

So he kept seeing her. In L.A., in New York, in London. And soon Brandon had convinced himself that Carrie was his good-luck charm.

After they both won at Wimbledon, Brandon was flying high. He’d won clay and grass courts in the same year. Nearly unheard of. “This,” Tommy said, “is the Brandon I know.”

The tabloids caught Carrie and him celebrating their wins together that night outside the Wimbledon ball. He was in a tux. Carrie was in a navy blue gown. They were kissing beside a car. His hand was on her ass.

Carrie saw the photos first and bought off the photographer and the magazine. She traded the photos for an exclusive with her. But afterward, she told Brandon that she was in love with him and it was time to “shit or get off the pot.”

Brandon felt rushed. He wasn’t sure he was ready to commit to leaving Nina. But he was at a crossroads in more ways than one, and he suspected that if he stayed with Nina, happiness and satisfaction might just soften him too much, enough that he might not fight hard enough against the descent of his talent.

If he stayed with Carrie, the best of his times on the court might be yet to come.

So, Brandon flew home. He walked into his massive house and headed right up the stairs to get his things.

He was hoping Nina wasn’t home. But he found her in the bedroom, reading a travel guide to Bora-Bora. She was wearing his boxer shorts. He could barely look at her.

“Hi, honey,” she said, sweetly.

He went straight to the closet. He had to move fast; he had to get this over with quickly for the both of them. And he did not think he could bear to look at her. He was not sure he’d keep his nerve. “I’m sorry, Nina,” he said. “But I’m leaving.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, the bubbliness still in her voice.

He did not remember what she said after that. He had simply run away.

He went right to the Beverly Hills Hotel. And when he got to Carrie’s suite, he kissed her at her front door and said, “I love you. I choose you.”

The whole thing with Nina had been hideous and unbearable. But it had been necessary. And it was done.

• • •

Brandon stayed with Carrie and found that an entire new life had been mapped out for him within days.

In the mornings, they would both have protein smoothies and a handful of raw almonds and then go to the gym together. They started training at the same courts side by side at the Bel-Air Country Club. Brandon’s cortisone shot was wearing off sooner than he’d anticipated, but if at any time Brandon started to slow down his serves or miss a few volleys in a row, Carrie would notice and yell to him from her court, without missing a beat of her own, “Get it together, Randall! You’re either a champion or a fuckup. There is no in-between!” And he would run faster, hit more cleanly.

In the afternoon, they dealt with business, calling their agents, discussing endorsement deals, approving travel, sending correspondence.

By seven every evening, they were out the door, ready to go to dinner. The two of them were usually at a party, charity function, or gala by nine. They talked almost exclusively about how much Carrie hated her rival, Paulina Stepanova.

One night, in the middle of the night, Brandon woke up with his shoulder throbbing. They’d had an intense practice in the morning and a gala for Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in the evening, and then they’d come home and made love before turning out the lights.

Suddenly, at three in the morning, the pain was excruciating. He called down for ice but it did not do much to help. He popped a few meds. But the pain was getting sharper, throbbing harder.

He woke Carrie up, in a panic. “What if Wimbledon was my last slam?” he asked her.

“That would be catastrophic,” Carrie said. “You only have twelve.” And then she turned her body away from his and went to bed.

He ached for the tenderness of Nina.

He fell asleep just in time to wake up to Carrie throwing a towel at him. “Do we cry about the pain? Or do we man up and play through it? Car leaves for the court in fifteen.”

He got up, got dressed, and kept her pace all day. And then the next and the next and on it went.

Brandon had lived his life beside Carrie for another four weeks and two days.

But then, again last night, the ache in his shoulder had woken him up. This time it was a searing, burning pain. Every second before the meds kicked in was agonizing. He had made an appointment for another shot and he knew that would help for a little while. But he understood, in some disturbingly clear way, that the clock was ticking. Even if he staved off the decline as long as possible, even if he won more championships than any other human in history, someday, his body was going to break down, because everyone’s did.