Still, she worries. In the past the better she felt with the men in her life, the worse she played. She admits that she's happier than ever. She's taking Spanish lessons. "He's not here, so I have to focus oh what I'm doing," she says of Garc�a. "I'm better at it when he's not around."
It's late. She walks downstairs. There, on a chair near the kitchen, sit three freshly strung rackets. "There they are," Molitor says. It's an old-school stringing job, with four tiny knots framing a field of precisely arranged squares. Hingis glances at the rackets, like a plumber looking at a toolbox. She doesn't know how to string. She doesn't want to know. She's a player. Pretty soon, if she has her way, that's all she'll ever be.