The Singles Game

by Lauren Weisberger

  Charlie made herself answer the phone. “Hi, Marce!” she said brightly. Even though the two of them communicated daily, it was almost always by text or email.

  “Hey, Charlie. How are you?”

  “Um, pretty good. Ramona was her usual charming self today. But I have to admit, she knows what she’s doing. My wrist is a non-issue now, and I really feel like the foot is getting a little better each day. There’s no pain anymore; now it’s just building up the strength.”

  Marcy had visited twice during rehab, but her IVF process and Charlie’s inability to play yet made it silly for her to shuttle back and forth more often.

  “I’m so happy to hear that,” Marcy said now.

  “Yeah, she’s been great.”

  There was an awkward pause. Then Marcy said, “Charlie, I hope you won’t mind me being direct, but we’ve known each other long enough that we can be honest with each other, right?”

  Instantly, a small, hard knot formed in Charlie’s throat. “Of course,” she managed to choke out, hoping she sounded normal.

  “Why do you want to come see me in St. Petersburg this week?” Marcy’s voice was calm and curious, but Charlie thought she could hear a twinge of suspicion.

  “I told you, Marce, it’s been forever since I’ve been there. I’m feeling better now and could use a break from the scene around here. I’d love to see you and Will, and of course I can swing by the WTA offices and maybe hammer out some—”

  “You said you’d be straight with me, Charlie.”

  Marcy was right, she deserved honesty—but this was not a conversation Charlie wanted to have over the phone. As hard as it was going to be, Charlie was determined to do things the right way.

  “Charlie, I don’t want to make this any harder for you than I am guessing it is. And maybe I’m waaaay off here, so I’m going to ask you a straightforward yes or no question, and I’d really appreciate it if you could be honest.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Do you want to come down here so you can fire me?”

  Charlie’s silence was all the confirmation Marcy needed. “I thought so,” she said quietly.

  The word “fire” was so abrasive-sounding, so clinical, that Charlie wanted to argue with her, but there was no denying the truth in the question. Instead, the knot in her throat grew tighter, and it loosened only as the tears began to stream down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Marcy. I wanted to have this conversation face-to-face,” she said, hating herself for letting it all unfold this way.

  “I know you did, Charlie. And I appreciate that, I really do. But we’ve never gotten hung up on formality before, so we shouldn’t really start now. I didn’t want you to have to drag yourself across the country just to tell me something I already suspected.”

  “You did?” A sob escaped and Charlie clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “Yes. I know you haven’t been happy that I haven’t wanted to travel as much in the past year. You clearly know that Will and I are trying to get pregnant, and I’m sure you wonder how that’s going to affect you.”

  “No, Marcy, it isn’t—”

  “You don’t have to apologize. It’s natural. This is your career, I certainly understand your concerns. I’ve had a lingering feeling that you blame me for what happened at Wimbledon. We both know that was a fluke—and you were points away from winning that match—but I do accept that I played a role in that entire debacle, and I’m sorry for it.”

  “Marcy, please, if you’ll just—”

  Her coach’s voice was strong and steady. “My only wish is that we could’ve been more open about these things. Actually put them out there and addressed them, before you felt the need to look elsewhere.” Then, after a beat: “My father-in-law is currently in LA on business. He’s a pretty big tennis fan, as you might imagine, and he saw you and Todd meeting in the lobby of the Standard. It wasn’t hard to piece it all together from there.”

  Charlie felt like she’d been punched. “I’m sorry, Marce. The timing was so weirdly coincidental. I’m coming back, he wants to come out of retirement . . .” She didn’t know quite what else to say.

  “He has quite the reputation.”

  “I know. I haven’t hired him yet. I, uh, I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Marcy cleared her throat. “I appreciate that, Charlie. Your trying to come down here and everything. I just . . . I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  Charlie didn’t know what to say, probably because she didn’t really know what she was getting herself into. It was all starting to feel very real.

  Marcy cleared her throat. “Look, I don’t want this to end badly. I can imagine this isn’t easy for you either, and I want you to know that first and foremost, we’re friends. It’s been an honor coaching you these last years, but more than that, I’ve felt privileged to get to know you as a person.”

  “Marcy.” Charlie couldn’t disguise the sounds of her crying.

  “You deserve the best, C. You work hard for it, always have. So while I wish this all could have ended differently, yes, I hope you know I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. With that Achilles’ all healed and the Todd Feltner Midas touch, there’s no saying how far you’ll go . . .”

  Charlie couldn’t speak now, and hated herself for it.

  “I’ve got to run,” Marcy said, sounding as sorry as Charlie felt. “This isn’t good-bye, okay? We’ve got plenty of business stuff to sort out over the next couple of weeks—put me in touch with Todd’s assistant, and I’ll make sure the transition goes smoothly—and plenty of personal stuff, too. Hey, you still have that hideous chiffon dress you borrowed for that banquet, remember? Don’t think you can just keep that ugly thing.”

  They both laughed. It was hollow, but it helped, at least momentarily.

  “Marcy? I’m sorry. I’ve loved working with you all these years. I wasn’t planning—I didn’t even think—I, just . . . I’m sorry.”

  “I know. I am, too. Talk soon.” And before either of them could say another word, Marcy disconnected the call.

  Charlie stared at the phone in her palm for a few seconds. Even with all the flights and the anonymous hotel rooms and the cities and countries, Charlie usually didn’t feel alone. It was strange, this sensation of being adrift somehow, without one of the only constants in a life that was defined by movement and change.

  Ready or not, she thought, just as she smelled the burning and the smoke alarm sounded from the kitchen. Here we go.

  5

  connecting rooms

  MELBOURNE

  JANUARY 2016

  The sound of a vibrating cell phone woke Charlie from a deep sleep, and she pulled it under the heavy down duvet, where she was hiding from the air-conditioning. Who said only Americans wanted AC? The Australians seemed to like it just fine.

  “Hello?” Her voice was raspy, as though she’d smoked a pack of cigarettes. Which, needless to say, she had not.

  “Charlotte? What the fuck are you doing?” Todd boomed through the speakerphone that Charlie had accidentally turned on in her fumble for the phone. “It’s already seven and I’m standing alone on the court.” He sounded livid, which was really nothing new, and yet it made Charlie anxious every time. Like she was always doing something wrong.

  Charlie pulled her phone away to look at the screen. “It’s only seven, Todd. Our practice time isn’t until eight,” she mumbled, already swinging her legs to the floor. She glanced at her right foot and breathed a sigh of relief when it looked completely normal. Of course it would look normal—both the Achilles’ tendon and the fractured wrist had healed completely months earlier—but examining the areas had become habit.

  “Get your ass out of bed. Did you watch the tapes I left you last night? I ordered an egg white omelet to your room, it should be there in ten minutes. I want you
on-site in thirty minutes. You think Natalya is lounging in bed, watching TV? That’s not what top players do. And remember, if you’re not early, you’re late.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up.

  If you’re not early, you’re late. Charlie bit the inside of her cheek.

  There was rustling from the other side of the bed. Charlie had almost forgotten Marco was there until he said, “Did you tell him you are not lazy, just very tired from fucking?”

  “No, I didn’t tell him that,” she said, swatting him across the chest.

  “It is always good to tell the truth,” Marco said, pushing himself up on his elbows. “What? You are looking at me and thinking I am, how do you say, Adonis? Yes, I have this problem with women all the time.”

  Charlie laughed, but she knew Marco was hardly kidding: he was freaking gorgeous. He knew it, she knew it, the entire female population of planet earth knew it—at least, anyone who had tuned in to watch a men’s tennis match in the last five years and had caught a glimpse of Marco changing shirts between sets. That ten-second flash of bare chest had garnered Marco Vallejo a People’s Sexiest Man Alive award. His perfect body was splashed on billboards all across the world showcasing underwear, sneakers, watches, and cologne, and he regularly walked red carpets with actresses and musicians and models. His ranking hadn’t slipped below number four in three years. Having last won the US Open in a breezy three-set final, he was favored to win the Australian Open. He’d made millions in winnings, tens of millions in endorsements, and kept homes or flats in countries all over the world. There was even a TED Talk by a renowned sportswriter that declared Marco Vallejo one of the greatest players of the Open Era. And he was in Charlie’s bed.

  There was a knock on the door. Charlie glanced around and, not finding any of her clothes or even a robe, yanked the sheet out from under the duvet and wrapped it around her chest. “Just like the movies,” she muttered, pulling the door open.

  The room service waiter couldn’t have been a day older than nineteen. He sneaked a glance at Charlie, clearly nude under the sheet, and flamed red from his neck to his hairline. He glanced toward the bed, where the rumpled sheets and pillows confirmed everything, but Marco was much too experienced to get caught in such an amateurish way. Years of sleeping in strange hotel rooms with different women had taught him all the tricks, and even now Charlie wondered how he’d made it from the bed to the bathroom without anyone noticing.

  “Good morning, er, Ms. Silver. I have an egg white omelet with mushrooms, onions, and spinach, hold the feta. Fruit instead of potatoes. A large decaf Americano with skim milk. And some ice water. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “Decaf? Really?” By now Charlie was familiar with Todd’s no-caffeine policy, but she found it newly annoying each time he instituted it.

  “That’s what the order says. Would you like me to bring you regular?” the boy asked, his eyes darting, afraid to settle on any one detail.

  “No, no, it’s fine,” Charlie said, despite meaning the very opposite. She’d been officially signed on with Todd since last August, and the nearly five months of rehab, training, and strategy had gotten her exactly where he’d promised: strong and confident, ready for the Australian Open. It was true Marcy never would have asked her to give up coffee. Hell, Marcy never would have had her dieting. But she couldn’t argue with her newly flat stomach and toned thighs, nor her more muscular arms and improved cardiovascular fitness.

  Charlie signed the check and, after tipping the still-red server, closed the door. “You’re safe to come out,” she called to Marco.

  He emerged from the bathroom with his wavy hair wet, wearing nothing but a towel. “I have a practice court at eight,” he said. “What about you?”

  “Same,” Charlie replied. “Sorry, Todd ordered my breakfast so there’s nothing here for you. You want me to call and add some oatmeal or something?”

  “No, I am meeting Coach in player dining in twenty minutes, I’ll just eat there.” He cinched the towel tighter around his waist. His six-four stature and two hundred pounds of sheer muscle made his Mediterranean complexion almost an afterthought. Almost.

  She checked her phone for the time. “We got lucky again the doping people didn’t show up at six this morning. One of these days we are going to get caught together.”

  Three hundred sixty-five days, regardless of where in the world she was or what she was doing there—Charlie was required to provide an address where she could be found, in person, for one hour in every twenty-four-hour period. She could choose whether that hour was noon or four in the afternoon or eleven o’clock at night, and she could change it every day, but the scheduling tended to get so confusing and so disruptive that nearly all the players provided their hour from six to seven each morning. It was early enough that they wouldn’t be anywhere else yet but late enough that it wasn’t a total devastation sleep-wise if the testers actually did show up. Which they did, sometimes as often as eight or ten times a year. Then again, some years they didn’t show at all. You just never knew.

  “So long as it’s for sex and not for steroids, I don’t mind,” Marco said, pecking her on the lips and grabbing his room key. “ ’Bye, gorgeous. Play well.”

  “You too,” she said, although she knew they wouldn’t ever talk about either of their respective matches. “Good luck.”

  He opened the connecting door between their rooms. “This is very convenient,” Marco said, grinning. “I might just request this arrangement from now on.” He stepped through the door and closed it again from the other side.

  Charlie pressed her eyes closed. A scene from the night before flashed into her head: It was right around eight-thirty, and she had just changed into her nightshirt and ordered some mint tea from room service. She was still high from her first-round win earlier that day and a celebratory dinner with her father and Jake, who had arrived in Melbourne just in time to see her match. Lights-out was at ten, which would give her a solid nine hours of sleep before her seven a.m. wake-up. Nine hours was ideal, eight was acceptable, seven was challenging, six was a colossal disaster: this she knew from experience. Over the years Charlie had become a disciplined sleep machine. With the mint tea, a white noise machine, and an eye mask and earplugs, she could sleep anywhere: player lounge, flight, tournament car, hotel, host home. Throw in a little melatonin for the worst of the jet lag and she was good. It had taken years of fine-tuning to perfect the sleeping, but it was crucial to the program and she made it a priority.

  A repeat episode of Scandal had just begun. Charlie climbed under the covers with her mug and a copy of US Weekly. Better to watch Olivia and Fitz hash out another week of “I love you but I can’t be with you” than think one more minute about tennis. Her mind kept flashing back to critiques Todd had made after her first-round match (“Stop being so fucking tentative! You’re a big girl, get that body of yours up to the net and hit the damn ball! Until you put some genuine effort into developing more than a serviceable second serve, you’re going nowhere!”), but right then she forced herself to focus on the TV. Livy’s clothes. Fitz’s commanding presence. And, during commercials, back to the magazine for pics from Angelina and Brad’s latest adventures in New Orleans. She’d just begun to relax when she suddenly heard music playing in an adjacent room.

  Quickly, she dialed the front desk. “Hello? Hi, I know it’s not even nine, but I thought I was on a player-only floor?”

  “Yes, Ms. Silver. That’s correct. Is there anything we can do for you?” The male receptionist was friendly but clearly tired of dealing with tennis demands.

  “Well, I hear music coming from the room next to mine. One closer to the elevator. It’s blasting now. Like, thumping bass. Can you call the room and ask them to turn it down? Or preferably off?”

  “Certainly, Ms. Silver. I’ll remind the room’s occupant of the twenty-four-hour quiet rule for players.”

  “Tha
nk you,” Charlie said. She put the phone down and listened. The walls were thin enough that she heard the volume lower for just a minute as a phone rang in the adjacent room, but a moment later, it was blasting even louder than before. Enrique Iglesias? Seriously?

  Throwing the covers off, Charlie marched into the hallway and pounded on the door of the room. Guaranteed it was going to be some fifteen-year-old kid who’d won a wild card into the tournament and had no idea what protocol was on the player floor. She was raring to go with her whole planned monologue when the door swung open and Marco grinned at her.

  “Charlotte Silver,” he crooned in what could only be described as a hot dirtbag accent. “Look who came to visit.”

  He was, naturally, wearing only boxer briefs and a leather bracelet with a fishhook clasp. A smoky scent—weed? Candle? Incense? She couldn’t quite tell—wafted from the room, and the horrid dance music emanated from the nightstand iPod speakers. A sheen of sweat covered his entire gorgeous body.

  She felt her face grow red. “Marco? Hey, sorry to . . . interrupt. I didn’t know it was you. Obviously. I mean, I had no idea you were in this room, and I never, ever would’ve knocked if I’d known that you were, um . . .”

  It wasn’t every day you accidentally interrupted someone you’d previously had sex with while he was currently having sex with someone else. What was the protocol for that? Charlie had no idea, but she was certain she wasn’t supposed to be standing there (still!) to register a noise complaint.

  Marco threw his head back and laughed. Charlie only noticed how his abs contracted. “Charlie, Charlie. Come in,” he said, motioning inside the room.