“Oh, I sure did. Dan! Over here, you’re late!”
“Sorry,” Dan said, glancing at his watch. “It’s only a minute.”
Todd glared at him but thankfully spared them both the whole “if you’re not early, you’re late” spiel, and they all took their positions: Dan and Charlie on opposing baselines, Todd at the side, holding on to the net.
“Other side!” Todd barked the moment they each began to bounce in place.
Charlie sighed and jogged to the sunny side of the court. Todd insisted she always practice on the side with the worst conditions—sun, wind, shadows—since she wouldn’t have the luxury of choosing during a match.
Dan hit a few easy forehands and backhands to warm her up, but within five minutes he was whacking them hard and fast. It always amazed her how a guy an inch shorter could hit the ball so much harder than she could. She was still getting used to having a hitting partner. Marcy, as an ex-pro, had always acted as both coach and practice partner, and even in her late thirties could still give Charlie a run for her money. Dan was twenty-three and had recently graduated from Duke, where he’d played first singles. At Todd’s insistence Charlie had hired Dan to travel with her, and she could definitely see her game improving from hitting against a man every day. In the couple of weeks they’d been practicing together, Charlie was already better at returning deep baseline shots.
They spent most of the practice working on Charlie’s famed one-handed backhand. Todd thought she wasn’t being aggressive enough with it after her injury, and he was right. At one point he yelled at her for slicing the ball one-handed. “Lazy!” he screamed. “Your wrist is completely rehabbed. If there’s something you need to tell me about how it feels, then do it. If not, start moving those fucking feet!” It went on like this for nearly three hours: Charlie scrambling, pushing, lunging, sliding, twisting; Dan returning every shot like a backboard; Todd screaming until his voice went hoarse and sweat slid down his brow. “Is this what I signed on for?” he yelled over and over again. “Is this really the maximum of what you’ve got? Because that’s goddamn pathetic!”
When she was finally allowed to get some water, Dan filled her water bottle and said, “He’s pretty tough on you.”
Charlie glanced at Todd, who’d moved to the other side of the court to take a call, and said, “Yes. But it’s good. I need it.”
Dan cleared his throat.
“What? You don’t think so? I had the nicest coach on earth before him, and look where it got me. Twenty-three. Todd may not be the fuzziest guy around, but he’s the best.”
“That’s for sure. Hasn’t he coached more players to Grand Slam titles than anyone else?” Dan took a deep swig of water; not that he looked like he needed it—he had barely broken a sweat.
“Sure has. He took Adrian Eversoll from obscurity to winning three Slams in a year. I’m the first woman he’s ever agreed to coach,” Charlie said with pride.
“Cool. That’s cool.” It was obvious Dan thought the exact opposite.
Charlie’s phone buzzed with a text.
What the hell time is it there? Call me. I have news.
Can’t call. Tell me now. Charlie smiled. Piper was constantly getting into trouble and there was little Charlie enjoyed more than living vicariously through her. They rarely saw each other, but it never seemed to matter: they always picked right up where they’d last left off.
Not a chance, ho. Call me.
Who u calling a ho? Just bc I had random sex w/M last night after we bumped in 2 each other in the hall?
I love it! I’ve finally convinced u?
Would u kick him out of bed?????
Fair point. Call me when u can.
“Charlie! Stretch it out and meet us at the car in twenty. Dan, come with me,” Todd barked, already halfway to the facility. Without a word, Dan dropped his cup in the garbage and trotted after Todd. Charlie glanced at her watch and tried to see if there was enough time to call Piper but decided to wait until she was back at the hotel. She used a towel to mop off her forehead and neck and did some cooldown stretches. The late-morning heat was just starting to pick up, and almost without thinking, Charlie sprayed all her exposed skin with another layer of SPF 70. Most of it slid right off her forehead and into her eyes. Wrinkles were inevitable—the tour schedule literally chased the sun around the globe for eleven months out of every twelve—but Charlie had read somewhere that 70 percent of professional athletes who mainly practiced and played outside got skin cancer by age fifty. Marcy had always been a lunatic about keeping Charlie protected with hats and specialty face sunscreens and loose SPF practice clothing, but Charlie hadn’t been so diligent about it now that she was with Todd.
She wanted to text Marcy a picture of herself and her giant bottle of La Roche-Posay with some idiotic caption that she knew would make her laugh, but of course she couldn’t do that. When her phone rang again, she was momentarily convinced Marcy had read her mind and called to say hello, but Charlie knew without even looking at the screen that it was impossible: you didn’t fire someone and then chitchat like girlfriends.
“Hello?” She held her breath while waiting for the response. Of all the difficult parts traveling so much entailed—airports, delays, jet lag, strange hotel rooms, difficulty maintaining a functional relationship, to name a few—one of the most annoying was essentially sacrificing caller ID. It almost never worked in foreign countries, so answering every call was a crapshoot.
“Charlie? It’s me.” Jake’s voice sounded like it was a million miles away instead of five.
“Hey, I’m heading in for a shower. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to make sure we’re all still on for dinner tonight. Is Dan coming? I know Todd is. I need to know how many to make the res for. Heads up, Dad wants to celebrate your birthday tonight.”
“Hmm, I think it’s just us—you, me, Dad, and Todd. Dan made it pretty clear that when he’s not working he’s doing his own thing. Four. Unless there’s a special someone you want to bring? Being that it’s my birthday celebration and all.”
Charlie draped a clean towel across her neck and walked off the court. Natalya Ivanov, the statuesque Russian currently ranked number one in the world, jammed her body past Charlie at the court’s entrance. The girl’s racket bag slammed into Charlie’s thigh with a serious whomp.
“Excuse me,” Charlie said as nicely as she could manage.
“What? Are you talking to me?” Jake asked.
“No, not you. Just bumped into someone walking off the court. No big deal.”
Infuriatingly, this made Natalya laugh. “Why don’t you worry about manners, and I’ll worry about winning.” She leaned in so close when she said this that Charlie could smell her shampoo.
Before Charlie could come up with a single response, Natalya turned and followed her coach and hitting partner onto the court, already chatting with them in a glamorous mixture of French, Russian, and English.
“Oh, I hate her so much!” Charlie hissed into the phone, rubbing the reddening scratch across her thigh. “Why is she so nasty? I ignore the bait. But she’s always such a bitch to me.”
“Natalya, I’m guessing? Good. Channel that anger and use it to beat her. I’d like to see the two of you in the finals together. So would the entire world, and certainly all of your endorsers.”
Charlie felt her fingernails dig into her palms. The finals. Of a Grand Slam. Against Natalya. She would do anything—anything—for that opportunity. All those years of practice and training, lifting and sweating and sacrificing—it would all be worth it if she had just once chance to beat Natalya in front of the whole world. There, she admitted it.
Charlie could still clearly remember the first time she met Natalya. Charlie had competed all over the western part of the United States, but her father hadn’t yet hired Marcy to coach her and travel with her beyond their home region. Natal
ya had been training for years at one of the Florida academies, but her manager mother wasn’t pleased with the instruction she was receiving, so she moved Natalya to a small, prestigious academy near Sacramento. The very first time they played each other was a fourteen-and-under tournament where both girls had made it to the semis, and Charlie was floored to see Natalya blatantly cheating on her line calls. There were no line judges or umpires for most junior tournaments, just a whole lot of talk about sportsmanship and honesty and integrity. Natalya won that day, and she proceeded to win every match the two of them played for the next two years. Finally, with Marcy’s support, Charlie filed an official complaint to the tournament director of a sixteen-and-under the girls were playing in Boulder, Colorado, and an official was dispatched to the court. Charlie won that day for the first time, and it didn’t take much to recall the look of hatred Natalya had flashed her as Charlie held the tournament trophy high.
A rivalry had been born, at least according to Natalya. Charlie hated the conflict, completely refused to engage. Her mother had always insisted she take the high road, so she tried her best to stay out of the girl’s crosshairs, to kill her with kindness, to maintain a polite, professional distance whenever possible. But Natalya didn’t make it easy: she bad-mouthed Charlie every chance she got; she tried to hire away Marcy; she hit on any guy in whom Charlie showed the least bit of interest. It wasn’t only Charlie Natalya attacked—she was nasty and vindictive to everyone on the tour—but she was especially ruthless with the attractive women around her age, especially when a particularly good performance threatened her clear number-one ranking.
“Charlie? You there?” Jake asked.
The sound of his voice jostled her back. “What? Yes, sorry. I have to run. I’m meeting Todd soon for a strategy lunch and then I have lifting from one to three. I’m hoping to cram in a massage before heading back to the hotel. Dinner’s at six?”
“Roger that. I’ll make sure Dad knows. He’s wandering around downtown Melbourne right now practicing his Crocodile Dundee accent on unsuspecting shop owners.”
Charlie forced a laugh, which caused Natalya to turn around and glare. “Quiet on the court!” she shouted from the opposite baseline.
“Don’t worry,” she said under her breath, as she strode toward the car. “I was just leaving.”
6
no more little miss nice girl
MELBOURNE
JANUARY 2016
A guy wearing a Euro tight suit descended upon Charlie the moment she walked through the door. “Charlotte! We’re so happy to have you join us!”
Charlie wracked her brain trying to place him. Was he the husband of a player? He seemed gay, so it was unlikely, but you never really knew these days. A colleague of Jake’s from Elite Athlete Management? A friend of Todd’s? Someone she’d met a dozen times before, who would surely be offended when she didn’t remember his name?
“Hey, great to see you, too!” she said with way too much enthusiasm. She prayed she wouldn’t have to introduce him to anyone.
“Great first match!” His enthusiasm met her own. Still no hint.
“Thanks, I definitely got lucky. Fingers crossed for tomorrow.”
“Yes, you’re playing tomorrow afternoon? We’ll get you out of here in no time.”
“That would be great . . .” Okay, so he definitely worked at the restaurant. Todd’s assistant had booked the table at Botanical weeks earlier: he insisted on eating at the trendiest restaurants in every city they visited. “Better optics,” he always said when Charlie asked why they just couldn’t go somewhere low-key.
“Your father and brother are already seated. Todd isn’t here yet, but he called to say he was on his way.”
If you’re not early, you’re late, Charlie couldn’t help thinking. “You know Todd?” she asked. This wasn’t the least bit surprising, but Charlie didn’t know what else to say.
“Honey, that man has brought every player to eat here since we opened. All the greats. They come to celebrate wins and they come to cry into their sparkling waters when they lose.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
Charlie followed the still-nameless maître d’ through the modern leather and steel dining room. She noticed a large party in the corner, a mixed group of Slovakian male and female players with their coaches, but pretended she didn’t see them. When they reached the table, Charlie was relieved to see her dad and Jake already seated.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Mr. Silver said, standing to embrace Charlie. He smelled of the same subtle aftershave he’d been wearing for as long as Charlie could remember. And tennis. That combination smell of new tennis balls and sunshine and Har-Tru clay that every man who spent his life on or near the courts seemed to emanate from every pore. He smelled like home.
“Thanks,” Charlie said, hugging him tightly. “But it’s not until next week.”
“Well, we thought we’d celebrate tonight because we’re all together. It’s a double celebration—first big match back.”
“Twenty-five sounds old, doesn’t it?” Charlie accepted the seat her father had pulled out for her and turned just in time to see Jake shake the maître d’s hand and then slide a piece of paper into his pocket.
When the man wished them a good meal and left, Charlie turned to Jake. “Did he just slip you his number?”
“Mind your own business,” Jake said.
A busboy appeared and poured them all water from a carafe. Jake drank his down in one swallow and asked for more.
“Isn’t there a more modern way to do that? Can’t he, like, beam it to your phone, or find you on some location-based app where he can see your pecs before committing?” Charlie poked her brother.
“You’re charming.”
“I’m just saying, the gays are usually very cutting-edge with these things.”
“Okay, okay, let’s all calm down,” Mr. Silver coughed, yanking on his already unbuttoned shirt collar. No one had been more supportive (or less surprised) when Jake came out in college, but Charlie’s father still grew suddenly quiet and uncomfortable with any direct references to Jake sleeping with men. Which naturally delighted both Jake and Charlie to no end.
“Greetings, Silver family,” Todd boomed to the table. His designer jeans and blazer did nothing to disguise his bulk. All the sun had weathered his face prematurely, making him look at least a decade older than his forty-four years, and his eyes were always rheumy, watery. In the most reptilian way, he both blinked and licked his lips almost constantly. While his appearance had always repulsed Charlie, now that he was her coach she found it comforting. In a world of overwhelmingly—almost unnaturally—attractive people, it was nice to have someone around who wasn’t blindingly gorgeous. Someone who didn’t flirt with her or let his hand accidentally on purpose brush against her ass or make crass jokes or ogle other women. Granted, he had actually arranged for her room to connect with Marco’s in the hope they would sleep together, but in the grand scheme of inappropriate behavior toward a female player from her male coach, Todd was downright dreamy.
Both her father and Jake stood to shake Todd’s hand.
“Hello, Mr. Feltner,” Mr. Silver said formally. Nothing about her father was formal or stuffy, but he’d acted awkwardly around Todd from their very first meeting.
“Call me Todd! Peter. Jake. Charlotte. Great to see everyone.” He took a seat and immediately motioned for the waiter. “Gentlemen, can I interest you in some tequila? They have a great selection.”
Charlie tried not to smile as both her father and her brother nodded. Her father drank beer and Jake preferred vodka, but no one wanted to speak up.
“Excellent. We’ll do the six-flight tasting, please,” Todd said to the waitress. Her father blanched. Jake stared at the table. “And a sparkling water with a lemon for the lady.”
Lime, Charlie thought, but she, too, kept quiet.
There was a moment of silence before Jake seemed to wake up and said, “Well, let’s jump right in, folks. Exciting things are happening with Team Silver, so let’s run through them. Todd, why don’t you start?”
Charlie was pleased Jake had taken control of the dinner. When she’d officially hired him as her agent/manager a couple of years earlier, all the tongues had wagged. Amateur move. Momagers were for tween movie stars, not highly trained professional athletes. There were dozens of agents around the globe—experienced, savvy men and women—who had literally been fighting to sign Charlie, and when she’d gone with Jake, only twenty-six at the time and barely past the assistant stage, they’d all rolled their eyes in collective objection. It had taken some time and a few missteps, but it was worth it to Charlie to have someone on her team who she could trust beyond question, someone who had no agenda beyond what was best for her. And now it seemed especially crucial with Todd at the helm.
The waitress returned with their tequila flights, and everyone ordered. After each had sipped their first taste—and Todd downed his—Todd cleared his throat.
“So, status update. First and foremost, I just got the official report from Charlotte’s exam last week at HSS, and Dr. Cohen confirms Charlotte’s right foot and left wrist are entirely healed. The scans were all perfect.”
Jake and her father clapped while Charlie did a mini bow at the table.
“Dino, the physio I highly recommend, is the best. If he can get Federer through his shoulder injury he can get Charlie through anything. Ideally, he’d travel with us to all Slams and Premier Mandatory tournaments. Of course, that will cost.” Todd made a sweeping motion with both hands. “I leave that decision up to you.”
“The physios they provide at tournaments are usually very good,” Charlie offered. “You even said so yourself in our first meeting in LA.”
The new team Todd had put together was great but expensive. There was money coming in, certainly, from both winnings and endorsements, but it felt like it was hemorrhaging, too. Between Todd, Dan, and Jake, Charlie now had three full-time people on staff and paid everyone’s room, board, and travel—in addition to her own—while on tour.
The Singles Game Page 9