“I did indeed. They’ve never found someone they thought was glamorous enough. But they really like the new Charlie rollout that Todd and I have planned. The whole new public image: stronger, more confident. You, just more fabulous. They probably think they can get a bargain, too, because your ranking slipped post-injury, but I obviously won’t let that happen.”
The car pulled up to the Park Hyatt just as Natalya stepped out of a red Lamborghini convertible. She was wearing a red beaded Valentino dress, low-cut in the back and exposing easily an entire foot of naked thigh, paired with five-inch sparkly silver sandals.
“That works,” Jake said with admiration.
“Do you see how long her hair got? Overnight? Who the hell can maintain extensions on tour?” Charlie whispered. “I’m lucky if I can wash it.”
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. So naive.” Jake placed his hand protectively on the small of her back and guided her toward the red carpet. “She brings her own hair and makeup when she travels.”
“She does not!”
Jake guided her past the small cluster of photographers who were busy snapping Natalya. They’d almost made it inside when she heard her name. When she turned around, Natalya was smiling at her with the warmth of a feral cat.
“Charlotte! I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Natalya said with a laugh.
Charlie inhaled slowly and reminded herself to stay calm. “Oh, well, since it’s a mandatory player party, and I am, in fact, a player . . .”
Natalya’s smile narrowed. “Maybe you’ll find a man tonight. Stranger things have happened!”
It was all Charlie could do not to shout her news about Marco. It would almost—almost—be worth it just to see the reaction on Natalya’s face. But before she could come up with a response, she felt Jake give her a little push to the side.
“Hi, Natalya,” Jake said, reaching out to kiss her cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
Natalya turned her gaze to Jake, making no effort to disguise her blatant appraisal.
“Why hello,” she purred flirtatiously.
He likes men! Charlie wanted to scream.
Natalya brushed back a handful of fake blond hair and gasped. “I’m being so rude! Have you met my date yet? Benjy, this is Charlotte Silver and her brother, Jake. Charlotte and I have known each other since we were wee little ones playing as juniors. She’s on a comeback after a huge debacle at Wimbledon last year. How are your injuries, by the way?”
Charlie was spared responding when Natalya’s date stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “Benjy Fuller, pleasure to meet you,” he said. He was just as tall as most of the male players, somewhere in the six foot four or six foot five range, but he must have weighed at least forty or even fifty pounds more. His sandy brown hair was cropped short and tight and his shoulders nearly bulged out of his sport coat. And then it hit her. This wasn’t just any huge guy named Benjy: standing before her was the legendary starting quarterback for the Miami Dolphins, a man who had broken nearly every QB record in his eight-year, two-time Super Bowl–winning career.
“Benjy Fuller?” Charlie said, her mind racing. “Wait, today is Wednesday in Australia, so it’s Tuesday in Miami . . . Aren’t you playing on Sunday? How can you be here right now?”
Benjy laughed as Natalya clung protectively to his behemoth arm. “A football fan, huh? Love it.”
Natalya giggled. Her dress sneaked up even higher. “He’s such a sweetie! They have a bye this week so he got an extra day off. I sent a plane for him and he came all this way for just two nights! I’m a lucky girl, no?”
Benjy patted Natalya’s nearly naked backside. “I can sleep more on that plane than I can at home. Couldn’t pass up the chance to come wish this girl good luck in person. Watch her kick some butt.”
More giggling and groping ensued.
Charlie glanced down at her own dress, which now felt more like a small shower curtain, and said, “Well, that’s just so great. We’ve got to head in now. Nice meeting you, Benjy. And good luck, Natalya.”
Natalya pursed her heart-shaped lips and leaned over to peck Charlie on the cheek. She smelled of expensive perfume. “You have some spinach or something between your teeth,” she whispered ever-so-sweetly. “Thought you’d want to know.”
And without another word, Natalya and Benjy waved to their crowd of admirers and swept into the party.
“She’s hideous,” Charlie said, stepping through the door Jake held open for her. She rooted around her mouth with her tongue but didn’t feel anything between her teeth. Still, she pulled a mirror from her bag to check. “If our lovely dead mother hadn’t insisted a thousand times that I be kind and polite to everyone, I might have killed her already.”
“Yep, Natalya’s pretty awful. But Benjy’s even cuter in person than he is on TV.”
From the relative safety of the bar, Charlie surveyed the room and noticed all the players clustered in tight little groups around the room. A handful sipped wine or beer—the men, mostly, and even then Charlie knew they’d only have a single glass—and they divided themselves up primarily by nationality: Italians with Italians, Spaniards with Spaniards, eastern Europeans together despite the fact that they all spoke different languages. It was a universally gorgeous group. Although there were exceptions, the men tended to be well over six feet tall with small waists and broad shoulders while the women had legs a mile long and not an inch of cellulite. Everyone had blindingly white teeth and thick hair and dressed like they were spending the night at the VMAs. Trainers and coaches and massage therapists and agents and managers and tournament officials all mingled about looking decidedly less fabulous, but by comparison they only heightened the overall attractiveness quotient of the players. Charlie instinctively scanned the room for Marco, but he was nowhere to be found.
Jake handed her a glass of Pellegrino. Something or someone seemed to catch his eye. “Hey, you okay by yourself for a few minutes? There’s someone I have to say hello to.”
“Take me with you. This isn’t exactly the friendliest pond for solo swimming.”
“I’ll be fine,” Jake laughed, walking away.
“I meant me!” But he had already vanished into the crowd.
She resisted the urge to pull out her phone and stand in the corner. She said a few hellos to players who passed by, but she couldn’t seem to get in the party mood. The player parties had been so much more fun when she was younger. At nearly every one, she’d find herself on the dance floor, flirting, chatting up some of the more outgoing players and their friends. It had been exciting to meet people from all over the world and hear their stories, one of the things she loved most about playing professionally. But lately Charlie felt awkward: perched on a barstool, making small talk with the usual crew, biding her time until she could get back to her hotel room to read and unwind. After five years on tour, the faces were mostly familiar now, and the dancing was best left to the teenagers. Plus now there was Marco. The men’s and women’s tours didn’t always overlap—they were only in the same place less than half the time—but when they did, Charlie couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering if they would see each other, when, where, and how.
She could count their rendezvous on one hand: the first spectacular time in Palm Springs, followed immediately by an even better round two at the Miami Open; there had been a torturous few weeks until the men’s and women’s tours overlapped again in Madrid; a very fun night before the next tournament began in Rome; and then the night of the player party before the French Open, which, incidentally, Marco had gone on to win. The next time they were in the same place at the same time was a month later, the fateful Wimbledon where Charlie had crushed her Achilles’, only a day after she and Marco had hooked up at Richard Branson’s lavish pretournament party. At his estate. In a bathroom, to be precise. Their hookups almost always took place in the lead-up to a tournament or its very first da
ys, since once competition ramped up, neither of them wanted the distraction. Charlie was starting to feel an almost Pavlovian response to mandatory player parties: in her mind, they were now associated with sex with Marco. At all the tournaments where only the women were playing, she found herself so much more relaxed. There had been no mention of Marco and any women either in the media or through the usual player gossip circuits, but that didn’t mean much: Marco could be at the tournament and quietly sleeping with anyone—a grown daughter visiting her coach father on tour; one of the PR women for the men’s tour; any of the trainers or nutritionists who worked with the players; or, likeliest of all, any one of the hundreds of female tennis groupies in each city who turned out to the player parties and tournaments in extension-swinging, stripper-smelling, stiletto-wearing droves. Charlie could vomit just thinking about it.
“You look so happy,” Karina Geiger said as she approached Charlie.
Charlie laughed. “Thrilled. You can tell?”
As usual, Karina had flouted the tour’s instructions to dress up for the party and was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie. “Hey, I think I owe you a welcome back, ja? Your first tournament since . . .”
“Wimbledon. First round.”
“Ja, right, I remember. All better now?”
Charlie nodded. “According to the experts, everything is fixed.”
“I am glad you are back. How is your draw? I cannot remember which bracket you—” She was interrupted by a petite brunette—attractive, if not actually pretty—who came and planted a kiss right on Karina’s mouth.
“Hallo, susse! I want you to meet Charlotte. She is not a bitch, a rare thing for the women players. Charlotte, this is my girlfriend, Annika.”
The two women shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” Charlie said.
There was a commotion at the other end of the bar, and all three women turned in time to see Natalya and Benjy dirty dancing in the middle of a huge circle of admirers. She was bent over at the waist, her hands nearly touching the floor, and he was grinding into her from behind, one arm holding her around the middle and pressing her against his pelvis. “Single Ladies” blared from the speakers and the whole room began to clap in unison.
“She always is so . . . how do you say . . . classy?” Karina said. “A true lady on and off the court.”
Charlie laughed. “The stories I could tell you . . .”
Annika said, “Those I would like to hear one day. Come, Kari, let’s get something to eat.”
They waved good-bye and Charlie watched as they walked toward the buffet of sushi and assorted noodle salads. Once again she scanned the room, instinctively searching for Marco, before she even realized what she was doing. Irritated with herself, she pulled out her phone to stare at something—anything—and realized she had never gotten back to Piper.
You still up? What time is it there? I don’t even know what day it is. I want the dirt. she texted.
An answer pinged back immediately. Ronin and I engaged. Down on one knee. Giant rock. The whole nine.
What?? Serious? Charlie felt a strange flip-flop feeling low in her chest. It was hardly a surprise—they’d been dating for nearly a year—but still. Piper was getting married? Meanwhile, Charlie was standing alone at a bar in Melbourne, wondering about the next time she might have super-secret sex with a guy who probably had ten other girls just like her stashed in cities all over the world.
Totally serious. V. excited. Can’t wait for you to hang w/him more. Feel like you barely know him.
What I know, I love!!!! Charlie wished she could delete a few of the exclamation points after she hit “send.” I’m so happy for you.
Have to run. Luv u, honey. Good luck tom. xoxo
Mwwah! Congrats again. More tom. Xx
Charlie stood, staring at the chain of Piper’s texts until Jake appeared at her side.
“Everything okay?”
“Piper and Ronin got engaged,” Charlie said.
“Good for them. Is she happy?” Jake asked in his couldn’t-care-less voice.
“Yes.”
“So what’s your problem with it?”
“I don’t have a problem with it.”
“Charlie. Come on.”
“No, of course I’m happy for her. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s just—when your best friend is about to get married, and you are still completely single and sleeping alone in different hotel rooms every night, it makes you consider your own life, you know?”
“I’d say you have the better end of the bargain. They’re pretty nice rooms, and it’s not like you never go out with anyone. Maybe soon you’ll even tell me who your secret affair is with.”
Charlie looked up. Jake grinned and took a sip of his drink.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, save it, Charlie. I know you’re seeing someone. Todd knows you’re seeing someone. Hell, even Dan probably knows it. I’m sure you think you’re being super stealthy and everything, but we’re not blind. All the secret texting and phone stashing and those you-might-die-if-you-don’t-locate-him-right-this-second looks you keep flashing around this party? Please. All I need to know now is who. It won’t take long. You’ll break or the tennis gossips will give it up. No one can keep a secret on this tour. We both know it.”
Charlie couldn’t even articulate why she hesitated telling Jake about Marco, especially since she generally tortured Jake with the level of detail when it came to other guys. But she knew it didn’t take a shrink to identify her own ambivalence: the combined shame and excitement of having a secret affair, the lack of a label making clear their relationship, the thrill of sneaking around combined with the torment of not really knowing what they had. She wasn’t ready to hash it over and hear opinions just yet, especially those of her overprotective brother.
“Whatever you say, big brother.” Charlie kissed Jake on the cheek. His beard still felt strange to her lips. “I’m going to head back to the hotel and watch some tape. Todd’s been leaving match tape for me to watch every night, and he quizzes me on it the next morning. Plus, I’m tired and I need to be focused for tomorrow.”
Jake nodded. “Okay, be that way. Sleep is a good idea. Come on, I’ll walk you out to the car.”
“No, I’m good, thanks. Stay and have a drink for me.” Charlie squeezed his arm. “Thanks for everything, Jakey.”
Charlie ducked out of the bar and grabbed the first tournament car in the queue. And then she did what she had never, ever done before. Without thinking about how it might come across, or how he would respond, or what it might mean for either of their matches the following day, Charlie pulled out her phone and scrolled through her “recents” list until she found Marco’s name. Before she could convince herself what a terrible idea it was on so many different levels, she wrote, Room 635, headed back now. Meet me there. She powered down her phone and slipped it into her bag. It was done.
7
america loves a makeover
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
FEBRUARY 2016
“This is bliss,” Piper groaned, and Charlie smiled into her face cradle.
“So you won’t hate me forever that I’m missing your engagement party?” Charlie asked. She almost sighed in pleasure as the masseuse kneaded her hamstrings with the perfect amount of pressure.
“Massages go a long way to making me hate you less. I would suggest buying me a package of these if you really want to stay friends,” Piper said.
The girls were facedown on side-by-side tables in the Couples Suite at the Four Seasons Santa Barbara spa. The shutters were pulled open to the sound of the waves, and although the air was crisp, the February early-morning sunshine warmed the room. The heated tables, roaring fire, and hot paraffin wraps around their hands and feet added to the c
ozy feel.
Charlie laughed. “Noted.”
“Any chance you can come afterward to help me look for shoes? I’m finally caving and buying a pair of the studded Valentino’s.”
“I wish. Todd’s already waiting for me. We have a lunch ‘strategy meeting’ at the Ivy. My exhibition match is at three, and it’s followed by a full two-hour practice. I’m going to have to ask permission to pee this afternoon. Unfortunately, shoe shopping is off the table.”
“Won’t it be strange to go back? Like, as a professional now? I think just walking on those courts would give me a full-on anxiety attack.”
“Well, you spent a lot more time there than I did,” Charlie said, and then regretted the way it had come out. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No, you’re right. Four long years. The weirdest part is, I don’t miss it for a single second.”
“Why would you? You didn’t like it.”
“Hey, it got me out of my fucked-up house, didn’t it? And we wouldn’t have met if I hadn’t played, so tennis can’t be all bad.”
It felt like the ultimate of ironies that Charlie, who had never spent time at any of the prestigious tennis academies—something of a rarity among top-level players—had turned pro, and Piper, who had spent her entire childhood and adolescence at one, couldn’t care less about the game. When Piper first told Charlie about how her parents had shipped her to the Bollettieri Academy in Florida when she was nine, Charlie almost didn’t believe her.
“You must have been so good,” Charlie said, her eyes wide when Piper told her this during their first meal together in the freshman dining hall at UCLA. Could you even dress yourself when you were nine? Charlie wondered. She could barely remember.
“Good at what? Tennis?” Piper’s laugh was joyless. “Outside of the fancy day camp they’d sent me to the previous summer, I’d barely picked up a racket. They told all their friends they were sending me there to ‘cultivate my talent,’ but that’s only because it looked way better to ship your nine-year-old off to a prestigious tennis academy than to another standard-issue boarding school. But that’s really all it was, at least for me.”
The Singles Game Page 11