Piper had gone on to explain how super-rich families from all over the world dispatched their children to these tennis academies as a sort of high-end, year-round babysitting service. For six figures a year, sons and daughters of Saudi royalty and European financiers and Texan oilmen and South American entrepreneurs could guarantee their children would learn English, complete school requirements, get trained by the best coaches in the tennis world, and never need to come home for much longer than a week at Christmas and two during the summer. Plus it sounded good to tell their friends their kids were “training at Bollettieri” side by side with the kids who showed genuine tennis potential and had been sent to the academy because their coaching needs had actually surpassed whatever was available to them in their home countries. What no one expected, of course, was that every now and then a few of the rich kids who were there for the 365-days-a-year babysitting actually turned out to be decent players. Piper had been one of them.
She had played doubles her first three years at UCLA and singles her final year, although she never ranked higher than number four on the team. Charlie was ranked number one from the day she arrived on campus until she dropped out to turn pro a year later, but somehow things were never competitive between them. Maybe because it was obvious that Piper wasn’t committed to tennis. She showed up for required practices and seemed to enjoy matches, but she would never, ever attend optional early-morning lifting sessions or extra weekend hit-arounds like the rest of them. Piper stayed out late and dated a million different guys and took weekend trips with her non-tennis friends. Charlie didn’t even have any non-tennis friends. The few times they’d discussed it, Piper was always a little vague. “I love tennis,” she’d say with a laugh. “I love drinking and traveling and dating and sleeping and reading and shopping, too. I’m certainly not going to give up my life for a sport.” Even today, Piper played only once a week with a group of ex–college players who hit better than 99 percent of casual players but who looked at tennis as merely a hobby, something to cram in between work and social life. A good workout and some fun. It was impossible for Charlie to imagine.
“Coach Stephens is gone now and I’ve never even met the new guy. I don’t know anyone anymore,” Charlie said. Her massage therapist asked her to turn over on her back and then draped a lavender-scented beanbag across her eyes.
“Whatever. At least it got you to LA. How long has it been? Two months?”
Charlie was glad she’d insisted on the spa day, but it couldn’t make up for all the missed time. She exhaled slowly and said, “Tell me more about Ronin. Why him?”
Charlie could hear the smile in her friend’s voice. “Why him?” she laughed. “Because he’ll have me.”
“Oh, please. Half of LA would have you, Pipes. Hell, half of LA has had you . . .”
“Easy, tiger. I’m not the one whose fuck buddy just happens to be—”
“Piper!” Thankfully, her friend realized that she shouldn’t finish her sentence. While it wasn’t especially likely the masseuses knew who Charlie was, she didn’t need gossip about her and Marco—especially gossip that included the phrase “fuck buddy”—splashed across the internet. No thank you.
“Back to Ronin. Tell me everything.”
“Everything? Well, let’s see. He grew up in St. Louis, although his family moved a lot when he was a kid.”
“Where’s he from originally?” Charlie asked.
“I just told you. St. Louis.”
“No, I meant where are his parents from?”
“You mean because he’s Asian? He can still be Asian and from St. Louis, you know.”
“Oh, save it, please. I meant because he has an accent. Or is that something you never noticed?”
“His parents are from Japan. He was born there and spent large parts of his childhood there. But he’s an American.”
“Got it. American. With a defensive fiancée. Check. What else?”
Piper laughed. “Sorry. It’s just my mother is such a blatant racist. She’s obsessed with the fact that he’s of Asian descent. Like, really can’t wrap her mind around it and wants to talk about it all the time. I guess I’m just sick of having it be at the center of every freaking conversation.”
“Your mother would be uncomfortable if you brought home a Catholic. Or a brunette. It’s the cross you bear being the liberal-minded daughter of rich WASPs.”
“True. So anyway, you know he’s an ER doctor—”
“The doctor who just wants to surf all day, right?”
“There are so many boards in our garage right now, I can’t even count. When does someone get too old to be doing the whole stoner surfer thing?” Piper asked.
“Not at twenty-nine, unfortunately. He must be so psyched about your parents’ place in Maui . . .”
Piper laughed. “Totally. If only he could figure out how to ditch my parents. They’re going more and more frequently now that my dad retired. Last time we were all there together my mother actually said something about not knowing that ‘people of Oriental descent’ surfed. It was as lovely as you might imagine.”
It was Charlie’s turn to laugh. “Just give her lots of half-Asian babies and she’ll shut up.”
“It’s funny, I tried to explain to her that Ronin also has a mother, who wasn’t super thrilled with our relationship—this poor woman has been hoping her whole life for a sweet Buddhist girl who could cook a decent ramen, and she got stuck with an atheist Protestant Mayflower chick whose family has more cases per capita of alcoholism than the whole of the Betty Ford clinic, but you don’t see her complaining. Nope, just brought me right into the fold and taught me how to assemble a halfway decent bento box. My mother doesn’t understand that to save her life.”
Charlie immediately tried to imagine what it would look like to be able to introduce her mother to her future fiancé. Her mom had missed it all, of course: Charlie’s first period, the prom, the college dorm room, the first time competing in a Grand Slam. Charlie’s parents had eloped in the early eighties when her mom found out she was pregnant with Jake, so they never had an official engagement or a proper wedding. Maybe that was why Charlie felt increasingly uneasy as friends started to get married off?
The sound of a chime brought Charlie back to the massage. “Thank you so much,” her therapist was whispering. “Take your time getting dressed. We’ll wait outside.”
“That was great,” Piper said, rubbing her eyes. Even with pillow indentations across her cheek and bloodshot eyes, Piper looked like a supermodel. She shrugged on a robe as Charlie tried not to stare.
As if in answer, Piper raised her eyes in Charlie’s direction and said, “You’re looking great these days.”
Charlie rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. That’s why Todd can’t shut up about these last five pounds.” Charlie grabbed her thighs in both hands. “Wanna trade?”
The girls walked out of the suite and toward the locker room. “You think Marco Vallejo is thinking about anything except how hot you look as he mounts you every chance he has? Seriously, Charlie. Enough with the ugly duckling complex. You may have been a little thicker a few years back, but you’re officially hot now. I just want to hear how you’re handling this whole casual sex thing? Because the Charlie I know isn’t exactly a sleep-around kind of girl.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”
“From everything you’ve described he’s not your boyfriend. He’s not even really your friend. You have to be okay with that for it to work. Are you okay with it?”
“Of course.”
“You’re not!”
“I have to be. That’s definitely the arrangement.”
The girls took their snacks to the patio outside, where they sat down in front of a small, wood-burning fire.
“I don’t have feelings for him,” Charlie said quietly, realizing the truth for the first time. “I just
like having someone.”
“He’s way better than just someone,” Piper said, taking a sip of tea.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. I’m sure it can get lonely traveling that much. You’re gone all the time. You have nothing even resembling a normal life. And historically you’re a serial monogamist. Trust me, I’ve thought about it a lot. Ronin and I talk about how hard it must be for you all the time.”
Charlie turned to look at Piper. “Seriously? Those are your words of wisdom? My fiancé and I talk all the time about how epically fucked-up your life is?”
Piper reached over and gave Charlie’s arm a poke. “Shut up, you know that’s not what I mean. It’s all coming from a place of concern.”
“Oh good. That makes me feel much better.”
“Well, it should. I do worry about you. Maybe having a boyfriend wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Maybe you and Marco should try actually going out to a movie or dinner or something normal people do. Have a conversation. Tell him about yourself. Ask him questions. He must have some interest outside of tennis. Maybe find out what it is?”
“Can you even imagine what the media storm would be around that? If we went out on a real normal-people date? There would be cameras everywhere.”
“Oh, come on, who cares? Two consenting adults who both just happen to play the same sport start to date? Is it really so scandalous?”
Charlie thought about this. When Piper put it that way, it was true: it didn’t sound so crazy. During the handful of times they’d hooked up and gone to great lengths to keep it quiet, it hadn’t even really occurred to her that the secrecy might not be necessary. What was the worst thing that could happen? They would try dating and it wouldn’t work? So what? A few reporters would ask some annoying questions about it, a couple of talking heads would give big “I told you so’s” the same way they do whenever relationships between professional athletes—or actors or musicians or anyone in the spotlight—failed, and who cared? Why had they been so determined to keep things quiet? Who, exactly, was it benefitting?
“You’re right,” Charlie said, slowly nodding.
“What?” Piper feigned an incredulous expression.
“What is the big deal if we do start dating for real? Like you said, he’s one of the only guys in the world who understand where I’m coming from.”
“Plus he’s magnificent.”
“So long as we both understand that our careers come first, I don’t see why it couldn’t work.”
“Not to mention that he’s spectacular-looking.”
“I mean, I haven’t had anything resembling a serious relationship since . . . my god . . . college. Brian was the last one.” Charlie gazed skyward as she calculated.
“Have we talked about how great his hair is?”
“The few-month fling with the tennis journalist? Not my finest moment. But at least he was a nice guy.”
“Even his name is sexy.”
“Oh, and the downhill ski racer I met on the flight to Monaco. Talk about competing schedules.”
“Would you think it’s weird if I told you I fantasized about his abs?”
“Christ, Piper. I’m pathetic! Do you realize it’s been since my freshman year in college that I’ve had a relationship longer than a few months? I’m twenty-five years old. And practically a virgin.”
Piper smiled and patted Charlie’s hand. “Let’s not get carried away here. You’ve dated. You’re just not . . . what’s the best way of saying this? The best picker. And you have some challenging circumstances, what with your whole lifestyle and all. It doesn’t mean all hope is lost.”
“Thanks.” Charlie looked down at her phone. “Oh, I’ve got to run. I have to be back in LA in an hour and a half. If there’s traffic, I’m never going to make it.”
“Love you, C. Thanks for a great day. I’m now only half pissed off you’re missing my engagement party.”
Charlie kissed Piper’s cheek. “See? Money can buy friendship. An important lesson.”
“That may as well be my mother’s mantra. Nothing I haven’t heard from the cradle.” Piper wrapped a cashmere infinity scarf around her neck, and for the thousandth time Charlie wondered how her friend was so effortlessly chic. “And don’t forget to buy yourself something nice for Valentine’s Day, okay? I would suggest chocolate but since you’re on a starvation diet, maybe jewelry. No tennis crap!”
They waved good-bye and Charlie handed the valet her ticket. She found herself wishing again she could stay the night and party with the rest of their college friends, but she needed to be back in LA by four. She eased her rented Audi convertible onto the 405 and turned the music up. It was that perfect kind of winter day that only Californians understood: high sixties, warm sun, cool breeze. Literally the kind of day for which they invented convertibles. Near Malibu, she calculated that she was fine with time and moved over to the PCH: it would take longer, but it was worth it to drive along the water. Charlie switched the XM station to the Blend and sang along with Rachel Platten and Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran until her throat felt raw and eyes were tearing from the wind. How many times had she driven the PCH her freshman year? She and Brian would go for drives on Sunday afternoons and bicker over the radio: she always wanted top forty; he always wanted anything else. She had even told him she was leaving school—and him—to turn pro at the Fish Shack in Malibu.
Brian knew with a wisdom exceeding his nineteen years that a long-distance relationship with someone who’d be traveling three hundred days a year was unrealistic. The breakup was miserable. It only took a few months on tour for Charlie to see that maintaining a relationship on tour was actually only impossible for the women. For the men it was a totally different world: they had girlfriends who traveled with them, dressed in designer jeans and high heels and perfect hair and makeup each and every day so they could stretch out like kittens in various players’ lounges all over the world, waiting for their hot, sweaty men to walk off the court. Four out of the top five ranked men in the world were married. With children. It had taken Charlie’s breath away when Marcy had once pointed that out, followed quickly by the number of women married in the top twenty: one. And the number in the top twenty with children? Zero. Men weren’t exactly lining up to follow their player girlfriends all over the world, keeping their hotel beds warm at night and breakfasting with them at six a.m. in cafeterias from Dublin to Dubai, waiting to hug those sweaty, exhausted women when they finally left the court, alternately elated or enraged, depending on the day. The couple of men who did give it a go for a little didn’t last long: coaches and male players and even other female players whispered about their lack of jobs and their abundant free time, calling them pussy-whipped and losers and mooches. But the various models and actresses and anonymous pretty things who traveled all over to support their boyfriends? Everyone seemed to understand they were just doing what the men needed.
The car in front of her came to a screeching halt and it was all Charlie could do not to rear-end the massive black Suburban. She had mindlessly followed the nav through Malibu and Santa Monica and across Brentwood and the leafy streets of Beverly Hills to the Peninsula, where the Suburban pulled in right ahead of her.
A text pinged on her phone. Todd. Thirty minutes, Ivy, Robertson. Don’t be late.
She tapped back a single letter, k, and handed her keys to the valet. Two porters were busily unloading trunk after trunk of coordinated Goyard luggage from the depths of the Suburban, and Charlie couldn’t help but linger on the sidewalk to see which celebrity would emerge. From the looks of the bags, it was likely a Kardashian. Possibly a Rihanna or Katy Perry type pop star. Definitely not an A-list actor, judging by the sheer amount of baggage. This person had packed the whole house and was here to stay. Just as she was about to give up and walk inside, the driver removed a Wilson racket bag the size of a Great Dane from its perch atop the pa
ssenger-side front seat. Hanging from it was a soda can–sized “charm,” a diamond-encrusted owl with emerald eyes and a lipstick-lined beak and long eyelashes that Charlie knew were made from actual rabbit whiskers. She’d recognize that gaudy owl anywhere.
“Look who it is!” Natalya crowed to Charlie from the backseat of the Suburban. Every single man, woman, and child who either worked the valet line or was waiting in the parking area of the Peninsula Beverly Hills stopped reading their texts and looking for their keys and wrangling their children and turned to watch the six-foot-tall blonde, in shorts so minuscule everyone could make out the neon pink underwear, languidly slide down the side of the car. Charlie swore she could hear a collective sigh when Natalya’s platform sandal landed safely on the pavement.
“You’re sweet to wait for me. Here, grab this.” Natalya thrust a logo-covered train bag into Charlie’s arms. “Thanks, darling.”
Shocked to see Natalya in Los Angeles a full four days before they were both set to play Indian Wells in Palm Springs, Charlie unthinkingly followed her into the lobby.
“What are you doing here?” Charlie asked as Natalya showed her ID to the front desk person. It occurred to Charlie that she, too, should be checking in, but she couldn’t remember if she’d left her purse in the car or if it was on the valet cart.
Natalya leaned in close enough for Charlie to catch a pleasant whiff of vanilla-scented perfume. “Benjy just played in the Pro Bowl in Hawaii. He’s meeting me here tonight for a little . . . R and R. What about you, Charlie? Another night hunkered down with your team? It must get lonely with only your coach and your brother for company.”
Charlie’s pulse quickened.
“You really should think about getting yourself a man,” Natalya said, pulling her phone out. “What about that new kid on the men’s tour, the one from Philly? He’d probably sleep with you.”
A picture flashed in her head: Brett or Brent or something, nearly six five with gangly limbs and acne. Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old, at the most. It was followed quickly by a visual of Marco, soaked in sweat after a match, the Dri-Fit of his T-shirt literally sticking to his muscles, headband holding back his thick black hair. Then, his smile, the one she’d only seen him flash for her privately . . .
The Singles Game Page 12