Charlie got up to introduce herself to the girl, a petite phenom from China who was UCLA’s current number one, but Todd clamped his hand around her wrist. “Wait for her to come to you,” he said under his breath.
“Seriously?” Charlie asked, watching the girl wave to her friends. “She’s a kid.”
“She’s an opponent and you need to practice treating her like one,” he growled. “Enough with the saccharine, sweetie-pie bit. Are you a fucking debutante or an athlete?”
“I really can’t be hard-hitting and friendly?” Charlie asked. “I’m obviously going to kill her. I’d like to at least be gracious about it.”
Dan stood off to the side, shaking his head. As a man, was he incapable of understanding why Charlie wanted to put the girl at ease? Or did he agree with Charlie that Todd was going overboard?
“Hi, I’m Yuan. Thanks so much for coming today. My aunt has breast cancer, so I’m especially honored to play for your same cause. It means a lot to me that you accepted my invitation.” Yuan smiled widely at Charlie, who couldn’t help but smile back.
“It’s my pleasure,” she said, meaning every word. “My mother died from breast cancer when I was twelve, so I understand where you’re coming from. I’m glad you asked me.” Charlie could feel Todd glaring at her, but she ignored him.
Every year the number-one singles player at UCLA could choose a charity for the Celebrity Exhibition and invite a celebrity opponent. Because it was LA, most of the players chose actors or musicians, which didn’t make for particularly great tennis, but who wouldn’t want to see Bradley Cooper running all over the court in shorts and no shirt, sweaty and grinning and playing to the crowd? Last year she’d read Reese Witherspoon had been invited to play. The first year Charlie had gotten to choose the celeb, she hadn’t hesitated for a second: Martina Navratilova had graciously accepted and, even though she had been thirty-five years Charlie’s senior, had managed to take a set off her before Charlie beat her in the next two. It had been the most thrilling match of her entire life, playing against a living legend. Charlie was light-years from Navratilova in terms of record and experience, but she hoped Yuan felt a tiny bit the same way.
“Don’t give her more than a game in either set,” Todd whispered in her ear as Charlie adjusted her headband.
“I’m not ‘giving’ her any games,” Charlie said.
“Double bagels is humiliating.”
“Not as humiliating as knowing someone’s handing you a game.” Something Charlie had learned on the other end of it. She was almost relieved when Yuan played nearly perfect tennis and took a game off Charlie in the first set and two from her in the second. The girl was petite, but she was mighty. And the students went crazy cheering for both of them.
“That was awesome, thank you,” Yuan said, as they shook hands.
“You hit beautifully,” Charlie said. “You ever think of joining us?”
Yuan looked taken aback. “Turning pro? Me? No way.”
“You’re definitely good enough,” Charlie said, collapsing into the courtside chair beside the net. “Better than I was when I played here.”
“Thanks, that’s nice to hear. But I want my degree. I want to study medicine and go home to China one day to practice. Tennis is great, and I love it, but it’s a means to an end.”
“I hear you,” Charlie said, suddenly feeling awkward. She never felt her college dropout status more acutely than when someone else pointedly and confidently made the choice to finish her degree.
Todd came over to the girls and clapped Yuan on the shoulder. “Good match. You probably could have taken another game off Charlie if you’d taken a few more risks, especially with your serve, which isn’t half-bad. When you’re playing someone so much better, it’s not enough just to keep the ball in play.” He turned to Charlie. “You, on the other hand, were lazy!” he all but shouted. “You were dragging ass on the baseline, and we’re going to fix that right now. Meet me on court six in ten minutes for practice. I sent Dan to pick up some protein, but no dinner until we’re finished. And you’re doing an hour in the gym after you hit.”
The girls watched as he picked up Charlie’s racket bag and walked off the court.
“And that is why I don’t play professionally,” Yuan laughed.
“Oh, you get used to it. Without hours of classes a day, there’s plenty of time for practice. It’s not so bad,” Charlie said, although she knew that wasn’t at all what Yuan meant.
“Anyway, thanks again. And good luck the rest of the season. I’ll totally be cheering for you!” Yuan gave Charlie a hug and bounded off the court, no doubt headed for a hot shower and then probably a night spent with friends, either at a movie or studying, maybe even a college bar. Charlie watched her wistfully.
Dan was waiting for her on court six with a prepacked box he’d picked up at Starbucks containing a hard-boiled egg, some apple slices, and a stale biscuit with a packet of peanut butter. She downed the box of chocolate milk first, not even bothering to use the straw, and then devoured everything else.
“Thanks,” she said. “That was lifesaving.”
“Anytime. I was going to get you a latte, but Todd would have put a bullet in my head.”
Charlie did a snort laugh. “Yeah, probably not worth the murder risk. But thanks for thinking of it.”
“You looked great out there,” Dan said, motioning toward the first court. “I mean, uh, your game looked really solid, and I think you’re making a lot of progress with—”
Charlie’s phone rang. The caller ID was a jumbled bunch of run-on numbers, which only meant it was someone—anyone—calling from abroad. Figuring it was probably a tournament organizer looking to ask her a logistical question, Charlie gave Dan an apologetic look and answered the call.
“Charlotte?” The voice and accent were unmistakable, despite the fact that she had never before spoken to him on the phone. Was that possible? In nearly a year? Only texts and emails and Snapchats, but never a real, live, actual conversation?
“Marco?” she heard herself ask, although of course she knew who it was. Next to her, Dan recoiled. She knew she was being rude—she’d interrupted him, after all—but this was Marco. “Where are you?”
“Hi, hi. I am calling from Rio. You are in California, yes?”
“Yes, I just finished an exhibition match in LA. I’ll be here practicing until I head to Palm Springs . . .”
He remembered, didn’t he? Where they’d first hooked up a year earlier after that bottle of champagne and the skinny dipping? That chevron print rug in front of the fire? Breakfast together the next morning right in the restaurant because they were all alone and had nothing to hide? Charlie wondered what he would think of the fact that she now had an image consultant who was champing at the bit to tell the world they were sleeping together “for the optics” of it.
“Yes, that is why I call. To let you know that I had to pull out of Indian Wells. I won’t see you next week.”
To say Charlie was disappointed was an understatement—in her mind, she’d already set the stage for round two, and it looked a whole lot like their first meeting—but another part of her was delighted that he even thought to call her before she’d read the update on the daily news digest sent out by the ATP. Was it a high bar for a guy with whom you were having sex? Not exactly. Did she sort of hate herself for being grateful that the man she was sleeping with had picked up the phone for the first time in a year? Yes. But she reminded herself that this was what casual looked like.
“Is it the shoulder?”
“Si, it is strained. Nothing so serious, but the physios are advising two weeks of rest so I do not do more damage.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry. Are you staying in Rio?”
“No, I am going back to Madrid tonight or tomorrow to stay with my parents. But I wanted to make sure I will see you in Miami?”
“Miami? Yes, of course. Miami.” She glanced at Dan, who was clearly trying to listen without appearing like he was listening.
“Charlotte? I am sending you kisses. I must go now, but I wanted to tell you that I miss you.”
Charlie gripped the phone so hard it almost slipped from her hand. “I mi—” She remembered Dan at the very last second. “Same here,” she said. “Keep in touch.”
She was still staring at the phone in disbelief when Dan said, “It’s okay, Charlie. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“Tell anyone what?” she snapped. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Dan shrugged. “Whatever you say. In case you haven’t noticed, I do travel with you pretty much every day of every week. I’ve known for a long time. So has Todd. We’re not blind. But it’s none of my business. I just wanted to reassure you that I haven’t—and would never—breathe a word to anyone else.”
“You’re right, it’s none of your business. Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”
Dan held his hands up in defeat. “Loud and clear.”
They both watched as Todd walked toward them, phone pressed to his ear, looking extremely displeased.
“Move, people!” he shouted, and it took a beat for Dan and Charlie to realize he was yelling at them.
The practice that followed was brutal. Charlie could barely concentrate: the combination of the fatigue from the match she’d just played, the call from Marco, and the ensuing weirdness with Dan resulted in Charlie’s making Todd even more furious than usual.
“Where the hell are you?” he screamed. “You look like you’re here, but you’re not mentally present. Where is your concentration right now? What, are you thinking about getting your nails done? A little shopping? Maybe a facial? Buy yourself something pretty? I NEED YOU TO FUCKING FOCUS, CHARLOTTE SILVER!”
Charlie could feel her face redden. She tried not to notice the gathering crowd around her court, all of whom could hear every word Todd yelled.
Dan drilled her backhand. For just a moment, Charlie thought she felt a small twinge in her left wrist.
“Low to high!” Todd barked.
It went on like that for two hours: Dan slamming shots at her; Todd screaming like a deranged lunatic; Charlie trying desperately to move her feet, turn her shoulders, hit low to high, follow through, switch her grip, get light on her feet, keep her eye on the ball. Charlie was bouncing on her toes at the net, trying to volley even more aggressively than she normally did. She wasn’t allowed a break until she’d successfully returned ten in a row. After a half hour, her record was six. Dan smashed another one straight down the line, and Charlie didn’t even get her racket on it.
“Where the fuck is your head?” Todd yelled from the sidelines. “Are you blind? Drunk? Or just lazy?”
Charlie knew enough not to answer him, instead lunging for the next three and actually managing to hit a winner on the fourth. “Does that count?” she asked, staggering over to the sideline for water.
“Get back out there,” Todd growled, snatching away her water bottle before she could reach for it. “You haven’t earned your break yet.”
Charlie nodded and sprinted back to the baseline. She wanted to kill Todd, but she knew this was how he operated. Charlie had known it going in: Todd liked to break his players down and rebuild them into winners. Champions. So despite being exhausted and thirsty and feeling like she wanted to sit right down on that hot court and cry, she got back up on her toes. She bounced and moved and dived, circled back for overheads to smash crosscourt and hurried back to pick up drop shots. By some miracle she returned nine net shots in a row, and finally—finally!—she didn’t psych herself out on a relatively easy backhand volley, putting it away with more finesse than power, a pretty shot that hit the perfect angle.
Todd nodded. That was as close to approval as he would ever get, but to Charlie it was as though he’d skywritten his congratulations.
“Pretty freaking great, huh?” she said, nudging him with the head of her racket. “Admit it, you’re impressed.”
“I’ll be impressed when you win Indian Wells next week and Miami after that. Until then, I want you aggressive. You’re still too tentative. You’re hitting like a girl.”
“I am a girl,” Charlie said.
Todd glared at her.
“Natalya isn’t remotely masculine, and she’s ranked number one,” Charlie said, scrambling to follow Todd off the court. Dan followed behind them, carrying both his racket bag and Charlie’s.
The crowd of students clapped for her when she walked off the court, a towel draped across her neck. Sweat rivulets ran down from her forehead.
“You know she’s ranked, like, among the top women in the world, right?” one girl said to her friend, who appeared impressed.
“She’s smokin’,” Charlie heard a guy half whisper to someone, although she pretended she hadn’t heard.
“If you’re into man thighs,” his friend replied.
“Dude, she can hear you!”
“What? I’m not saying anything I’m sure she doesn’t know. Great hair, great rack, but big legs. It happens.”
“Your friend’s right,” Charlie said loudly to the second guy. He looked like he wasn’t a day older than seventeen, with hairy arms and a skimpy goatee. “I can hear you.”
“Ignore ’em, Charlie. You rock!” a voice called from somewhere in the crowd, which had parted for her to pass.
Charlie flashed a quick smile of thanks, but she had to run to keep up with Todd as they walked toward the locker rooms.
“Natalya is tough as nails and doesn’t let anyone get away with anything. That’s what I’m talking about,” Todd said, as he led them past the crowd. They were alone now, just the three of them, but still Charlie noticed students staring at her as she walked past.
She lowered her voice. “I work my ass off day and night. I haven’t had a cookie or a burger or a goddamn drink in longer than I can remember. I’m on that court and in that gym longer than anyone you can possibly—”
Todd cut her off. “I take no issue with your work ethic. It’s decent. And your strokes are mostly there. They’re not perfect, but you’ve got more god-given natural talent than anyone deserves, and that one-handed backhand of yours is a fucking blow-away. What you don’t have—and what you very badly need if you have any hope of making the super big leagues—is the mental focus. Not news, is it? I told you as much when we first met. I know you want it—I wouldn’t have agreed to work for a girl if I didn’t see at least that—but wanting it and fucking going for it are two different things. I need Cutthroat Charlie. Brutal Charlie. Step-On-Your-Own-Mother-To-Get-Ahead-Charlie. It’s my job to get her here. It’s your job to use her—and win with her—once I’ve created her. Think you can do that?”
The “working for a girl” comment aside, it was the most complimentary Todd had ever been. Charlie tried not to smile. “Yes,” she said. “I know I can.”
“Good. Get some dinner and a solid nine hours. Tonight I’m leaving you coverage of a match between Ivanov and Azarenka from a couple of years ago. I want you to pay particular attention to the way the two women interact as they’re preparing to play, switching sides, et cetera. It’s clear as day they want to fucking kill each other, and I think it’s damn good inspiration. I’ll see you at the gym tomorrow at seven-thirty, sharp.” He walked off without saying goodbye to either Dan or Charlie.
“Hey, you want to grab some food? I was reading about a great ramen spot right off campus, and I promise not to tell Todd . . .”
It sounded appealing—the restaurant, the food, Dan’s easy company—but she couldn’t make herself say yes. She had that strange jittery feeling she got after losing a match or downing a double espresso, uncomfortably amped up and exhausted at the same time.
“Or I can certainly be persuaded to hit up the In-N-Out in Westwood. I mea
n, that’s never a bad option either.”
Charlie looked him in the eye. “Actually, I think I’m going to take a rain check tonight. Just eat in my room and get to sleep early. I want to make sure I’m not coming down with anything . . .”
“Sure, yeah, no problem,” Dan said quickly.
“Sorry, I just . . . I just need to—”
“It’s totally fine. Have a good night, okay?” He immediately turned to walk away before remembering he was carrying her racket bag. “Oh, here. Do you want me to drop this by your hotel? I don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. But thanks.” The awkwardness was palpable.
Charlie waved as Dan trotted off, feeling both guilty and relieved. She was about to head into the locker room before remembering that she was free and clear and would be so much happier soaking in a long bath in her luxurious hotel room. It was a little over three miles from the campus to her hotel, and although Charlie had planned to walk across Wilshire Boulevard and maybe take a quick detour to window-shop Rodeo Drive, she made a game-time decision to jump in an Uber. At the hotel, she walked into the restaurant to request that a salad be brought up to her room and promptly ran smack into Brian, her ex-boyfriend from freshman year.
“Charlie Silver,” he said. It wasn’t a question or a statement so much as a declaration.
He was not wearing hiking boots or a fleece vest or those army green cargo pants that zipped off to become shorts. No sexy two-day stubble. No longish hair. He didn’t even really smell the same: Charlie couldn’t detect a hint of sweet smokey pine, as though he had just returned from fighting a forest fire. Instead, this grown man wore a suit. And not just any suit, but one that was tailored enough to hold its own on the streets of Paris or Barcelona. He was clean-shaven and fit, and although there wasn’t so much as a crinkle around his green eyes, he looked older, more mature.
The Singles Game Page 14