“Brian.” She wasn’t at all surprised to see him, nor was his new clean-cut appearance any sort of shock. He never updated his Facebook account from what she could tell—obviously she checked every now and then—but he regularly posted pictures on Instagram, which of course she followed. He and Piper also kept in touch, so Charlie already knew he returned to LA often to recruit on campus, that he was currently living in Chicago, and that his girlfriend, who looked like Jenna Bush’s doppelgänger, had recently moved into his apartment. And despite her knowing all this, tonight was the first time she’d seen him since the summer after her freshman year.
Brian grinned. “What are you doing here? Doesn’t your dad still live in Topanga?”
Charlie could feel her cheeks redden. Naturally she felt guilty for staying at a hotel instead of at her father’s. Leave it to Brian to hone in on that in half a second. “Oh, you know, I played an exhibition match tonight, and the school offered to cover my room so I wouldn’t have to drive back late . . . I was just on my way to shower . . .” She remembered only then that she was still wearing her sweat-soaked practice clothes and took a step back in case she smelled. God forbid she ever ran into an ex wearing actual clothes—no, she had to be clad in head-to-toe sweat-wicking fabrics with her greasy hair tied off into a messy bun. A red and bumpy chin from some sort of adult-onset acne. And probably bad breath.
“Well, you look great,” Brian said automatically, because he couldn’t have possibly meant it.
“I look like Courtney Love on a bender. Maybe worse,” Charlie said.
Brian laughed. “Listen, do you have time for a quick drink or a coffee or something?” He glanced at his watch. “I have a work dinner at nine, but I’m free until then.”
She froze for a second. The last thing Charlie wanted to do was make small talk or, worse, hear about Brian’s new girlfriend. The bath in her room was calling to her, as was dinner under the covers with HGTV for company.
Brian must have seen her hesitation. “Come on, fifteen minutes. For old times’ sake.”
She couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough—she clearly wasn’t headed anywhere the way she was dressed—and it had been forever since they’d seen each other.
Charlie nodded. “I can do fifteen minutes, but then I really have to get upstairs. Should we sit here?”
The waiter came to their table. Charlie ordered a club soda with a lime, and Brian sheepishly asked for the spiked pink lemonade. “With an umbrella, if you can,” Charlie added. “He really likes those.”
It wasn’t nearly as awkward as it should have been, this acknowledgment of an old inside joke. But it was quickly followed by an acutely uncomfortable silence.
“So . . . ,” they both said, and laughed.
“So . . . congratulations on everything. Seriously, Charlie, what you’ve done is incredible. What are you now? Top twenty? Higher? It’s really terrific.”
Charlie tried not to look too pleased.
“Oh, thanks. It feels good to break into the top twenty, definitely. I was injured at Wimbledon last year, and it’s been a long road back. I hired a new coach, and he has me on a whole new program, so things are hopefully headed in the right direction.”
“Eversoll and Nadal’s old coach, right? Aren’t you the first woman he’s ever worked with? Very impressive.”
So he was following her career. Interesting.
“How are you feeling?” Brian asked. He quickly added, “The injury, I mean. Are you all better?”
“Yes, I think so. Physically, it’s all rehabbed and everything checks out. Mentally it’s harder. I don’t want to hesitate ever to lunge or slide or turn at a sharp angle, so it’s learning to trust that it really is as good as new. The wrist is completely, totally better, but the foot still haunts me sometimes. Just in my head.” She cleared her throat and was about to ask Brian what kind of job brought him back to campus to recruit, but he leaned forward in that active-listening way he’d always been so good at and asked, “What’s it really like being on tour? Is it as glamorous as it seems to us mortals?”
She’d been asked this same question no fewer than a thousand times by a thousand different people, and she always gave similar, canned responses: It’s tough but I love it; work hard, play hard; the travel gets taxing but getting to play a sport I love every day makes it all worthwhile. But something about the way Brian furrowed his brow in concentration and peered at her, obviously waiting for a real answer, made her pause.
“It can be hard,” she said quietly. “It’s a different hotel every week. No place feels like home. I don’t really have a normal life, you know? Probably the hardest part is being away from . . . people I care about. I don’t see my dad as often as I’d like, and it’s not easy to keep in touch with friends. It can definitely be . . . well, thank god Jake travels with me a lot of the time now.”
Brian nodded. “I bet it takes a toll.”
“I’m not complaining, I hope it doesn’t sound that way. It’s just tough sometimes to stay close to people because I’m not at all in charge of my own schedule. I could be at a tournament for two weeks if I’m winning or knocked out the first day—everything is last-minute and it makes it just impossible to plan anything in advance. But it’s all good right now. I’m starting to feel like it’s all coming together.”
The waiter brought their drinks. Brian held his up and said, “To reunions. It’s good to see you, Charlie.”
Charlie clinked his glass with her own. “You too!” she said, a bit more cheerily than she’d intended. “I’ve been blathering on and on, and you still haven’t told me anything. You’re in Chicago now, right?”
“Yeah, I moved there a couple of years ago. Winters aren’t so easy after LA, but I’m adjusting.”
“Did you move there for work?”
“Yep. I work for an environmental consulting group. We help companies go more green, and I’m actually in LA to do the first-round interviews of graduating seniors. We hire a handful of new grads every year. UCLA has such a great program that the company likes hiring here.”
“Corporate America, Brian! The green version, yes, but still. Your pot-smoking, Phish-following, nineteen-year-old self would never have believed it.”
He laughed. “I’d be lying if I said the occasional joint didn’t get smoked, but not all that often anymore. My girlfriend doesn’t like it. Phish either. We mostly listen to tortured singer-songwriters and alt-country. We are walking cliches.”
“It happens,” Charlie said with a shrug. “So tell me about her. What’s her name?”
Brian lifted his gaze to check and make sure Charlie wasn’t being snarky or weird. Satisfied, he started right in, and as soon as he did, Charlie wished he would stop.
Almost instantly, Charlie tuned out as Brian described Finley, and how totally coincidental their meeting was, and how they hit it off almost instantly. The more animated Brian grew, the fewer words Charlie processed: registered nurse, stuck in an elevator, Santa Fe, big dog (small dog?) named something irritatingly cute, five brothers and sisters, marathons. It wasn’t tremendously nuanced, but it was far more than Charlie needed to create the image in her mind of a sporty Finley (Finley?) with her cute blond bob, keeping her cool while stuck in an elevator after coming home from a run with her Bernese mountain dog (dachshund?) to a brunch filled with look-alike siblings who all brought homemade oatmeal and French toast and other high-carb foods that Finley could eat ad infinitum and never gain weight. Oh, and she was a porn star in bed, but the private kind, of course, the girl who loved and craved sex constantly with her committed man but no one else, because he was the only one who’d ever made her feel comfortable enough to access her secret inner sex goddess. It was all right there, tied up with a neat little ribbon, suddenly making Charlie despise this girl she didn’t know.
“She sounds really great,” Charlie said with no inflection whatsoever
. She wasn’t jealous, exactly—more bored, and tired, and wanting to escape.
“Yeah, she is.”
“That’s great,” Charlie murmured.
They finished their drinks. Charlie felt like she did an adequate if not spectacular job of feigning interest in the rest of their conversation, which was basically an information download on both their families. When Brian politely asked if she’d like anything else, it was all Charlie could do not to bolt straight to her room without another word. Their good-bye hug was stilted, the kind where each person subtly pushes the other while half embracing, and it was only once the elevator doors shut, cocooning Charlie in a blissful embrace of silence, that she finally exhaled. Her anxiety returned for a brief minute when she found a plastic bag containing two DVDs hanging from her doorknob—Todd’s promised tape of some hyper-aggressive Ivanov-Azarenka match she needed to memorize—but she tossed it aside and turned on the bath.
Ex-boyfriends are better on Instagram than in real life, she thought as she stripped down and lowered herself into the steaming hot tub.
Her phone pinged.
Great seeing you tonite.
He couldn’t possibly mean that, could he? Not with all the weird silences and oversharing and awkward hugs? Not to mention the inimitable Finley warming his bed and brightening his life.
You too! She pecked out.
Another ping. She reached back to the bathroom vanity to silence her phone, but it wasn’t Brian this time.
Hey gorgeous! What day r u going to miami? Want to make sure I am there waiting 4 u . . .
Grinning like an idiot, Charlie forced herself to power down the phone without responding. She could almost hear Todd telling her to act like a winner, not a beaten-down puppy dog. Fine, then. She would let Marco wonder what she was up to and get back to him in the morning. Juvenile? Yes. Effective? Undoubtedly.
She sunk into the bath, the hot water washing over her shoulders, and envisioned her reunion with Marco. He may not have responded to her late-night invitation in Australia, but he had forwarded her that funny viral Saturday Night Live video just last week, hadn’t he? And when she’d replied to tell him that she thought it was hysterical, he’d written back xoxo. Clearly, this wasn’t the stuff of Shakespeare, but at least he’d been thinking about her, too. Maybe he’d even had a similar epiphany: they had a great time together, the sex was undeniably fantastic, they understood each other’s time commitments and limitations, and they had tennis in common. Other famous people dated each other all the time—just look at Natalya and Benjy. So long as they were disciplined enough to stay focused and keep their priorities straight—which she absolutely knew they both were—then why shouldn’t they have a relationship?
Brian who? She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the lavender travel candle she’d lit and placed beside the tub. He’s all yours, Finley darling. All yours.
9
the warrior princess does not wear flats
MIAMI
MARCH 2016
When Charlie walked through the connecting door to her room at the Four Seasons Miami, she was surprised to see a fully dressed and alert-looking Jake sitting on her bed. Unless important business called, he tried never to get up before eight. Or even better, nine.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, her mind flashing to her father. “Is it Dad?”
“He’s fine. Everyone’s fine. You want to tell me where you were at six in the morning? It doesn’t look like the gym, I’ll tell you that much.”
Charlie glanced down: she was wearing admittedly minuscule boy shorts adorned with tiny embroidered roses, one of those drapey yoga sweatshirts that fell sexily off her shoulders and dipped down in the back to the top of her butt, and a pair of Ugg scuff slippers. Anyone with eyes could easily see she was wearing neither underwear nor bra. In three strides she walked to the bathroom and grabbed the robe that hung behind the door. Cinching it around her waist, she said, “It’s none of your business! Why don’t you tell me why you sneaked into my room in the middle of the night?”
“You missed your drug test,” Jake said, raking his hand through his hair. “They waited for twenty minutes even though they’re not obligated to, and then they left. They called my office to declare it, and my office called me.”
“Shit.” Charlie slumped into the desk chair.
“It’s only a warning this time, Charlie. But next time you’re automatically suspended, regardless of the outcome.”
“I don’t believe this! What are the chances they’d choose today?”
“The chances? I’d say they were pretty damn high. We’re in Miami! You think the testers would rather show up at six a.m. in Qatar or Florida? I mean seriously, Charlie.”
She smacked her own thigh. Stupid! In her excitement at jumping into Marco’s bed, she’d forgotten all about the one-hour window she’d provided for the doping officials to test her.
“Enough of the sneaking around. I’ve known forever now you’ve been sleeping with someone. Why won’t you just tell me who it is? A player? Coach? Not that hitting partner of yours, is it? He is cute.”
“Dan? He’s a baby.”
“He’s two years younger than you. That hardly qualifies as scandalous. It’s barely even interesting. Are you telling me you haven’t even noticed that he has a crazy six-pack? That detail just eluded you?”
Actually, it hadn’t eluded her. Dan was a bit thinner than she may have liked, and an inch shorter than her, but the abs made up for it. And who wouldn’t notice the great teeth and nice easy smile?
“Dan is very good-looking, yes,” Charlie said. “We’ve barely spoken in the few months we’ve been working together. He slams balls at me, says ‘Yes, sir’ to Todd, and then beelines off the court the second practice is finished. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice person, but I am not sleeping with Dan.”
Jake gave an exasperated sigh. “But we all know you’re sleeping with someone. Who is it? Leon? Paolo? Victor? It’s Victor, isn’t it? I heard he just broke up with his girlfriend. He reminds me of Brian. The whole hippie-dippie thing.”
Charlie grinned. She was enjoying this. “I’ll have you know, Brian went from hippie-dippie to total prep practically overnight. And you really think Victor’s my type? I should be insulted. Especially since I just so happen to be having a very fun fling with Marco.”
She waited, almost holding her breath, excited for Jake’s reaction.
He stared at her.
“Marco? Marco who?”
“How many freaking Marcos do you know, Jake? Think about it.”
“Marco Acosta? Isn’t he Leon’s massage therapist? Or does he work for Raj now? I can’t remember.”
“Jake!” She punched his arm.
He furrowed his brow. “There’s Roger’s business manager, but I thought he went by Marcello. I see him at tournaments sometimes. Isn’t he married?”
“I could kill you.”
“Just tell me.”
“I shouldn’t have to. This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is that you’re sleeping with Roger’s married business manager and he’s, what? Twenty years older? More?”
“Marco Vallejo, you jerk.”
Jake’s lower jaw dropped open. He looked as though he’d been slapped.
“Marco Vallejo?” he whispered.
“The one and only. What, is it really so hard to believe he’d sleep with me?”
“Yes!”
“Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel good.”
“I can’t believe it. You’re having an affair with Marco Vallejo?”
“Okay, this is getting insulting. Or is this where you tell me you’re sleeping with him, too? Haven’t you always kind of figured that was going to happen? One of these days we’d fall for the same guy . . .”
He finally closed his mouth. �
��I’d sleep with him in a second. Who wouldn’t? But no, I’m sorry to report I’m not . . .”
“Well, I am! Just did, in fact.” Charlie smiled devilishly.
“Oh my god. He’s spectacular. He’s been the one all along? The one you’ve been sneaking around with, thinking none of us noticed? How could you not tell me?”
“The first time was last year, after Indian Wells. But it—”
“Last year?”
“Do you remember when I took that night alone in Palm Springs? He was there, too, and well . . . anyway. Then we saw each other here and there . . . and then again in Australia. It’s all been very casual. You know what the schedule is like, and now it’s times two. But it’s certainly not anything official.”
“Sounds to me like it’s something.”
“Yes, well, it’s . . . open. Casual.”
“So you’ve said. Like fifteen times now. And you’re fine with that? I’m finding this all hard to believe.”
Charlie considered this. “I wouldn’t say it’s my absolute first choice, sneaking in and out of each other’s hotel rooms like we’re cheating on spouses. But it’s okay for now. And things actually seem to be picking up a little. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we’re racing to the altar, but he’s starting to act like he likes me marginally more than all the other girls he may or may not also be sleeping with.”
“That’s really beautiful.”
“Don’t judge, Jake! You can see firsthand that normal relationships are practically impossible for me. What’s your excuse, by the way? Seriously, so long as we’re talking about this, why are you the only celibate gay guy I’ve ever met?”
The Singles Game Page 15