“Charlie . . .” His voice was low, warning.
“No, really. How long ago was it that you brought home Jack? Two years? And what’s been going on in your love life since then? A whole lot of nothing. Unless you’re some sort of secret MVP on Grindr and I don’t know about it, it seems to me like you shouldn’t be the one talking. For someone who professes to want children one day, you’ve got a lot of work to do in the romance department.”
Jake held up a hand. “Two totally different things. I do meet guys. I just don’t feel the need to tell you about every failed first date I’ve ever had. Yes, I’m looking for a committed relationship, and it turns out that’s about as easy to find in the twentysomething gay world as it is for professional female tennis players. But we’re getting off topic here. Who else knows?”
Charlie thought about this. “I don’t think he’s told anyone, and I sure haven’t. Except for Piper. And Todd, although that wasn’t my choice. Oh, and Dan, too. And now you.”
“You told Todd and not me?”
“Oh, grow up, Jake.” Charlie cinched her robe tighter, enjoying this more than she thought she would. “Marco did actually ask me if I wanted to go to the player party together tonight. So that’s interesting.”
Jake collapsed into the desk chair as though an actual bullet had entered his body. “You’re lying.”
“I am not. He just asked right now. As I was leaving.”
“And what did he say, exactly?”
“ ‘Charlie, would you like to go to the player party with me tonight?’ It was pretty straightforward.”
“Oh my god. Are you ready for this?”
“Ready for what? I didn’t say yes yet. I told him I’d text him when I knew my plans.”
“Wow. I’m surprised. You’re better than I thought.”
Charlie smiled. “Thanks. I admit I thought it was ludicrous to play manipulation games when Piper suggested it, but this whole hard-to-get act seems to work. He totally wants me more.”
“Piper is the queen. Was. But you were just telling me how casual and ‘open’ this whole arrangement is.”
“True. But I think by asking me to tonight’s party, he may want to go public. And you’re the first person I’ve been able to tell!”
“I’m in shock.”
“I know. And I’m trying not to be offended. Anyway, I think going public could be a good thing. Obviously Marco and I have a lot in common, not the least of which is our schedule. Maybe this thing with him can be different.”
Jake sighed. “He is different, C. He’s about a trillion times more high profile than anyone you’ve ever dated. Yes, he seems like an okay guy. Certainly not the relationship type, but I’ll defer to you on that one. I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Even you have to admit it’s perfect timing.”
Finally, Jake cracked the smallest hint of a smile. “For the rollout? Yeah, it would be pretty great. We’re all prepped and ready to start here, in Miami. Todd can give a few pre-interviews to get the press warmed up, and I’m in talks with Vogue. It is actually ideal timing.”
There was a knock at the hotel door.
Jake glanced at Charlie. “Your friend come back for round two? Or would that be three?”
“Don’t be vile,” Charlie smiled, walking nervously toward the door. Two waitresses pushing a table-sized cart greeted her by name and, in synchronization so perfect it looked rehearsed, poured two cups of coffee, two cups of ice water, and removed the silver platter covers with a flourish. They vanished nearly as quickly as they arrived.
“He’s nothing if not efficient,” Charlie murmured, spearing a slice of cantaloupe from the fruit plate as the waitresses departed.
“Todd did this? How did he know I’d be here?” Jake asked, eyeing the second egg white omelet with mushroom and spinach.
“He didn’t. He was hoping you’d be Marco.”
With this, Jake looked like he might pass out. “He arranges breakfast for both of you?”
Charlie nodded. “He makes sure we have adjoining rooms. Trust me, no one will be happier to hear that I’m going to the party with Marco than Todd.” She took a bite of omelet. “What am I going to wear?”
“That’s been all worked out. The stylist Meredith hired can’t get here until tomorrow, but she sent ahead some great options for you to try. I can tell already the Thakoon dress is the one. You’re going to have to start wearing heels. Nothing too crazy, no stilettos—I get it, I really do—but at least two, three inches.”
“Not happening,” Charlie said, sipping her coffee.
“Happening. The Warrior Princess does not wear flats.”
“Wait, can we get back to Vogue for a minute?” Charlie interrupted.
“You’re American and hot and starting to win. They want an interview.”
“Why now? I was winning before Wimbledon, and no one seemed to care that much. Not like they care about Natalya.” Charlie sipped her black decaf coffee and wondered if she could call down for an order of pancakes.
“Natalya is a Russian and gorgeous and ranked number one. She can work a red carpet better than Angelina Jolie. She exclusively dates celebrities. She’s a controversial bitch. And she has one hell of a team working every detail for her. She’s an inspiration, Charlie. But Todd and I think you can do even better.”
“I refuse to be a controversial bitch. You know that. I just don’t think it’s—”
Jake held up a hand. “I know. Kisses and sunshine. No one’s asking you to be as nasty as she is, but you should be seen as stronger. Tougher. What we’ve all been talking about.”
“So you agree with Meredith’s whole image rollout?”
“I do. I think it’s very well conceived. You stay true to yourself as a decent person, but you present as a fighter. A warrior. You just fought back from a devastating injury, a spectacle on Wimbledon Centre Court, and we think the public is going to eat it up. The Warrior Princess is who they want.”
Charlie felt something stirring inside, a frisson of excitement. Or terror. She couldn’t be sure, but she needed a moment. “I’m kicking you out now. The car is picking me up in thirty minutes, and I need a shower.”
“I’ll see you at the site later this afternoon. We good?”
Charlie headed toward the bathroom. “All good,” she called behind her as she did a little skip. She felt no uneasiness, even after the drug test debacle. She was too excited by the idea of the Warrior Princess arriving to the player party on the arm of the hottest male player on tour. She liked the sound of that.
10
red carpet make-out
MIAMI BEACH
MARCH 2016
“Charlie! Over here, look here!”
“Marco, turn this way! Smile!”
“Charlie, who are you wearing? Charlie, over here!”
Charlie heard the screams before they even stepped out of the tournament Escalade in front of South Beach’s Zuma restaurant. Stepping onto the blue carpet that stretched from the street to the restaurant and was lined on both sides with paparazzi, Charlie was pleased to discover that she felt like a model walking the runway. Jake had been right: the black Thakoon dress, with its long sleeves, cold-shoulder cutouts, and sexily open back was a winner. Paired with the three-inch snakeskin sandals she’d grudgingly agreed to, Charlie’s already long legs looked like half their regular width and double their natural length. She had agreed to forgo her usual time-saving ponytail for an in-room blowout, and even Todd had nodded his approval at the long dark waves that tumbled down her back.
Marco grabbed her elbow and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I was going to apologize for it being such a zoo, but I think they’re here for you.”
A hush fell over the jumble of photographers and onlookers, as each person came to the obvious conclusion: his mouth was awfu
lly close to her ear—was it on it? Was there something going on? Were Marco Vallejo and Charlotte Silver dating? A general titter spread among the crowd.
Suddenly, it occurred to Charlie that Meredith was right: the crowd would go nuts if they knew she and Marco were dating. Or hooking up. Or whatever they wanted to call it. He initiated their arrival together, so it certainly wasn’t like he was trying to keep the whole thing under wraps anymore . . . Maybe Meredith and Todd and Jake were right. Maybe it was time. And before she could talk herself out of it, Charlie turned to Marco, grabbed him around the neck, and pressed her lips to his. She felt a momentary stab of panic, and possible regret—had she seriously miscalculated?—but then Marco was kissing her right back.
The crowd went crazy.
“They’re kissing! Do you see that?”
“Oh my god, did you know they’re together? I didn’t know!”
“When did that happen?”
“They’re making out! It’s perfect, look at those two!”
And even: “Can you imagine what their babies will look like?”
“Can you imagine how their babies will hit the ball? With genes like those?”
They pulled apart and smiled at each other. Charlie thought she could see a hint of respect in Marco’s expression—perhaps a glimpse of approval of her boldness? Charlie inhaled deeply. It was a perfect March evening in Miami. Balmy air that carried the scent of tropical lily orchids and birds of paradise and the ocean. The sky was streaked with shades of pink and purple as the sun set behind a row of swaying palm trees. The warmth of Marco’s hand on her back felt wonderful. She looked all around, trying to savor the moment, but Isabel, a publicist from the Women’s Tennis Association, swooped over to rescue them. “Follow me, you two,” she said. Was that a smile Charlie detected? Yes, it certainly was. Isabel was clearly delighted.
The onlookers continued to catcall and cheer as Charlie and Marco, now holding hands, made their way through the tall double doors. Not that the gawking stopped then: nearly everyone assembled inside had made their way to the front of the room to check out the commotion.
“Hi,” Jake said, walking up to them. The grin on his face was unmistakable.
“Jake, you’ve met Marco Vallejo, right? Marco, this is my brother, Jake Silver.”
Marco’s eyebrows crinkled adorably. “Hello, Charlotte’s brother.”
“Do you two know each other?” Charlie turned to look questioningly at Jake, but he was grinning like a love-struck teenager.
“Good to see you, man,” Marco said.
“Charlie, you look gorgeous!” Isabel said. Gushed. Bubbly was a good quality in a publicist, and Charlie had always liked her the most of the whole team, but the girl was sounding downright manic. “Who are you wearing? Dress and shoes and jewelry? I’ll be getting calls all night asking . . .”
A few of the men’s players had closed in on Marco and moved him toward the bar, where he was now standing in the middle of a circle of gigantic, beautiful men, already telling a funny story. When he caught Charlie looking at him, he rolled his eyes and flashed those ridiculous dimples. It was all she could do not to run to him.
“Charlie? The dress?”
“What? Oh, sorry. Yes, the dress is Thakoon, is that how you say it? And the shoes are Louboutin,” she said, trying not to mangle the pronunciation.
Isabel smiled.
“I know, I’m hopeless if it’s not made out of Drymax,” Charlie said.
Jake looked her up and down. “You look great, C. I’m glad you went with it.”
Isabel nodded furiously in agreement. “I heard Vogue went well today? They are terrific, aren’t they? Just so professional!”
“Yes, well, they definitely have the fashion thing down,” Charlie said. The photo shoot earlier that day had been a surprisingly fun time—great music, cool clothes, a handsome photographer and an entire team of people doting all over her, doing her hair and makeup and choosing jewelry and accessories, all the time telling her how beautiful she looked. What wasn’t to like? In addition to Charlie there had been a professional swimmer, golfer, and soccer player, and the spread was going to highlight how these female athletes (all attractive, all blond except for Charlie, and all with less than 10 percent body fat) looked great in their skirts/swimsuits/cleats but could shed them all for slithery bias-cut silk sheaths or beaded mermaid dresses or frothy princess gowns and look even better. The shoot had been more glamorous than most of the others Charlie had done, where she was typically posing in a tennis skirt, sneakers, sleeveless top, and wristband. Usually, the only variables were her hair (in a braid, a ponytail, or down) and whether she was holding her racket in some faux swinging motion or keeping it resting against her leg, right below her jauntily pressed-out thigh. She’d done local fashion magazines and Sports Illustrated and a cool spread in GQ, but this? A Vogue shoot meant zero spandex; heavy on the makeup and labels; super-skinny editors racing around in sky-high heels; clouds of cigarette smoke and bottles of champagne. It had felt way more like a fun afternoon at a fabulous friend’s house than another grinding work obligation.
“So . . . I hate to pry, it’s none of my business, of course, but inquiring minds will want to know . . .” Isabel was blushing. Poor thing. She actually did hate to pry, which was one of the reasons Charlie liked her the best. A non-prying publicist was the rarest breed of all.
“We planned to come together tonight, yes,” Charlie said.
Isabel tucked the front of her brunette bob behind one ear. “I see. So, not to put too fine a point on it, but would it be fair to say you two are . . . dating? Together? I’m just not sure what to tell people when they ask.”
Jake opened his mouth and Charlie could tell he was about to make some crack about yesterday’s walk of shame. She shot him a death look and turned back to Isabel. “You know? I don’t think we’ve defined it yet. But it’s probably fair to say we’re seeing what happens.”
“Got it,” Isabel said, nodding furiously. Her phone buzzed and she looked down at the screen. “Looks like word is already out.” The girl held the screen up for Charlie to read. The text was from Annette Smith-Kahn, the president of the WTA, and it read: Silver/Vallejo? For real? Please say yes.
They all laughed.
“She’s upstairs right now entertaining some of the local South Florida VIPs,” Isabel said. “And I can guarantee you, she’s very, very happy about the two of you ‘seeing what happens.’ ”
“I should probably go up and say hello,” Charlie said. “Jake, come with me?”
The next two hours were happy chaos. Charlie made the rounds and chatted with a bunch of the WTA staff, players, the usual mix of Miami celebs (all the Housewives, Marc Antony, Tiger Woods), and of course, Marco. They were treated like royalty, the king and queen of the palace ball, and Charlie couldn’t deny it was the most fun she’d had at a player party, ever. Miami was historically better than most, but typically the parties included overly healthy food, loud music, local tennis groupies, and the same rotating cast of characters. Attendance was mandatory, after all, but everyone wanted to depart for the hotel for a good night’s sleep as quickly as possible. “Tennis players may be hot, but they sure as hell aren’t partiers,” Piper always said whenever Charlie dragged her to another player event. But tonight, despite her nerves for her early match the next morning and the slightly overwhelming amount of attention, Charlie was having a terrific time.
“I have asked for my car,” Marco asked, leaning in close to her. “Do you want to leave with me?” They were sitting next to each other on a banquette, sharing a plate of sashimi. Charlie was drinking her usual Pellegrino; Marco had enjoyed one beer when they’d first arrived and then promptly switched to club soda.
“Arriving and leaving together?” Charlie said flirtatiously. “What will people think?”
“I do not care what they think,” he said gruffly
, and Charlie could feel the flutter in her belly.
She ran through the calculations. It was already a few minutes after nine. By the time they said their good-byes and reverse-walked the red carpet and made their way back to the hotel, it would be ten o’clock. Even a quick visit to Marco’s room would take a minimum of an hour, and she knew she’d need some wind-down solo time in her own room before she’d even be able to think about sleep. Considering her match was called for nine the next morning, and she’d already requested a wake-up call at six and a backup at six-fifteen, she knew what she had to do.
“Sorry, I’d love to. But I’m playing first tomorrow. I’m going to hitch a ride back to the hotel with my brother.”
“Your brother? That does not sound like fun.” His lips curled into a boyish pout and Charlie nearly leaned in to kiss him right there.
“No, it’s definitely not. But you know what will happen if we go home together.”
Marco slid his hand between the banquette and Charlie’s thigh and squeezed just so. “I do know . . .”
She groaned. Not audibly, she hoped, although it did seem like a few of the players sitting at the next table turned to look. Just as Charlie stood to look for Jake, Natalya appeared. She was wearing Charlie’s identical Thakoon dress, only Natalya’s was a spectacular shade of fuchsia, and she must have had it altered to dip lower at the cleavage and rise higher on the thigh. Her shoes were some sparkly confection with at least five-inch heels, another player no-no: undue stress on arches and ankles from stilettos? It was unheard-of. Except for Natalya.
“Charlotte! Is that you in there? I didn’t recognize you without the usual floral thing. How très chic we are, no? Matchy, matchy!” Natalya trilled, her Russian accent stronger tonight than usual. She turned to Marco and all but purred, “Hello, darling. Looking very handsome, as always.”
“Natalya, where’s your boyfriend? I just read he might be traded to Buffalo. That sucks! You must be devastated.” Charlie said it with as much faux sympathy as she could muster.
The Singles Game Page 16