The ball landed in the inside corner of the service box but Karina never even got near it. An ace. The radar screen at the back of the court registered the speed of the serve: 103 miles per hour. The crowd roared.
“Forty–love,” the chair umpire announced. “Match point.”
“Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!”
“Quiet on the court, please,” the woman said sternly, but the crowd ignored her.
Charlie’s opponent looked like she was in physical pain, which she likely was: the match time was now an official two hours and thirty-eight minutes. The girls had split the first two sets, each winning one in a tiebreaker, and now the third set score was 5–4. They were both drenched in sweat, breathing hard, and beginning to feel the onset of what they knew would be hours of killer leg cramps. The temperature was ninety-one degrees.
Match point, match point, match point, Charlie repeated over and over in her mind before breathing deeply to calm herself and stay focused. If she couldn’t harness and control the adrenaline surging through her body, she’d be at risk of blowing the whole thing: her hands would start to shake, her legs would wobble, her concentration would break. Drawing in long, deep inhales, she forced herself to examine the strings on her racket while she tried to slow her heart rate.
The ball girl reappeared. Charlie accepted a towel and mopped her brow. She plucked one ball from the two the girl held at eye level and slowly, deliberately walked over to the baseline. This was it. This was where it ended, where Charlie claimed her third-ever career singles title at a Premier-level tournament. When she glanced across the net right before throwing the ball into the air, she saw Karina standing at the baseline. Instead of being in position to receive Charlie’s serve, the girl was doubled over with her head between her thick knees. Not injured or sick, from what Charlie could tell at that distance, but taking an extra few seconds to catch her breath and slow the pace.
The rules of the game dictated that Charlie, as the server, had to wait until the receiver was ready, but they also stated that the receiver had to be ready within a reasonable amount of time of the server being ready. Karina knew Charlie would never serve the ball until she was ready; Charlie knew Karina knew, and she also knew Karina was deliberately messing with the pace to throw her off. Like icing the kicker. Karina was probably betting on the fact that the chair umpire would never call a delay of game on a match point, not to even mention tournament point. She was clearly using psychological warfare to try to wrest any little advantage out of a nearly lost match. It was shitty and unsportsmanlike and it was working: Charlie could feel herself growing angrier and angrier as she stood at the line, bouncing the ball over and over, waiting for Karina to look up and acknowledge she was ready to continue play.
As her opponent stretched her arms toward her toes, Charlie glanced toward the stands. Todd stared back at her, as though he’d been willing her to look up. “Serve the ball,” he mouthed.
Charlie’s eyes widened. It was clear what he was saying, but how could she? She looked to the chair umpire, who seemed unfazed, and then back to Todd. His eyes had narrowed; he was glaring at her. “Now!” he silently screamed.
It was one of the things Todd was always harping on in their training sessions. These women were not your family, they were not your friends, they were not even your acquaintances: they were your enemies. They walk onto that court and spend every moment trying to undo your concentration, overpower your strokes, outthink your strategy, and crush your intention. They employ every advantage they possibly have, and if you want even the smallest chance of beating them, you need to play the game, too. Like a competitor, and not like the girl who’s trying to win Homecoming Queen. Charlie hated this lecture, but it was clear—at least in this moment—that Todd was right. Her opponent wasn’t losing sleep over good sportsmanship. Why should Charlie?
Without another thought, Charlie steadied her feet at the baseline, bounced the ball one time, and tossed it in the air. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Karina react and stick her racket out toward the ball, which went flying out of bounds. It was exactly what Charlie was hoping for: so long as the receiver attempts to return the ball, she was considered ready to receive.
For a moment no one realized what had happened, but then the chair umpire leaned forward into her microphone and announced, “Game. Set. Match. Tournament. Congratulations to Charlotte Silver on winning the 2016 Volvo Car Open,” and the crowd went wild.
Charlie immediately threw both arms into the air and let out a whoop. The sound of the crowd cheering on Center Court combined with her coursing adrenaline made everything clearer, louder, and more pronounced. This was it. She could feel it. This win would surely catapult her ranking into the top ten and improve her seeding for the upcoming French Open. It would signify to the top women that she was a serious contender. This win would thrill the Nike people, confirm to Swarovski that they’d signed the right woman, and no doubt encourage other possible endorsement offers to come forward. Charleston wasn’t the biggest tournament of the year, but it was prestigious. First place there was the real deal.
After Charlie had reached up to adjust her tiny crystal crown, she turned to her player box. In the front row, Todd, next to a rep from the WTA, was beaming. Jake was taking pictures of the scene with his phone. He flashed Charlie a huge grin and motioned for her to smile for the camera. On Jake’s right was an empty seat where Dan had been sitting just moments earlier. Where has he run off to already? He couldn’t take an extra ten seconds to congratulate me? she thought with irritation. But it was her father sitting in the row behind them, an otherwise empty row of four seats, that gave her pause. He was the only one still seated, his hands folded in his lap, his phone nowhere to be seen. Instead, he watched Todd and Jake celebrate with a slightly sad expression. Was he shaking his head? Charlie craned to see better. When her father caught her eye, he smiled, but it was devoid of any happiness. And she understood immediately.
“I, uh, I think she’s waiting for you,” the ball girl murmured to Charlie as she motioned across the net. There, standing with her feet hips’ width apart and her racket pulled tight across her midsection, was Karina. The girl stared at Charlie with unbridled hatred.
As Charlie walked toward the net, Karina’s gaze remained fixed. “You are not just a slut, but you are a cheater, too,” Karina whispered.
Charlie reeled back like she’d been hit. She’d never heard the usually affable Karina speak this way. “Excuse me?” she asked, hating her shaky voice.
“I thought you were different, but I was so wrong.”
Charlie stood, dumbstruck. Had this girl, who had screamed and yelled her way through the match, called the line judges names and questioned every call, who herself had tried to cheat her way through match point, really just said those things?
“It takes a hotshot player to win the point when her opponent’s not ready,” Karina said, and then before Charlie could even react, Karina reached out and yanked Charlie’s hand into a vise-like handshake. Pumping Charlie’s hand up and down until it hurt, she unceremoniously dropped it, plastered on a fake smile, and nearly shouted, “Great match, Charlotte. You should be really proud of yourself,” before grabbing her bag and walking off the court.
Charlie hit the requisite victory balls into the stands, stood for the trophy presentation and the on-court interviews, and posed for photos with the tournament sponsors, and when she was finished, she was relieved beyond description to find the locker room empty. She stood at the sink mirror, staring at the black skirt with leather trim and bedazzled sneakers and glittering crown, and suddenly felt ridiculous in the very outfit that just hours earlier had made her feel so strong. The tears didn’t come, thankfully, until she stood under the scalding hot shower and let her mind revisit all the things Karina had said. Did everyone think she was with Marco because he was famous? Had she cheated to win? Was she the kind of person who would do such
awful things?
Charlie stepped out onto a towel and stood in the cool air, allowing herself to drip-dry for a moment. She was in no rush to get dressed for her celebratory dinner at Fig, where at least twenty people from the WTA and the tournament and her whole entourage would be assembled to fete her. Would they all be holding aloft their champagne glasses while thinking they were toasting a cheater? It was humiliating beyond words. Maybe she could claim illness or a leg cramp or something else and retreat to her hotel room? No, whatever it was would draw more attention than if she actually went for two hours, smiled, and begged off early. If she played it right, she could be under her covers by nine.
“Charlie? Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize.”
Charlie jumped from the surprise of realizing she had company, but she recognized the voice instantly. Marcy.
“Marcy, hi! What are you doing here?” Charlie asked.
Her ex-coach smiled and Charlie felt a wave of relief wash over her. They hadn’t seen each other in many months, and Charlie had often wondered what their first meeting would be like. Marcy looked exactly as Charlie remembered with her straight, super-thick blond hair pulled back at the nape, the kind of all-business ponytail that didn’t move a millimeter and could be worn to the gym or a black-tie banquet. As always, she was dressed casually in white jeans and a V-neck Polo sweater that showed off her fit figure and healthy complexion, and she walked with a kind of bounce in her step that made her seem much closer to twenty-five than to her actual age of thirty-eight. It had been eleven years since Marcy retired from playing professionally, and yet it still looked possible she could pick up a racket and beat anyone dumb enough to challenge her.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” Marcy said, crossing the distance between them and tossing Charlie a towel.
“Thanks,” Charlie said, wrapping the tiny rectangle of scratchy cotton underneath her arms as best she could. She noticed Marcy’s brow, which furrowed slightly. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news—well, at least very annoying news—but the doping people are here. I heard them asking where to find you at the player desk. I figured you were here, and I wanted to give you a heads up. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Seriously? Now? Of all times?” Charlie knew she sounded irritated, as expected, but it was the best news she’d heard in a long time: she’d have to stay in the locker room, within view of the doping official the entire time, until her urine was concentrated enough to test. Which, after a nearly three-hour match where she’d consumed gallons of water, could take an hour. Maybe two. Right after a match was one of the times players most dreaded getting tested, because it could eat up an entire night. Right now it sounded divine.
“I know,” Marcy said, shaking her head sympathetically. “I hope it goes quickly. You deserve to celebrate.”
“I doubt Karina would agree with you.” Charlie’s voice caught.
Marcy understood immediately. “Oh, Charlie, don’t do that to yourself. You and I both know that the game has changed. How many times have we talked about it? A million? You had the mental strength to come back from a first-set loss, you dominated the second-set tiebreaker, and you beat her fair and square in the third. The rest is just noise.”
Charlie knew her ex-coach well enough to know that she didn’t mean everything she was saying. Yes, Charlie had shown great mental toughness, and yes, she had definitely demonstrated impressive strategy and strokes on the court, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she shouldn’t have gone ahead with that final serve until Karina was in position. No matter how sleazy her opponent’s intention had been. Charlie could have won it anyway—would have won it—and she wouldn’t be standing there right then, naked in a sterile locker room, too ashamed to enjoy the victory that she really did deserve. And Marcy knew it, too.
The door to the locker room opened. Charlie and Marcy exchanged looks just before the doping official appeared before them, a stout woman in warm-up pants and a pullover that read TENNIS ANTI-DOPING PROGRAMME. “Charlotte Silver? I’m Theresa Baird, and I’m with the Programme. I am here to advise you that we will be performing a standard urinalysis test to ensure your player eligibility remains intact. Do I have your consent?”
Her consent. As if she had a choice in the matter! And this timing of a post-match test was clearly her punishment for missing that early-morning test the day she’d slept in Marco’s hotel room. Once a player missed a test for an hour they had designated as an acceptable testing window, the officials could show up literally anytime and anywhere: a restaurant, a Broadway show, the airport, a friend’s apartment, a family reunion. If you didn’t agree to take the test at the moment of the tester’s choosing, it was reported as a fail and you were immediately penalized as though you were guilty of doping.
Charlie wouldn’t argue. “I consent. But I have to tell you, I’m not sure I can pee right now.”
The woman nodded. She knew it would be the case immediately following a long match. “Shall we try? Then if it doesn’t work, you can get dressed and we’ll wait.”
Marcy raised her eyebrows at Charlie as if to say Wow, that sounds like a great time. Charlie offered her a half wave and mouthed a thank you. “Marcy? Would you mind telling my dad and Jake that I might be tied up for a little and they shouldn’t wait for me? I’ll meet them at the restaurant just as soon as we’re finished here.” She felt bad asking Marcy to find her family, to force what would surely be an awkward encounter on her—not to mention the certainty they’d be standing with Todd, waiting for Charlie—but she had no choice: once she officially gave her consent to the test, it was considered in progress, and Charlie wouldn’t be allowed use of her cell phone until she’d successfully peed in the cup.
“Of course,” Marcy said, hoisting her tote bag over her shoulder. “And congrats again, Charlie. You do deserve this.” It wasn’t until she walked out that Charlie realized she hadn’t asked Marcy anything about her or her husband. It was strange to realize that inquiring about their efforts to have a baby was now definitely off-limits.
“Are you ready to try, Ms. Silver?” The woman’s voice was gruff, bored.
“Please call me Charlie. I’m sorry, I already blanked on your name. We are about to go into a bathroom stall together, so we should probably be on a first-name basis.”
“My name is Theresa Baird. You can call me Ms. Baird.”
The woman was busy unscrewing a wide lid from a plastic cup. “Got it. Ms. Baird it is. And yes, I’m ready.”
Charlie walked toward the first stall. She crouched over the toilet and faced Ms. Baird, who stood just outside of the stall with the door open, and accepted the plastic cup from her. She used both hands to hold it in place underneath the towel that was still wrapped around her chest, but Ms. Baird coughed.
“I do apologize, but I must be able to see the cup during the urine deposit.”
Charlie looked up, still half standing and half squatting while holding the cup to her body. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then.” She allowed her towel to drop to the floor. Holding the cup back in place, Charlie tried her best to relax. Finally, after what felt like minutes, she felt the cup warm to her hand. Taking care not to splash either one of them, Charlie held it aloft, victorious. And then she saw: her urine was completely clear. It could have been a container of water.
“Damn,” she said.
“I’ll wait out here while you clean up.”
When Charlie emerged a moment later, relieved to be back in a towel, Ms. Baird was making notes in a small leather-bound book. “We’ll have to wait,” she murmured, not looking up.
“Still no good, is it?” Charlie asked. “Is it okay if I get dressed?”
“Yes,” the woman said through pursed lips.
It took all Charlie’s energy not to snap back something obnoxious. She tried to re
mind herself that this woman couldn’t possibly enjoy her job, which basically amounted to spending her days in toilet stalls with strangers all over the world, so she took a deep breath and headed toward her locker. Ms. Baird followed and watched, but kept a respectful distance while Charlie pulled on a tracksuit. She’d put on a real outfit when the whole ordeal was over.
“I’m just going to do my makeup, okay?”
Ms. Baird followed her into the sink area and looked through some paperwork while Charlie blow-dried her hair straight. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, but she was careful not to eat anything because then she’d be thirsty, and drinking anything at all right now would only succeed in prolonging the whole miserable experience. She glanced at her watch: she was supposed to be arriving at Fig right then.
Charlie tried again, but to no avail.
“Don’t worry, it will happen,” Ms. Baird said. It was the first remotely kind or reassuring thing she’d uttered.
Her cell phone rang. Both she and Ms. Baird saw “Dad” flash on her screen.
Charlie watched it ring three times, knowing she wasn’t permitted to pick it up, but on the fourth ring Ms. Baird motioned for Charlie to answer.
“Hey, Dad. I’m still in the locker room. A lady from the Programme is here for testing, and I can’t pee, so it might be a while. But she was kind enough to let me answer so you could congratulate me on my big win.”
“Congratulations,” her father said flatly. And she knew immediately why.
“Dad. Come on. We both know Karina was deliberately delaying match point.”
“Mmm.” Whenever her father murmured, it meant he disagreed. Charlie knew this, but like she always did when she knew her father was upset with her, she kept on talking.
“I mean, really. What choice did I have? The ump was completely checked out, and Todd is silently screaming at me to serve the ball, and I know that if the situation were reversed she would have already hammered a serve at my head. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there like an idiot, getting stiffer and more psyched out every second, and hope she decides to rejoin the match?”
The Singles Game Page 20