The impact alone would have been enough to ensure an angry red welt and a good amount of follow-up bruising, but the exact location of where it hit—dead center of her windpipe—left Charlie literally choking for air. She was hunched over, her head between her knees, gasping for breath. Intellectually, she knew exactly what had happened, knew it would subside in a matter of seconds and she would be able to fill her lungs normally if she could just slow her breathing. But the panic set in, made no doubt worse by the realization that she had just lost her very first round match at the very first Grand Slam tournament she had any real chance of winning, and, well, she continued to choke. She felt a hand on her back and looked up to see Eleanor, crouched next to her, rubbing her palm in strong, comforting circles between Charlie’s shoulder blades.
“Just try to slow your breathing,” the girl murmured, continuing to massage Charlie’s back. “I’m so sorry.”
Because of Charlie’s high seeding in the tournament and two consecutive wins, there were more fans watching their match than what might be expected at a typical first round. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the black-haired, black-clad, tiara-wearing phenom as she crushed the relative newcomer on her march to French Open victory. And now, all of those same spectators were cheering like crazy and calling out Eleanor’s name. She began to feel the embarrassment more acutely as her breath returned to normal. And suddenly, the feel of her opponent’s hand on her own sweat-soaked shirt—not to mention that maddening expression of sympathy plastered on her face—well, it was just too much. Charlie twisted her body out of Eleanor’s reach and pushed herself to stand. “I’m fine,” she hissed under her breath. “As fine as someone can expect to be when her opponent tries to win by clocking her.”
Eleanor’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Neither girl seemed at all aware of the cacophony surrounding them.
Charlie couldn’t stop herself. “You got lucky today. Don’t think for a second it was anything more than that.”
The girl stared at her for what seemed like a very long time. Then, clearly deciding to take the high road, she looked Charlie straight in the eye, held out her hand, and said, “Good match.”
Charlie shook Eleanor’s hand limply, the shame of it all settling on her like a weight, and made her way to the sidelines. She packed her bag quickly and ignored the shouts from the fans and the requests for autographs. Leaving the court quickly so Eleanor could enjoy her moment of victory was the very least Charlie could do after her own humiliating loss and even more shameful behavior. She planned to hide in the locker room as long as she possibly could, stand under the shower and let the scalding hot water pelt her clean. But as soon as Isabel intercepted her in the tunnel leading from court to tennis center, Charlie knew her torture wasn’t over yet.
“I just need a shower first,” she told Isabel in her best clipped, authoritative tone.
“Sorry, Charlie,” Isabel coughed. “I’m sorry, but we must do the post-match interview right now.”
“It’s a first-round loss, for chrissake,” Charlie grumbled, continuing to walk. “No one cares.”
Isabel placed her hand firmly on Charlie’s arm. “I’m afraid when a player who is favored to win gets upset early, they do care. I know this is a terrible time. I promise I’ll make it as short and as painless as possible. But we must go now.”
Charlie followed her a few paces to a sort of anteroom with a podium and microphone in front of a French Open step-and-repeat. Waiting for her were a handful of reporters and photographers, all talking among themselves, but they all grew silent the moment she entered the room.
The quiet lasted for exactly six seconds before the questions started firing.
“How does it feel to be eliminated in the first round of a tournament you were favored to, if not win, then at least make it to the second week of?”
“Was it a particular aspect of McKinley’s game that you couldn’t handle? Or was it something in your own game that felt off?”
“In the last few months you’ve had quite the image overhaul. How much of the Warrior Princess was on the court today versus the old Charlotte Silver?”
Although the questions were hardly original—if she hadn’t heard them before, she certainly could have predicted their being asked today—she found herself stumbling through her memorized, media-trained answers. “That’s the thing about the Slams, you never really can tell what’s going to happen.” “At the end of the day, image doesn’t mean a thing if you’re not winning.” “I’ll need to revisit some things with my coach and regroup.” “Of course I’m disappointed, but I plan to be ready to start fresh at Wimbledon in a few weeks.” Charlie repeated these canned answers blandly, almost without inflection, biding her time until they grew tired of her and she was permitted to escape to the shower. Only a few more minutes, she told herself, and felt her throat start to close. She took a couple of deep inhales and was grateful the sensation of imminent crying subsided.
“Did Eleanor beat you today, or did you beat yourself?” Shawn, a longtime reporter on the tennis beat asked. He traveled with the women’s tour and had a reputation for hitting on the younger players.
“Well, of course Eleanor played well today, I think we can all agree on that. She played a beautiful match. And, unfortunately, I don’t think I played my best. Clearly not.”
“And why do you think that is?” There was a glint in his eye, a little glimmer of amusement that made Charlie instantly uneasy.
“A lot of reasons. I had too many unforced errors in the first set, including an inexcusable amount of double faults. And my mental focus wasn’t where it should have been in the second. I’ve certainly come back from a set down before, but I couldn’t make it happen today.”
Shawn cleared his throat.
Charlie’s entire body went on alert: she knew, just instinctively knew that something horrible was about to happen.
He reached into his canvas briefcase and pulled out a huge iPad, the one that was sized like a laptop. It was already turned on, and from somewhere behind her she could hear Jake murmur, “Oh Christ no.”
“Charlotte, would you say that your less than stellar performance on the court today had something to do with this?” Shawn asked in the most sickening, self-congratulatory tone.
Jake stepped forward and clamped his hand around hers. “It’s bad, Charlie,” he hissed into her ear. “Let’s cut this off now. Follow me.” He tried to yank her away from the small press conference, but Charlie couldn’t help herself from turning back.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t exactly had time to read the news yet today. I don’t know to what you’re referring.”
Shawn held the screen toward her so she could read the headline. It was unmissable, in what felt like a five-hundred-point font: Dethroned? Tennis’s Warrior Princess Flunks Drug Test.
Flunked a drug test? What are they talking about? Charlie’s mind bounced about, trying to make sense of what she’d just read. She’d gotten the results from her test in Charleston weeks earlier and of course they had been 100 percent clear. Doping? It was an insane suggestion. Every few years a rumor would surface here or there concerning a couple of the eastern European girls on the tour, especially the ones who were inordinately muscular, but by and large nearly everyone agreed that the constant testing and conversation about doping was excessive and unnecessary. Tennis was a far cry from cycling or baseball: doping might occur in the rarest of circumstances, but it was hardly a sport-wide pandemic.
“I have no comment on that other than to say that there is no truth to it whatsoever.” Charlie said this in a strong, confident voice that made her feel immediately proud of herself. She knew for a fact that the paper would have to print a retraction.
This time Shawn held up his phone. The screen was too small to see anything clearly, but the room had gone eerily quiet. A video was playing. It was difficult for Charlie to make out at first,
but after a few seconds she could tell that it was from the hotel suite the night before.
“Charlie.” Jake’s voice was low, gravelly. A warning.
Something about the way he said it reminded her of Marco, how he almost growled her name when they were having sex, his mouth pressed right up against her ear. Charlie.
When she’d knocked on Rinaldo’s door last night, she had been prepared to stay for exactly one hour. Just enough to flirt a little with Marco, get a feel for where things stood between them, visit a little to take her mind off her match the following morning. She had trained flawlessly for three days, eaten and slept and worked out exactly according to schedule, even watched the tapes Todd had assigned her. It needed to be an early night, of course, but there was no reason she couldn’t sip some Pellegrino and hang with Marco and his buddies and unwind a little.
She’d been surprised by the size of the group. As he’d described earlier, Marco was sitting in front of the TV with Rinaldo, a doubles player from Argentina, and two other male players. They were all shouting at the screen and frantically moving their football player avatars around with giant gaming joysticks. A group of long-legged, wavy-haired clones wearing short dresses and high heels giggled together near the windows, each sipping identical flutes of champagne. Every minute or two their collective laughter would ring out, but no one seemed to pay them much attention. Natalya had her legs draped across Benjy on the couch. Her head was thrown back dramatically as Benjy massaged her bare feet. Another cluster of female players—all American and Canadian, all under twenty years old—stood around the kitchen in leggings and hoodies, looking decidedly less glamorous than the model contingent; they were staring at Natalya like she was Katy Perry. Someone had ordered a huge room service spread of various salads, fruit platters, grilled chicken breasts, heaps of steamed broccoli, and an assortment of still and sparkling bottled water, but no one seemed to be eating it.
“Hey,” Charlie said to no one in particular, feeling instantly awkward.
Marco glanced up and broke into the most delicious smile. “Hey, babe,” he said, his eyes back on the screen as his avatar tackled someone. “Come on over here. I’ll be done in a minute.”
Charlie nodded to Natalya, who nodded in return, and headed toward the kitchenette. The young players who had been gathered nearby took a collective step back to let her pass.
“Hi, Charlie,” said one of them, a sweet seventeen-year-old from Florida. “Good luck tomorrow.”
Charlie smiled at her. It was so strange to feel like one of the village elders at twenty-five. “Thanks. You too. Who are you playing?”
The girl blushed. “I’m not on tomorrow, but my first-round match is against Atherton.”
She waited for Charlie to react, to say something about what a tough match that was going to be, but all Charlie said was, “She’s a terrific player, but she can be erratic. I think you have a great chance.”
The girl beamed. Her friends smiled. “You do?”
Charlie nodded. “Just don’t stay here too late tonight!” she admonished like a den mother. She leaned in close to whisper, “Besides, those boys are all idiots. Cute, I know, I’m not denying it, but still just boys.”
“Easy for you to say,” laughed one of the other girls. Charlie recognized her as an up-and-coming phenom from Montreal. She’d recently won the Orange Bowl and had immediately turned pro, but word on the street was she didn’t have the emotional maturity yet to match her very adult strokes. “You have the hottest one.”
They all laughed and Charlie wondered what they said about the whole au pair situation when she wasn’t around. No one could accuse the tennis world of discretion—it must have been some very juicy locker room conversation.
As if on cue, Marco came over and enveloped her in a bear hug from behind. He buried his face into her neck, kissing it, and whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Charlie wriggled away but couldn’t hide her pleasure. Marco gallantly introduced himself to the young girls and did an expert of job of pretending not to notice that each of them was blushing and giggling. She hated that she felt flattered merely because he’d chosen her.
He took her hand and led her back to the couch. The suite’s door opened and more people streamed in, a mix of players and their friends and girlfriends plus a few whom Charlie recognized as hitting partners. Behind this group of five was Jake. He looked just as surprised to see her.
“Hey, shouldn’t you be in bed now?” he asked, standing over her and Marco. The two men slapped hands hello.
“It’s not even nine,” she said, resting her head back against Marco’s shoulder. “Look around. Half the room is scheduled to play tomorrow.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. Charlie gave him the finger. Marco laughed.
One of the model types sidled up to Jake and handed him a beer, which he accepted with a huge, flirtatious smile.
“Really?” Charlie said.
“What? I certainly don’t have to play tomorrow.”
It didn’t take long for the impromptu get-together to turn into a full-fledged party. Soon, someone had turned the suite’s lights down low and switched the video game to a station playing some sort of European lounge music. A few of the non-tennis girls had begun dancing near the windows, clinking classes and smoking cigarettes, while the male players hovered nearby. Not a single one of the players, male or female, was drinking anything other than water, but a few of them were taking quick drags off e-cigarettes and laughing as they pressed the electronic lit end to their palms. Charlie had been so wrapped up with Marco, literally cuddled into him on a single armchair, that she hadn’t noticed much of anything. When she finally stood up to use the bathroom, she couldn’t find Jake anywhere. All of the younger female players had left, too, and most of the people who remained now—maybe a dozen or so—were drinking and dancing together. She knocked on the bathroom door, and when no one answered, she tried the doorknob.
It took a moment to understand what was happening. Natalya was hunched over the sink and Lexi, the phenom from Montreal, stood pressed against her in the small powder room. Neither girl seemed to notice that the door had opened. She could have—should have—just pulled it shut, but she was confused by what she saw: nothing sexual, per se, but it wasn’t quite platonic either. Natalya finally sensed they weren’t alone and turned toward the door. It was only then that Charlie saw Natalya was holding something rolled up tight in her left hand and wiping underneath her nose with her right. Lexi hadn’t noticed Charlie yet, and she was reaching around Natalya with a credit card, where she concentrated intently on pushing little piles of white powder into neat, orderly lines.
Charlie’s and Natalya’s eyes met and Natalya’s entire expression filled with a rage so pure Charlie was certain the girl would kill her. “Get the fuck out of here,” she snarled, her accent all but disappearing. “And if you tell anyone, I will make sure you regret it.”
The last part got cut off when Charlie yanked the door closed. She stumbled back into the living room, where a group had begun playing a drinking game that involved poker chips and cereal bowls, and walked into the bedroom to find another bathroom. There she found Marco, Rinaldo, and a model huddled together. Not them too, Charlie thought, but she soon saw they were watching a funny video on the model’s phone.
“Charlie! Come here, baby,” Marco said, holding out his arm to her. Once again, she felt instant pride and then hated herself for it.
The model took a long drag off the electronic cigarette she was holding in between her perfectly manicured fingers and held it out to Marco. None of the players would have ever, under any circumstances, smoked a regular Marlboro, but clearly there was a contingent of them that thought the vaporizers had no harmful side effects. She had assumed everyone took extra good care of themselves the night before a match, but that was before she walked in on the number-one ranked woman on earth doing
lines off a hotel sink.
Marco took a long drag and the electronic end glowed brightly, as though it were actually burning. The languorous stream of vapor that Marco exhaled looked exactly like smoke, but had no smell at all.
Someone stuck his head in the room and called the model away. With a squeeze of Marco’s forearm, she made no effort to disguise her look of disappointment before she scampered off.
“She seems nice,” Charlie said, because she wasn’t able to stop herself.
“Who?” Marco asked, pulling her close. He kissed her hard on the mouth. “Here, take a drag. It’ll relax you.”
“I’m feeling great already,” Charlie said, nibbling his bottom lip. She felt his hand slip under the back of her shirt and begin to rub her shoulders. Before she knew what was happening, he was grinding himself into her as he kissed her neck.
“Get a room!” someone called from the living room.
They broke apart and looked at each other, laughing. Marco said, “Maybe we should go back to my room.”
He held out his hand and helped her off the bed. Charlie followed him into the living room. Everywhere she looked people were drinking, smoking, and making out. A group of appreciative guys watched as Natalya danced with abandon to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” but Benjy wasn’t one of them. Charlie glanced around the room and realized he was gone.
“Here,” Marco said, handing her the vaporizer. “Take this.”
“I don’t want it,” Charlie said.
“Just hold on to it for me. I’ll be right back.”
She watched as Marco walked into the kitchenette area. All around her people were laughing and chatting, and she suddenly felt awkward standing there alone. For no other reason than needing to look busy, she put the vaporizer to her lips and took a long, deep drag. It burned the back of her throat, but she was grateful to have something to do with her hands. It’s just water vapor, she thought as she slowly exhaled.
The Singles Game Page 26