JUNE 2016
“Move your ass!” Todd screamed from the sidelines. Charlie managed to get her frame on the ball before it went flying off to the side. “Stop being so fucking hesitant! You’re not going to die if you move a little.”
I know I’m not going to die, Charlie screamed silently. I’m worried about ending up in surgery and rehab again for six more months. Grass is slippery, you jerk. Remember?
But she knew Todd was right: the moment you feared falling or injury was the moment you fell, hurt yourself, or lost the match. People loved talking about focus, staying mentally strong and present, and everyone assumed it only mattered when you were on the court and you were down a game or a set or a match point. But more often the mental focus was about consistency. The ability to squash the insistent, horrible thoughts in your mind: the slippery grass; the opponent’s faster-than-expected serve; the raucous crowd; the twinge in your elbow; the lame line umpire; the idiot in the stands in a neon shirt who won’t sit down; the sweat in your eyes . . . On and on the mind went, cycling through all the assaulting sights and smells and sounds that competed for a player’s attention. Only a select few of the players—through practice, experience, and sheer determination—ever developed the mental toughness to tune it all out. It was why hundreds of them had the strokes and the game to win, and so few were actual winners.
Dan slammed another ball down the line, which Charlie reached, but he finessed the next shot to fall right over the net, leaving her scrambling to reach it in time. “Move!” Todd bellowed. Charlie didn’t even get close.
“That was cheap,” she muttered.
“Nothing cheap about it!” Todd yelled, beginning to pace up and down the sidelines. “You’re six feet tall and the fourth-best girl player in the whole fucking universe. YOU NEED TO GET THERE!”
This continued for another twenty brutal minutes until their court time was up. Dripping in sweat and exhausted from the practice, Charlie braced herself for Todd’s assessment.
After a few seconds of mopping her face with a towel, she glanced up toward Todd, who stood a few feet away, staring at her with what could only be described as naked hatred.
“What?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.
More staring. Then a slow, disgusted shake of his head.
“You’re afraid. You’re fucking afraid. I can’t even believe what I’m seeing. After all we’ve done—after everything I’ve done for you—you’re still dancing around out there like a goddamn amateur.”
“Todd, I really think that I—”
“You either figure out how to get over whatever fucked-up mental problem you have going on, or pack it in. Because there is no in-between.”
Thankfully, his phone rang before he could continue. He swiped the screen and barked, “What?”
“Well, that was lovely,” Charlie said as she collapsed onto the bench.
Dan handed her a cup of watered-down Gatorade. “Don’t beat yourself up. You were hitting well. It’s natural you’re a little hesitant back on the grass, given what happened last year.”
“Yeah, but Todd’s right: I need to suck it up. Grass isn’t anyone’s favorite surface. I need to get over the fear. It just feels like playing on ice.”
He mopped his own neck with a towel. “You’re playing Gretchen tomorrow?”
Charlie nodded. Gretchen Strasser was the oldest player on the women’s tour, at thirty-six. She’d taken the prior year off to have a baby, and although she’d won three Slams and been ranked number one in her late twenties, it was generally agreed that her best days were long over. The announcers thought she should have retired instead of taken maternity leave, but Charlie understood why she couldn’t let go. How easy was it to walk away from your lifelong identity? Like most professional athletes, chances were you didn’t have the time or inclination to do anything else. Once you stopped playing, you had to reinvent your entire life. It was terrifying for most players, and Charlie wondered if some part of that fear didn’t push her to get up and play every day, even when she didn’t particularly feel like it.
“You’re going to beat her easily. I know you are. Just forget everything about last year—the grass, the slip, the sneakers, the whole thing—and focus on hammering your return-of-serve and forcing her to come in. Her service game is weak, and yours has never been better. You’ll break her early and often, I’m sure of it. You’ve got this.” Dan’s tone was urgent, and when Charlie looked up, he was death-gripping his racket like he might break it in half.
“You really think so?”
“I know so. You’re hitting great, Charlie. Better than I’ve seen you hit all year.”
Charlie was about to thank him when Todd hung up the phone. “Do an hour in the gym before you break for lunch. Then I want you back out here with Dan and that chick—what’s her name? The young one? Eleanor. And her hitting partner. You’re scheduled to share the court at three. None of us have time for stupid mental shit now, so we’re going to beat this anxiety right out of you. Got it?”
Charlie and Dan nodded. Todd strode off the court.
Before Charlie could feel sorry for herself, Dan reached over and gently placed his palm atop her forearm. She froze. Had he ever touched her before? It felt so strangely intimate. “Charlie? Just so you know, I think—”
“Ah, look who it is!” A voice rang out. Dan yanked his arm away as Marco strode onto the court. He looked beautiful: strong, tall, and tan in his tennis whites, and he was smiling at Charlie as though she were the best part of his day. In a flash he was standing in front of her, pulling her up from the bench and kissing her on the mouth while Dan, Marco’s coach, and another men’s player and his coach all tried not to watch.
“How lucky am I?” he asked, and Charlie wanted to hate him, but of course she didn’t.
“Hey,” she said.
“Whoa, someone is a little sweaty, no?” Marco said, backpedaling, his hands held up in an exaggerated stop motion.
“She just hit for two hours. What do you expect?” Dan asked, his tone openly hostile.
Everyone was quiet for a moment before Marco laughed. Not nicely. “Amigo, can I ask you a huge favor? Can you run my rackets to the stringing room? They need to be there before one, but I’m on the court now until two. Cool?” He flung his racket bag toward Dan, kissed Charlie again, and trotted to the baseline while the others followed.
Charlie watched Dan flush red as he packed up his own bag and slung both his and Marco’s over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said, moving quickly to keep up with him. “That was uncalled-for.”
“It’s fine,” Dan said, although his voice suggested otherwise. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the gym, it’s on the way to the stringing room.”
Maybe it was seeing Dan treated so badly but after walking in silence for a bit, Charlie blurted out, “What are you doing tonight? I have lights-out at nine but do you maybe want to come with me to Austria House? They have some celebrity chef cooking dinner tonight. Have you ever heard of Andre Alexander?”
“Seriously? He’s there? Tonight?”
“Yes, and only for like twenty people, but I’m sure they won’t mind if I bring you. What do you say?”
Dan appeared to consider it.
“What, will you miss the hop-on-hop-off tour of London? Or an organized pub crawl of all the best fish ’n’ chips places? Or maybe it was a visit to the set of Downton Abbey? Come on, ’fess up, I know you have some culturally enriching plan for the night . . .”
Dan laughed.
“Tell me!” she squealed, and poked him in the side.
“I was just going to make a quick visit to the Lawn Tennis Museum. They have late hours tonight. But a meal from Andre Alexander sounds way better.”
“The Lawn Tennis Museum? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Dan blushed. “I know
, I know. It’s a stretch, even for me.” They had reached the entrance to the gym when Charlie’s phone began to ring.
“Hello?” she answered, once again cursing the lack of caller ID while traveling abroad, which in her case was pretty much always.
“Charlie?” Marco’s voice boomed though the phone. Dan looked at the ground but didn’t make a move to leave.
“Yes?”
“I have to get back to practice. Just wanted to tell you that we’re going to Austria House for dinner tonight. Andre Alexander’s cooking. It’s going to be incredible.”
“Marco, I, uh . . .” She could feel her face flame red, but before she could say anything, Dan leaned over and whispered, “Go with him, Charlie. Seriously, don’t think twice. I actually forgot about other plans I had for tonight, so I can’t make it anyway. I’ll see you at three, okay?”
Charlie watched as he jogged away.
“Charlie?” Marco sounded annoyed. “Meet me there at six. Ciao, ciao.” And the call disconnected.
• • •
When Charlie opened her eyes the next morning, she woke with a fire she hadn’t felt in months. Wimbledon. She was proud of herself for skipping the Austria House dinner the night before and staying in bed—she’d had nearly eleven hours of sleep and she felt great. Marco’s text wondering where she was hadn’t hurt either. Two hours later, she put Strasser away in straight sets. Efficiently, and with intention. Even Todd had praised her.
Next up was Veronica Kulyk, a Ukrainian girl who’d only recently started playing professionally and was currently ranked twenty-fourth in the world. Charlie met Veronica in the locker room, where they watched the match that preceded their own on overhead screens.
“I cannot believe I am playing the semifinals of Wimbledon!” Veronica said, not bothering to hide her excitement. “It is something I have thought about for so long, it is so strange to think it is happening.”
Veronica’s blond bun was secured so tightly to the back of her crown that it pulled the skin around her eyes taut. It made her look even younger, Charlie thought.
“Don’t worry, the crowd is lovely here. All golf claps.” Charlie wanted to be polite, but she was also going through her own pre-match checklist. No fear. No hesitation. No worries about the grass.
And then Veronica began to cry. It began with a few small tears and some delicate sniffling, but soon Veronica was convulsing with sobs. Charlie fought the urge to hug her. She could hear Todd in her head: No mercy! This is not your friend. Focus on your own goddamn game!
Finally, Charlie got up and began rubbing the girl’s back.
“I am sorry,” Veronica said in careful English, the crying causing her accent to become even stronger.
“It’s fine,” Charlie soothed, not exactly sure why the girl was crying. “Before the first time I played Wimbledon, I was puking in the locker room for at least—”
“You don’t understand,” Veronica interrupted. “If I don’t play well, my family does not keep their home. My brothers will not eat.”
The crowd on the television politely cheered above them. The men’s match currently unfolding on Court 2 had just entered a third-set tiebreaker which, depending on the outcome of the next few points, meant the girls had either seconds or hours before their match began.
Charlie heard more enthusiastic applause from the television but wouldn’t allow herself to glance up.
“My parents, they give everything to me,” Veronica continued. “All the work, the little money they earn, it all goes to me. I am their hope for everything.”
Charlie didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t surprised that Veronica supported her entire family. It was a common story among girls in certain areas of the world. Sometimes a girl became an entire family’s—or even an entire community’s—hope for the future. Every last dollar and bit of energy had been poured into her training and coaching, and now she was expected to pay it all back with interest. So few ever made it to the big leagues—it was nearly impossible to get to that level, privilege or poverty, it almost never mattered—but the ones who did make it to the top, and who had great financial and emotional debts to repay, well, they had it the hardest of all.
A purple-suited female official walked into the locker room and startled at Veronica’s obviously tear-stained face. “Is there a problem?” she asked in that clipped, British tone they seemed to teach them at Wimbledon school.
“No, no, there is no problem,” Veronica said, leaping to her feet. She did a few high knee jumps and bent over to place her flattened palms on the floor. “Is it our turn?”
“Yes,” the woman said, still sounding suspicious. She glanced at Charlie. “Ms. Silver? Are you sorted and ready for your match?”
“I am,” Charlie said, her adrenaline beginning to surge.
Both girls grabbed their enormous racket bags and followed the official out of the locker room and into the hallway, where they were immediately flanked on both sides by the purple-suited security people who would escort them to Court 2. Tennis fans clad in crisp button-downs and well-tailored suits and fresh floral sundresses smiled at them and cleared a path. A few called out “Good luck!” or “Go Charlie!” or “Wishing you both a great match,” but that was it. Charlie almost laughed: compared with the US Open, where fans preferred screaming to talking and dancing to cheering—where barely a match went by during which a group of drunk fans didn’t flash some cleverly worded, home-crafted placard—this place was downright sleepy. If the US Open was a two-week trip to Ibiza, Wimbledon was a visit to the Library of Congress.
The girls walked out onto the court. Charlie immediately turned to her bag ritual: Gatorade and Evian bottles lined up just so, backup rackets unwrapped and ready, towel slung over the back of her chair. As she pulled out an extra bobby pin to secure her miniature crown a bit more tightly, the laminated picture of her mother fell facedown on the grass court. Charlie had looked at that picture no fewer than a thousand times—it had been with her from the very first professional match she’d ever played. Now she could feel her mother’s presence in a way she hadn’t since the days right after her mother’s death, when Charlie would bolt awake in her bed, convinced her mother had been lying next to her. It was exactly like that, right there on the tennis court, for the first time in so many years: her mother there, watching her, knowing her. With her. Charlie stood rooted to the spot next to her chair, unwilling to move an inch, and allowed the entire rest of the world to fade into the background, remembering only the smell of her mother’s moisturizer and the feel of her cotton nightgown and the way her hair would tickle Charlie’s face when she bent over to kiss her goodnight.
Charlie looked to the cloudless sky and smiled. She had this.
The warm-up felt lightening fast. Almost before she realized it, Charlie was up three games to love in the first set. She caught a glimpse of Veronica’s face on the changeover: teeth gritted, shoulders proudly pressed back, looking fierce and determined. But some part of her looked scared, too, and Charlie couldn’t help but feel a wave of guilt wash over her. What did it mean if Charlie lost that day? Who would really care except her? Todd, the man she paid exorbitant amounts of money to push her, but who truly cared nothing about her as a person? Nike? Swarovski? The other giant corporations she had courted so determinedly to win their endorsements? Jake? Her father? Charlie thought of all she had missed during her childhood, all the movies and camps and boyfriends and—the biggest sacrifice of all—college. What did any of that really mean when it had been entirely her choice? Her own pressure and expectations? Not only had neither of her parents pressured her to play, but at times they had actively encouraged her not to. How many times had her mother begged Charlie only to compete if she truly loved it? How often had her father literally pleaded with her to stay in college, to study, to pursue a different passion—one that could last a lifetime, something that she wouldn’t age out of by
her thirties, a career that wouldn’t rob her of the opportunity to have a family or take a vacation or be defined by something other than a ranking or a win.
Charlie felt deeply for Veronica, for all the pressure the young girl had to bear: she hated that Veronica might play tennis despite loathing the sport, the travel and the pressure, resenting the physical toll it took on her body and the way it stole her childhood. Charlie felt guilty that she could choose her own path—to play, to walk away, or anything in between—and do it with the confidence that her family and friends would support her. She felt all of this more acutely that day as she beat Veronica in a quick, efficient two sets. She hadn’t done anything wrong—in fact, by everyone’s assessment, from the television announcer to the cheering fans, she had done everything right—but nothing about that win felt good. Thoughts of Veronica and her mother and Marcy swirled through her mind as she went through the motions of humbly accepting the crowd’s appreciation. And as overwhelmed with vying emotions as she was in that moment, Charlie had a stunning realization: for the first time in her entire career she had made it to the finals of a Grand Slam tournament, and about that fact in particular, she felt very little at all.
• • •
The first thing she saw when she walked into Elite Athlete Management’s hospitality tent was Marco leaning in close to Natalya, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. He looked coolly casual in tight-fitting pants and an untucked linen shirt, his longish hair so perfectly in place it was impossible not to wonder if he’d had it blown out. It was annoying to admit, but he was only the second-most-attractive person in the room after Natalya. The girl looked stunning: white Hervé bandage dress, four-inch pink patent pumps, legs so long and lean and gorgeously bronzed that it was hard to look away. Charlie looked down at her own strapless dress and sparkly gold sandals—both of which she’d loved mere moments earlier—and felt like an awkward teenager headed to prom.
“Stop staring,” Jake said, pulling her around by the upper arm.
“Did you see how he’s flirting with her?” Charlie hissed.
The Singles Game Page 31