“He’s like that with everyone. He’s Marco.”
“She wants him, I know she does.”
“You’re probably right. But what do you think the chances are that they haven’t slept together yet?”
Charlie turned to look at Jake. Why had she never even considered that? Of course they had—maybe even currently were. It made perfect sense. It would almost be insane to think otherwise.
“Do you think so?”
Jake sighed. “I don’t know. Probably. Ben says she doesn’t seem to care much that they barely sleep together.”
Charlie knew Benjy wasn’t at Wimbledon because of the start of training camp, but Jake told her they’d been FaceTiming every day. Jake was headed to Miami to visit him the following week, and they were going to work out a plan for going public. The NFL had seen only one openly gay player before, and the news of one of the most famous and accomplished quarterbacks of all time being in a loving relationship with another man was going to generate a media shitstorm. Charlie was so happy for Jake—for them both—but she felt sick even imagining what they still had to face.
“Where’s Dad?” Charlie asked, glancing around. “Didn’t you say he was meeting us here?”
“Yeah, he was on the phone with Eileen when I left. He should be here any minute.”
Charlie followed Jake’s gaze toward the door leading from the rented villa to the enormous outdoor tent and saw an Elite intern leading a half-dozen reporters and cameramen toward them.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
Jake didn’t answer but steered Charlie toward the area near the white lacquer bar where Marco and Natalya were flirting, or fake-flirting, or whatever it was they were doing.
“Hola, gorgeous,” he said, leaning in to kiss Charlie tenderly on the lips. Anyone who happened to witness that kiss would swear they were soulmates.
“Sooooo,” Natalya said, drawing out the word to make it sound like a song. “Congratulations on finally making it to a final.”
If anyone else caught the sarcasm, they ignored it.
“I first got to the finals of Wimbledon, what, six years ago? Yes. I was only eighteen. A baby. And won four Slams since then. You must be so relieved you finally scored one. It was getting embarrassing, no?”
Shocked by Natalya’s brazenness, Charlie almost laughed. She felt Jake beside her and heard Todd in her ear: Focus. Win. Distraction is for losers.
“Too bad you won’t win one. Maybe next time,” Natalya hissed. Under her breath, so only Charlie could hear. She stared straight into Charlie’s eyes and then turned to walk away. Charlie watched as a group of wealthy-looking businessmen parted their circle for her in an elated welcome.
A panel of flat screens hung over the bar. Tonight’s featured great matches from the past, and some highlights of the previous two weeks at Wimbledon. When she glanced up, Charlie saw herself put away an overhead in her match against Veronica.
Marco whistled. “That was a very nice shot. I remember that one,” he said, placing his hand on the small of her back.
A photographer approached. “Not sure we’ve ever had a couple where both people made the finals before,” the photographer said.
“Wait until we both win,” Marco said, tightening his grip around her waist and pulling her toward him. Just as his lips met hers, Marco squeezed Charlie’s ass. Hard. And not nicely. She yelped a little and wrenched away, but then she remembered the cameras recording everything. Right behind them stood her father, watching the whole thing, an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Don’t do that again,” she whispered into Marco’s ear, but he merely laughed.
“Come here, Charlie. Smile for the cameras.”
The photographers snapped away as Charlie and Marco stood arm in arm with enormous plastered-on smiles, their piles of wavy dark hair pressed together. It occurred to her she couldn’t remember when they’d last slept together. Being seen together as a couple was mutually beneficial, but when had all the flirtatious fun stopped? When had they stopped sneaking around to each other’s rooms late at night and texting each other racy things? Wasn’t a casual hookup supposed to at least be fun?
Charlie headed over to her father when the photos were complete. “Will you walk me back to the flat?” she asked.
“You’re ready to leave?”
“Very. And I’d love it if you wanted to take a walk with me.”
Mr. Silver nodded, and Charlie could see he was happy to be asked. She made her way across the tent and excused herself for interrupting Jake while he spoke with a group of other agents.
“You okay?” Jake whispered. “It hasn’t even been an hour.”
“I posed for all the pictures and drank my Pellegrino, and now I want to take my freaking nervous self home and watch TV before bed. Dad’s coming with me.”
“Okay,” Jake said, kissing her cheek. “Remember, tonight is like any other night. Try to zone out and relax a little, and then stick to your routine. You’re ready for this final, Charlie. I know you are.”
Charlie inhaled sharply. Final. At Wimbledon. The first Grand Slam final of her career was happening the next day. “I can’t believe my first final has to be against her.”
Jake looked over at Natalya, who had found her way back to Marco. She’d perched herself on the arm of his chair, where her already minuscule dress rode up so high that the entire party could confirm that Natalya wore a black lace thong. She was laughing delightedly at something Marco had said.
“Is it weird that we are both potentially sleeping with someone who—”
Charlie held up a hand. “Just don’t.”
“Okay, I won’t. But for the record, it is super weird.”
“I can’t even.”
“Night, C. I’ll see you first thing in the morning.” Jake waved to their father, who was patiently waiting near the tent’s entrance.
Charlie didn’t bother telling Marco she was leaving, and he didn’t so much as glance in her direction when she took her father’s arm and walked out onto the street.
“Everything okay?” her father asked, and Charlie could tell he was carefully calibrating his voice to sound interested but not overly pushy.
“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” She followed as her father led her to the leafy residential street, where they started walking uphill back to the main village.
“Just because you didn’t seem to say good-bye to Marco.”
“It’s over between Marco and me,” Charlie said quietly. She hadn’t planned to say it, but the moment she heard the words, they felt right.
“I’m sorry, honey,” her father said, sounding surprisingly sincere.
“He doesn’t even know yet,” Charlie laughed. “But I think it’s safe to say that the only one who’s going to lose any sleep over this is Todd. And maybe the publicity people at the WTA. I don’t think you have to worry about Marco’s feelings.”
Her father hugged her. “Of all the things that keep me up, I assure you that Marco Vallejo’s feelings are not one of them.”
Charlie laughed. “You must be happy to hear he’s getting the ax.”
Mr. Silver stopped walking and turned to look at her. “I’ll say it again. I’m only happy if you are, Charlie. You know that, don’t you? With Marco, with tennis, with everything—I only want you to be happy.”
Charlie could feel her throat begin to tighten. “Thanks,” she managed. “You’ve always taught me that. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to say the same. I’ve been awful about the Eileen thing.”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it—”
“No, it’s true. I have. Like an immature brat who can’t think about anyone’s feelings except her own. I owe you an apology.”
They looked at one another; her father’s smile was tinged with sadness.
<
br /> “I know it’s not easy, Charlie. All these years it’s been just us, and now there’s someone else. And not just anyone, but Mom’s best friend. It must feel . . . bizarre.”
“It does. But not the part about you finding someone—I’m so happy about that. Eileen just brings back so many memories of those horrible days right afterward, you know? And I know it’s crazy—like, grounds for institutionalization crazy—but I guess there’s always some small part of me that thinks Mom might come back one day. With you married again, and to Eileen, well, where would Mom go?”
“I know exactly what you mean, sweetheart. That crazy thought is part of why I’ve only ever dated, and never really committed. But I’ve come to think your mother didn’t want me to stay frozen in time, unhappy and alone. Now don’t get me wrong—if I had been the one who died first, I would’ve been very happy for your mother to remain a chaste and devoted widow for the rest of her life. But she was a better person than that. Before she died, she must have told me a thousand times that she wanted me to have a full life. To fall in love again. After making sure I was all set up to take care of you and Jake, it’s what she wanted most.”
They crossed the main street and walked down a cul-de-sac toward their rented townhouse. Mr. Silver unlocked the front door and immediately plugged in the electric teakettle.
“I’d like Eileen to start coming to tournaments,” Charlie said. “And not just local ones, like UCLA. If she wants to, that is.”
Mr. Silver looked at her. “I think she’d like that,” he said, his voice catching. “I know I would.”
Charlie crossed the kitchen and hugged her father. She allowed herself to relax into the embrace, resting her head on his shoulder and inhaling his familiar smell. She squeezed as tightly as she could and almost teared up again when she thought of how long it had been since they’d done this.
“I’m going to go up,” she said, suddenly exhausted.
“No tea? I made you the herbal mint just how you like it.” He handed her a steaming mug.
“I’ll take it upstairs with me. Thanks, Dad. I love you.”
He wiped the counter with a dishrag. “I love you, too, sweetie. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, I hope you know how proud I am of you. Finals of Wimbledon . . . I can barely wrap my mind around it.”
Charlie couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh, and Charlie? I was lying before.”
She stopped and turned around. “About what?”
“I really am happy that you’re ditching Marco. I think he’s an ass who is completely unworthy of my daughter. There, I said it.”
Charlie laughed. “I never would have guessed.”
“Well, you’ve got to give me credit for keeping my mouth shut as long as I did. Not easy for a dad. You’ll see one day. But yes, he’s . . . a total douchebag.”
“Dad!”
“What?”
“Goodnight . . .”
Charlie walked into the bedroom that was decorated in muted shades of gray and ivory, all very soothing and inoffensive like all of England, and finished her tea. She changed into a tank top and pj shorts and had just crawled under the covers when she heard a knock on her door.
“Dad? Come in,” she called out, relieved that she wouldn’t have to be alone with her thoughts quite yet. How was she ever going to sleep the night before the Wimbledon final? Or worse, what would happen if she didn’t?
“It’s me,” Jake said, looking especially handsome in the blue blazer he’d worn to the party. “You’re not sleeping yet, are you?”
“Yeah, right. Come in, close the door,” she said. He threw himself in a heap at the end of her bed, the same way he’d been doing since they were kids.
“I’d kill for an Ambien. I don’t even know the last time I took one, but I remember it was pretty fantastic.”
Jake looked at her.
“What? I’m obviously kidding.” She kicked his ribs from underneath the covers.
“Dad told me about Marco. He was literally waiting for me by the front door. Is it true?”
“Yes. I tried to be super cool and okay with being casual and not having any titles and just rolling with everything. Clearly he’s gorgeous. He’s great in bed. He’s the guy everyone wants, including me for a really long time. But he’s also kind of a douchebag, as Dad so eloquently put it. And while of course parts of it—of him—are fun, I always end up feeling like I’m impersonating someone who is legitimately cool and casual. Which I’m actually not.”
“And you feel like this is a big newsflash? That you’re not excited to be someone’s booty call?”
“Sort of.”
“Oh, well, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but that’s just plain idiotic.”
“When did you get so judgey?”
“I’m not judging you, Charlie.”
“Of course you are! You’re my brother, that’s what you do.”
“Okay, fine, I’m judging you. But for being stupid, not slutty. I thought your little fling with Zeke Leighton was pretty much the greatest thing ever, remember? That’s good fun. No expectations, everyone on the same page, a sexy one-off romp. Well played. But this whole Marco thing hasn’t sat well with me from the beginning. You’re just not that cool of a girl.”
“Is this where I point out that you and Todd practically pimped me out to Marco for the sake of ‘optics’? I mean, let’s call a spade a spade.”
“No way! Todd pimped you out. I just agreed it was a good strategy when you seemed to be happy and having fun with it. But I can see now why this whole non-relationship relationship isn’t terrific, and I entirely support your ditching him.”
Charlie stretched her arms over her head, relieved she was starting to feel tired. “What about you? How’s Benjy? I mean Ben?”
Jake’s face was lost in the dark, but Charlie could hear the smile in his words. “He’s great, C. Really, really great. We’re . . . we’re talking about moving in together.”
Any other night Charlie would have bolted up in bed, run to turn on the lights, and demanded more information. Never before had he declared anything close to that level of commitment. But for whatever reason, that night it felt like the most natural thing in the world to hear Jake talk about his future with the man he loved. She said, “Really? That’s great, Jake. How will it work? You’ll have to go to Miami, obviously.”
“Yeah. Nothing definite, but once he’s officially out and the madness has settled down, I’ll probably move into his place on Palm Island. I can work out of Elite’s Miami office and I travel so much with you anyway that there’s really no reason I have to be based in New York. So that’s tentatively the plan.”
“It sounds great, Jake. It really does. I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Me neither. He’s just . . . I don’t know how to describe it.”
“You love him. Plain and simple. Nothing else really matters.”
They were quiet for a moment.
“I’ll let you get some sleep,” Jake said, hauling himself up.
Charlie could only make out his shadow in the darkness, but she smiled anyway. “I don’t even resent you for getting the husband, the kids, and the white picket fence before me,” she said.
“Yes, you do,” Jake said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “But I can live with that.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I do. But I’m so happy for you, too. Just don’t make me wear a bridesmaid dress to the wedding, okay? That’ll put me over the edge.”
“Deal.”
“Night, Jakey.”
He opened the door and light flooded in from the hallway. “Hey, C? Just one more thing. Kick that bitch’s ass tomorrow.”
Instead of feeling agitation and anxiety like she always did when someone mentioned Natalya, Charlie laughed. Then she luxuriated in the cool sheets and the thought of Jake�
�s happiness and she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
21
go time
THE FINALS, CENTRE COURT
JUNE 2016
The day of the finals, Charlie had her ritualistic grilled salmon and vegetables for lunch. One by one her family and team offered advice at the table in their rented Wimbledon Village flat.
Todd: “You set the pace. Drive to the net. No fear. Own this match. This is your chance to prove to the entire world that you’ve got what it takes, so don’t fuck it up!”
Jake: “Play your own game. Don’t let Natalya get inside your head. You’ve got this, Charlie.”
Dan: “You’ve made it to the very top and this is the final hurdle. You can do this!”
Dad: “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you alone have made it happen. Your mother would be so proud of you, and so am I.”
After eating, Todd moved everyone into the living room to view the tapes he had assembled from Wimbledon finals past. Together they watched colossal blowouts while Todd warned, “Don’t let this be you,” and triumphant upsets where he kept repeating, “This is the goal,” while waving his arms with urgency.
Now, a few hours later, Charlie wiped a rivulet of perspiration from her eyebrow with a white wristband that featured a single delicate amethyst crystal—her mother’s birthstone. She was careful not to rub the stone near her face, but each time after she wiped away the sweat, she’d press the stone to her lips. It was a new ritual, something of an oxymoron in the tennis world, but it was helping Charlie keep calm and focused. Steady.
She had felt nearly out-of-body during the walk to Centre Court and the ensuing introductions, but by the time warm-ups began and she and Natalya could actually start hitting the ball, the decades of muscle memory kicked in. Charlie settled instantly into her smooth and steady strokes. After the warm-up, when the women had three minutes to sit and prepare for start of play, Charlie could feel Natalya glaring at her from the opposite side of the net. The media, the WTA, and tennis fans everywhere had gone crazy with this final, which was a true marketing and publicity bonanza. The two women shared millions in endorsements between them, had graced the covers of fashion and sporting magazines, were both dating famous male athletes at the very top of their own games, and each was, at least according to the press, “gorgeous in her own way.” One breathless headline had called the final “The Battle of the Beauties”; another had read “Cold War Heating Up on Centre Court.” There was Charlie, the underdog all-American with the wavy dark hair and muscular legs and the easy smile, pitted against Natalya, the angular, sexy, blond ice queen with a confident jaunt to every step and an attitude that made people love to hate her. If Charlie could eke out the win, it would be her first Grand Slam title. Natalya had won four Grand Slams—two US Opens and two Australian Opens—but this would be her first-ever Wimbledon. Who wanted it more? The announcers kept asking each other. It was agreed the women were closely matched—Natalya clearly trumped Charlie in serving and overall fitness, but with the exception of Roland-Garros, Charlie’s net game had been flawless lately and her backhand was the best in the business. The Wimbledon trophy and nearly $2.7 million were at stake, and the tension and excitement inside Centre Court were palpable.
The Singles Game Page 32