Charlie did a quick scan of the courtside boxes: Elton John and David Furnish, Anna Wintour, Bradley Cooper. Then she turned around to check out the player box. Only at Wimbledon did two opponents share one box among their guests. To the left sat Natalya’s parents, coach, physio, hitting partner, hair and makeup artist, and a couple of Russian girlfriends. Benjy was nowhere to be found, but Charlie knew from Jake that he couldn’t get away: the Dolphins had just drafted a new backup quarterback, and Benjy was helping to train him. Next to Natalya’s crew, Charlie saw her own entourage watching her intently. Todd, Jake, and her father sat in the box’s front row, and they all waved when they caught her gaze in what could have been a choreographed performance. Behind them, Piper and Ronin sat in the first two seats on the aisle. Piper gave her a double thumbs up and blew a kiss. In the third seat was Dan. He looked handsome in chinos and a button-down and was chatting animatedly with Ronin while they waited for play to start.
Dan had been waiting for her in the kitchen earlier that day, showered and dressed and ready to go. He had handed her the amethyst wristband on their walk to the site, and she had had to press her arms into her sides to keep from hugging him. He had also shown her the hats he’d asked Nike to make for the guests in Charlie’s half of the player box: all white with a subtle white swoosh on the back and a decidedly unsubtle TEAM SILVER in enormous black print across the front. Every one of Charlie’s entourage was wearing them, except the one who sat sullenly to Dan’s left: Marco. Nearly every time Charlie sneaked a peek, Marco was staring at his phone or checking the crowd to make sure people recognized him. Once, his eyes had even been closed. I won’t wait another day, she thought to herself as she walked out onto the court before serving for the first time. I will end it tonight.
One of Charlie’s secret fears was not just losing, but losing so badly that the first set—or, shudderingly, the entire match—would be a shutout. She wouldn’t fully exhale until she had logged at least one game on the scoreboard, which she did, easily holding her serve to lead in the first set, 1–0. The women stayed on serve the rest of the set until the score was 6–5 in favor of Charlie, and Natalya won the next game to force a tiebreaker. Natalya had a massive 5–1 lead in the tiebreak, but Charlie battled back to win it on an ace and take the first set, 7–6. When Charlie pumped her fists exultantly and nearly collapsed to the ground, she could feel the crowd cheer with her. She could sense their desire for her to win, and for the first time that day, she felt certain she would win.
The second set was grueling but much less linear than the first. Natalya broke Charlie’s serve early, and although Charlie was able to break her back, it set a strangely uncomfortable pace for the next few games. The wind had picked up a bit, making the bounces a little less predictable, and the temperature felt as though it dropped a few degrees in minutes. A slew of neatly uniformed ball kids appeared on the sidelines during a changeover to prepare for possible rain: they would quickly unfurl a specially fitted cover to keep the grass court dry and, if necessary, begin the process of closing the infamous Centre Court roof. It was enough of a distraction to both players that each of their games seemed to suffer: Charlie couldn’t get a decent first serve in; Natalya hit too many easy unforced errors. They both quickly rebounded a string of strong winners until the final game of the set. Charlie literally gave it away at deuce with two astonishing double faults in a row. The crowd groaned. She couldn’t look at her box. The second set went to Natalya, 7–5.
Charlie sat in her chair on the sidelines after losing the second set and breathed. She wasn’t panicked, but she was angry at herself. Nearly two hours had elapsed already, and she was proud that she still felt strong and energized but without the sickening adrenaline surges that had haunted her past matches. But now there was a whole set ahead. On the positive side, with the exception of the double faults, Charlie had played beautifully. If anything, Natalya was the one who, despite eking out the second-set win, looked piqued and annoyed. Charlie could see her inspect her racket’s grip and fiddle with a new roll of grip tape, which she tried to pry open with her teeth. Natalya’s frustration grew more obvious every moment as she bit and chewed and stabbed at the packaging, and Charlie couldn’t look away. No doubt Natalya had six identical rackets in her bag with freshly wrapped grip tape already in place, but for some reason she kept wrestling with the one in her hand. When the chair umpire called time and the women were expected to begin the third and final set, Natalya chucked her racket so hard into the side court that it left a small divot. Technically she could have been called for unsportsmanlike conduct, but the officials were no doubt wary about penalty calls during a Slam final. Charlie bounced lightly on the balls of her feet and sidestepped along the baseline to keep loose while she waited for her opponent, who had finally pulled a new racket from her bag. A frisson of hope surged through Charlie as she pressed her Swarovski amethyst to her mouth. It was obvious Natalya was beginning to unravel. It was time to pounce.
Once again, they each held service and then broke one another at exactly the same times, bringing the score to 4–4. Charlie felt a momentary stab of panic when Natalya moved ahead to 5–4 with consecutive down-the-line winners, but she was able to even it out on her next serve. After holding their own serves once again, the women were tied at 6–6. Todd had hammered into her the danger of not closing it out early in the third set: Wimbledon scoring didn’t allow for a tiebreaker in the final set, so Charlie needed to win by two full games no matter how long it took. As Charlie sat on the sideline, trying to slow her breathing after a particularly grueling twelve games, she tried not to remember Todd’s warning: “Do not let it drag out in the third. You’re fit, but you’re still only a year into recovery. And Natalya’s record in long matches is the stuff of fucking legends.” The match clock already read three hours and six minutes: Wimbledon history, Charlie knew, and most certainly the longest match of her professional career. Her legs were beginning to cramp, although not horribly, and she was more winded than she would have liked, but all things considered, she felt good. She had been playing her absolute best tennis. Regardless of what happened, she would be able to be proud of how she played.
When the umpire called time, Charlie jumped to her feet with more energy than she felt and did a little jog next to the chair to loosen her hamstrings. She glanced up at the player box and saw Dan on his feet, his hands folded around his mouth to create a little megaphone, literally screaming her name while the hordes of quiet and polite fans who sat around him looked on in equal parts amusement and disapproval, when she felt Natalya sidle up next to her.
“You see your boyfriend up there?” Natalya asked, calibrating her voice perfectly so that only Charlie could hear her.
A glance to the player box revealed Marco sitting calmly and quietly, watching Charlie and Natalya with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Marco?” she asked, more out of surprise that Natalya was speaking to her than a genuine interest in engaging. These were the very first words the women had exchanged since walking onto the court.
“Yes. Our Marco. I just wanted to thank you for lending him to me last night,” Natalya said, a smile spreading slowly on her face.
“Ms. Silver and Ms. Ivanov, please take your sides. Play will commence now.”
Charlie was stunned. Natalya had the audacity to try to rattle her points away from the end of their epic match. Our Marco.
Before jogging to the baseline, Natalya quickly leaned toward Charlie once more, and in a husky whisper said, “I certainly don’t need to tell you this, but he was good in bed. Like, really good.”
“Ms. Ivanov? Ms. Silver?” The umpire inquired.
As Charlie walked to her own side, a visual of Natalya hovering naked over Marco flickered into her head. Only the feeling of her own fingernails digging into her palms brought her back to the present.
Focus! Charlie screamed at herself. This is the Final. Of. Wimbledon.
You were going to break up with him anyway. She could be lying just to upset you. You don’t even like him, so don’t throw the Wimbledon final for him! Focus. Focus. Focus!
She placed her toes directly against the baseline, bounced the ball three times, and tossed it into the air. Perfect toss, Charlie thought as she launched her entire body upward to attack the ball while it hovered at its highest point. It went smashing across the net and into the far corner of the service box, where Natalya got a racket on it but could only send it careening into the alley.
15–0, Charlie.
Charlie’s next serve was also perfect, landing straight and hard in the middle of the box. Natalya’s return was weaker than normal, and Charlie pounced on it for a blazing crosscourt winner.
30–0.
Natalya bent over to adjust her socks and flashed Charlie—and the entire audience—a view of her perfect butt. Charlie couldn’t help herself: she looked over at Marco and, sure enough, caught him staring directly at it. When Natalya served for the next point, Charlie mishit the return with the frame instead of the strings.
I hate her, Charlie thought, feeling a surge of anger and adrenaline course from her stomach to her throat. I hate her, I hate, I hate her.
Charlie lost the next point. She came in on a short ball by hitting an excellent approach shot but then flubbed an easy overhead and missed the line by at least a foot.
30–15.
Something about missing that last shot shook Charlie in a way she hadn’t felt for the last three hours. If she continued like this, she would lose the match—the whole tournament—over an unethical opponent and a man she didn’t even like. And if that happened, she would have no one to blame but herself. It will not go down that way, Charlie told herself as she sliced a backhand short and watched as Natalya scrambled to reach it.
For the next four points, Charlie played the best tennis of her life. Her focus was laser-like, her strokes and footwork impeccable. She set aside Natalya and Marco and the cramping and the winded feeling and pushed herself to run for everything. No ball was too fast or far to reach, no shortcuts were acceptable: each point got 100 percent of her effort and strength. Natalya, too, played beautifully. Both women ran and slid and stretched in a show of incomparable fortitude and determination, and the crowd clapped their excited appreciation.
Despite it all, Natalya broke Charlie to win the game and make it 7–6. The rules called for the players to switch sides on odd-numbered games. Charlie was so focused on how much the next game mattered that she didn’t notice Natalya had sidled up next to her.
When they met in front of the umpire’s chair, Natalya deliberately led with her shoulder and bumped into Charlie—taking great care to make it look like an accident. Instantly a thought popped into Charlie’s head.
“Natalya?” Charlie asked quietly, making sure no one could hear, keeping her mouth still so no one watching on TV could read her lips.
“Mmm?”
“There’s something you should know, too. About Benjy.”
Natalya met Charlie’s gaze. Charlie could see instantly her opponent had no idea what Charlie was about to say. “What’s that?”
Charlie opened her mouth and searched for the perfect way to deliver the sucker-punch news she so desperately wanted to share, but nothing came out.
“I’m waiting.”
“Ladies? Please take your sides,” the umpire said, his hand over the microphone.
The scene from the boat a couple of weeks earlier popped into her head: Benjy and Jake, both beautiful and shirtless, sleeping peacefully next to each other. Charlie could see Jake’s obvious joy and happiness as clearly as if he’d been standing in front of her.
Natalya leaned in so close Charlie could feel her breath. They were the identical height and their noses almost touched. “Did I mention that Marco said I have the best ass he’s ever seen? No? You would be surprised how often I hear that,” Natalya said, shaking her ponytail with a laugh.
Natalya turned back to Charlie, and in that moment, Charlie remembered how it felt to win Charleston when she’d served before her opponent was ready. She imagined what her father would say if he knew the tactics she’d resorted to; she wondered what her mother would think of the woman she’d become. But most of all she thought of Jake, and what it would do to his relationship to have it broadcast all over the world before he and Benjy were ready.
“Good luck,” Charlie said, because that’s all she could think to say. She would win or lose this point based on any number of factors, but betraying Jake’s confidence wasn’t going to be one of them.
Natalya rolled her eyes and returned to the baseline. She did side-to-side jumps that caused her ponytail and skirt to do the most adorable little flips.
Charlie watched as Natalya extended her racket out to the nearest ball boy and grinned at him when he placed two balls on the strings. Natalya tucked one neatly under her skirt, approached the baseline, and placed her feet. Charlie bounced on her toes, ready to receive service, but despite her readiness, Natalya’s first serve hit the corner of the box and Charlie couldn’t even get close to it. Charlie took the next point by hitting a perfect lob over Natalya’s head, where it hit the back of the tape, but then Natalya won the next two. 45–15. Charlie could almost hear the television announcers tell their audiences in dozens of languages all over the world that this was match point for Natalya. Tournament point. Charlie already knew the predictable headline if she lost: “Another Silver for Silver.”
Charlie filled her lungs with air and exhaled slowly, feeling her shoulders lower and her gaze steady. She returned Natalya’s serve perfectly and then followed it up with a forehand and a backhand. Both were flawlessly executed, sailing hard and fast over the net, landing exactly where she had intended them. Quickly she worked her way to the net, where she felt confident, and hit an excellent volley deep to Natalya’s backhand. For the briefest moment Charlie stopped to admire her own shot—it had just hit the line and would be very difficult for Natalya to return well—but in a split second Natalya’s return came flying over the net with a surprising amount of power, and Charlie lunged toward the ball. Her racket never even connected with it. She turned around just in time to see it land behind her, an inch or two within the baseline, an impressive and definitive winner.
Natalya fell to the ground. The umpire announced the win, Ms. Ivanov’s first at Wimbledon, to thunderous applause. The entirety of Centre Court rose to its feet, cheering both women in what had to be one of the most exciting finals in Wimbledon history. The cameras on the sidelines clicked madly. The various officials began preparing the winner presentation. As Charlie glanced to the player box, she caught Natalya’s friends embracing. Jake and her father looked crestfallen. Todd raked his hands through his hair. Marco bowed to both girls. Piper and Ronin stood and clapped politely. Only Dan seemed to be proud of her and willing Charlie to look at him. When she caught his eye, he pointed at her and mouthed, “You played a great match.”
A surge of realization followed, almost as though Charlie hadn’t understood until right then: it was over and she had lost. The disappointment that followed was swift and stabbing, and yet, she could walk off Centre Court with her shoulders back and her head held high. She had played honestly. She had played with integrity. It hadn’t been good enough to win a Slam—at least not yet. But it was good enough to give the finger to the bedazzled sports bras and nasty opponents and cheating boyfriends and abusive coaches and all the other noise that she’d allowed to seep in and poison her for so long. It was good enough to end all that.
Charlie suffered through the post-match interviews with grace and dignity, pausing often to thank her family and her team and to congratulate Natalya on a tournament won well. She raised her runner-up trophy high, waved her thanks to the crowd, and left the court quickly so Natalya could enjoy her moment. Charlie had given 100 percent, and although she’d made some
errors with the double faults—and who didn’t have a couple of errors in a record-setting final?—she had performed to the very best of her ability. Natalya had simply played better. She deserved to win. It didn’t make Charlie’s disappointment any less acute, but this time it wasn’t commingled with regret or anger or second-guessing herself. Whether it was the adrenaline or the relief or the coursing endorphins, Charlie felt no pain on the walk toward the locker room—no muscle aches, no soreness, no lingering discomfort from her previous injuries. It would all come, of course. You didn’t set the time record for a final match at Wimbledon and not pay the price, but at that moment she felt oddly at peace: she had competed at the very highest level, had given the match everything she had, and hadn’t resorted to disgusting behavior to get an edge. For the first time in longer than she cared to remember, Charlie had nothing to apologize for.
The Singles Game Page 33