“How did you do this?” she asked Monique. “You’re magic.”
Monique waved her off. “Here, just your hair now.”
“I wear my hair in a braid. It’s nonnegotiable!” Charlie all but screamed. The outfit looked and felt amazing, but the braid had to stay. Over the years, she had tried it all—sweatbands, ponytails both high and low, buns of every size, even down for one particularly horrid five-minute stretch—but nothing felt comfortable on the court except a single long braid. Tied off at the crown and again at the bottom with simple elastics, often with a colored ribbon woven throughout for color. Sprayed with L’Oréal Elnett to contain flyways. And if it was exceptionally hot, topped with a stretchy, thin headband. Here, she would not—could not—be flexible.
“I know I can’t fuck with the braid,” Monique said, rolling her eyes. “Here, use these first.”
Charlie accepted the two sparkly hair ties and stuck them both between her lips. She gathered her dark waves up into a ponytail at mid-height and tied it off. It only took another ten seconds to weave her thick, wild ponytail into a wide braid and freeze the flyways with some hairspray. “There,” she said, feeling her head and braid to make sure everything was in place. “That’s how I like it.”
“You wear a headband sometimes, right? Or a visor?”
“I’ll wear a sweatband when it’s really hot out, but only because the front pieces of my hair fall out of the ponytail and stick to my forehead. No visor. No hat. I don’t like the shadows they throw on my face, it screws with my depth perception of the ball. Sometimes reading the spin, too.”
“Uh-huh,” Monique muttered. She couldn’t have sounded less interested. “Just work with me on this one, okay?”
The two other girls had finished in the locker room and left. Charlie wondered where her opponent was. They would be called to the court in less than ten minutes. Was it possible she was already out there?
“Work with you on what exactly? I’ll admit, I had my doubts—and I’m still not sure it’s a great idea to play in ninety-degree heat wearing all black—but I do think I look great.”
“It’s all sweat-wicking and Drymax and all that crap,” Monique said, rooting around her giant Goyard tote. “Don’t get hung up on the black thing. And you can see for yourself that neither the leather nor the rhinestones will get in your way. It kills me, but I admit this is one of the very few times it’s important to consider function as well as fashion. Come here.”
Charlie had just finished lacing up her sneakers—they were exact replicas of her usual shoes, just entirely in black and dotted with swirling rows of crystals—and she stepped toward Monique.
“Close your eyes.”
“No makeup. It’s a total disaster when I sweat and—”
“No makeup. Now close your eyes.”
Charlie obliged. She felt Monique gently pull something over her head, taking care not to mess up her braid, and then secure it with two bobby pins. “Perfect!”
Charlie’s eyes flew open. Monique led her over to the full-length mirror in the dressing area, and Charlie could only stare at herself.
“I know it’s a little unconventional, but I really think it makes the whole—”
“I love it,” Charlie whispered. She reached up to touch the small and impossibly delicate cluster of jewels right above her hairline. The little crown was sparkly yet elegant, and it was held in place by one of Charlie’s stretchy black sweatbands that nearly entirely blended into her hair.
“Good, you should.” Monique nodded. She appeared satisfied and perhaps a bit relieved.
Charlie fingered a line of minute purple stones that came together in a small heart shape, right toward the center. “Amethysts. My mother’s birthstone,” she whispered.
“Yes, your brother clued me in to that. The rest are colored and clear Swarovski crystals, as are all the crystals adorning your sports bra and sneakers. Their people will be thrilled.”
Charlie moved her eyes from her studded sneakers to her shortened, leather-trimmed skirt, checked out her sexily opened-up tank and bedazzled sports bra, and finally came to rest on her little headband crown, which, if she wasn’t seeing it in person she would have sworn sounded tacky at best and hideous at worst, and thought: Yes. This works.
“Go!” Monique said.
Charlie threw her arms around the surprised stylist. Monique hesitated for a moment but then hugged Charlie back. “Whoa, okay, so you like it. Great.”
“I love it.”
“Excellent. It will only get better when we aren’t so rushed. Kick some ass today, okay?”
Charlie thanked Monique and practically skipped the entire way to the players’ lounge.
Dan was the first to look up from his novel when she walked in. “Damn,” he breathed, allowing his eyes to move from her legs to her head. “You look hot.”
He must have instantly felt embarrassed for his brazen assessment because he mumbled an apology, but Charlie was delighted. “You think?” she asked, doing a little turn. “It’s good, right?”
“It’s better than good,” Dan said. “It’s freaking amazing.”
Todd walked over holding a takeout cup of coffee. He used his free hand to grab Charlie’s upper arm and pull her in a semicircle while he examined her like a cut of meat. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “Edge. Some sex appeal. A big, fat middle finger to those pretty little dresses you’re always running around in.”
“So you like it?” Charlie asked, although she already knew the answer.
“Hell, yes, I like it. It says ‘fuck me,’ and ‘don’t fuck with me,’ at the exact same time. What’s not to like?”
“You have a real way with words, you know that?” Charlie said, and although she knew she should’ve been offended by his vulgar appraisal, she couldn’t help but relish the praise—especially from Todd.
Charlie looked around to show Jake, but when her match was announced on the overhead speaker, Todd turned and put both hands on her shoulders.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said, his face mere inches from hers. She could smell the coffee on his breath and see the silver fillings in his back teeth. Charlie tried not to cringe. “We’ve already talked strategy. You know how to crush this girl. Use this match as a chance to practice being a complete fucking bitch. She’s nothing to you—just a speck of meaningless dirt you’re going to send right back into oblivion after you stomp all over her, six-oh, six-oh. Understood?”
Charlie opened her mouth to say something, but Todd held up his hand.
His face came in even closer. “You are a goddamn warrior, Charlotte Silver, and warriors win. What they do not do is hug their opponents or ask after their mommies or hope and pray that everyone adores them. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Charlie said.
“What are you?” he asked.
“A warrior.”
“And what do warriors do?”
“They win.”
“And what are you going to say to your opponent when you see her on the court in four minutes?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s right—nothing. Not one goddamn word. She’s as good as dead to you, do you understand? You have bigger things to worry about than how she’s feeling today. Like beating her so badly she’ll want to quit forever. Capisce?”
“Capisce.”
“Now go. And don’t come back to me if you lose this match, Silver.”
Todd turned around and stalked toward the other side of the lounge, where Charlie knew he would fix another huge coffee and then find his way to her player box.
Dan raised his eyebrows at her. “Well, that was . . . something.”
Charlie saw the disapproval in his expression, but for once she didn’t let it make an impression. Yes, Todd was intense, but whether it was Todd’s pep talk or her mak
eover, she felt every bit as tough as she looked. Was it possible a new look could create confidence? Charlie wouldn’t have thought so before. But now she looked down at her all-black fabulousness and knew the answer was hell, yes.
12
hot new couple alert
ANGUILLA
APRIL 2016
“Can I get you anything else?” the pool attendant asked, his young face smiling and eager.
Charlie pulled her earbuds out and thought for a second. “Another iced coffee would be great. Decaf,” she forced herself to say. When he walked off, she glanced around to make sure she was still the only one by the pool—not particularly surprising, considering it was eight in the morning—and pressed play on her iPad.
The ESPN announcer was Chris Evert, one of Charlie’s heroes. She and John McEnroe were commentating on a highlights reel from the tournament in Key Biscayne. She fast-forwarded through the men’s coverage, stopping only to admire Marco’s set point (a twenty-rally tiebreaker in the fifth set, when he’d come back after losing the first two sets to win not only the match but the entire tournament—she especially liked when he threw his racket high into the air and fell onto both knees, leaning over to kiss the court), and then skipped around through the women’s matches until she found her own. Her first-rounder against Deanna Mullen of Canada had been the blowout Todd had demanded. Charlie had beaten her 6–0, 6–0 in a thirty-nine-minute match that left the poor girl in tears by the end. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone—Charlie was by far the favorite in the match, as the higher-ranked player—but she’d never beaten anyone so soundly in her entire professional career. Jake credited her new Warrior Princess outfit for giving her the extra competitive edge; Todd insisted it was his advice to Charlie beforehand not to talk, look at, or otherwise socialize with her opponent. She waved them both off, laughing and saying it was sheer skill and determination, but she wondered if they were right. She felt fierce in her black outfit, with everyone staring admiringly: she wanted not just to beat her opponent but to crush her. When the girl choked back tears of humiliation at the end of the match, Charlie instinctively headed toward the net to say something comforting, but one sideways glare from Todd in the player’s box stopped her in her tracks. She could hear his refrain in her head: You’re a warrior. Warriors don’t hug their enemies.
Her second-round match had gone much like the first, enough to prompt Chris Evert to wonder if this wasn’t some sort of new and improved Charlotte they were seeing. “It’s like she’s an entirely different player,” Chris’s voice narrated over a point where Charlie smashed a winner down the line. “We don’t usually see this hyper-aggressive, go-getter style of play from Charlotte Silver.”
“I hate to be the one to talk about the elephant in the room, but is she wearing diamonds?” McEnroe asked.
“Crystals,” Evert laughed. “Swarovski, from what I’ve been told. You heard about her new endorsement deal? She’s the new face of Swarovski crystals worldwide. I don’t want to speculate too much on figures, but I think it’s safe to say that this young woman will be wearing a crown pretty much every waking moment of every day.”
“Kudos to this girl’s PR team,” McEnroe said. “It’s not easy to upstage Natalya Ivanov, but Charlotte Silver’s doing that. Charlotte’s the clear fan favorite now.”
Chris added, “This girl went from cute and competent to sexy and killer, literally overnight.”
A clip of Charlie hitting balls into the stands after her quarterfinal win played, and she had to admit that the new look was striking on camera. Even though she lost in the semis—to Natalya, of course—nearly everyone agreed that Charlie was the one to watch.
“Is it, like, totally sexist or chauvinistic or whatever to suggest that sucking face with the number-one male player in front of the entire world is helping her cause a little? Or am I a total jerk for saying that?” The camera flashed back to McEnroe and Evert, sitting side by side in a viewing box above the court.
Evert laughed. “I could probably think of another way to phrase that, John, but no, I don’t disagree with you. Charlotte Silver and Marco Vallejo are the best couple in professional tennis since Steffi and Andre.”
“Or you and Jimmy? Let’s not forget about that,” McEnroe said.
The reel cut to Natalya’s tournament-winning final game, where she confidently served out the match 40–love and won the final point on an ace. Both commentators admired her serve, but Charlie noticed they sounded significantly less interested in Natalya than they normally did. Less interested than they sounded in Charlie.
“Here you are, miss,” the waiter said, setting down the iced coffee. He was clearly trying very hard not to stare at Charlie’s body. He was failing.
“Thank you.”
He lingered, and Charlie wondered if she needed to tip him that very moment, but he only said, “I don’t meant to bother you, uh, Ms. Silver, but I saw you play at Key Biscayne and . . . wow. You were great.”
Charlie shielded her eyes as she looked up at him. He was around seventeen or eighteen, tall and lanky with an oversized nose and a smattering of freckles. His white polo shirt read VICEROY ANGUILLA and was tucked neatly into crisp navy shorts. He was no Marco, but he was cute in a young kid sort of way.
“Call me Charlie! Are you a tennis fan?” she asked with a smile. “I wouldn’t imagine there would be much interest around here.”
“Oh no, just the opposite. The island has a lot of terrific players. I actually teach the team at the local high school. It’s volunteer, of course—they don’t have any money even for uniforms—but the kids are really into it.”
“Amazing. I would have loved to come see it. This is pretty much my only free hour of the visit, but maybe if I can sneak away later . . .”
“That would be awesome! The kids love you so much, and I’m sure they’d be so—”
“What’s up, gorgeous?” Marco slid into the chaise longue next to Charlie. His shoulders and waist created a triangle of tanned and muscled perfection. His swim trunks sat low on his pelvis, almost too low, exposing a near-indecent trail of hair that climbed up over his washboard stomach straight to his adorable innie belly button. The trunks were not loose.
“Hi,” she said, or at least tried to. Get control of yourself, she thought. The previous night had been the first time she and Marco requested adjoining rooms right at check-in and didn’t care who overheard. Neither of them wanted to spend the night yet—sleep was too important—but it had been refreshing not to have to hide.
Marco shielded his eyes and looked at the young pool boy. “Hey, can I get a strawberry banana smoothie with a scoop of protein powder? My coach left a canister of the right brand with the chef, so check with him. Thanks, man.”
The boy’s face flamed red, and he took off in nearly a sprint.
“He’s really a nice kid. He was just telling me how he volunteers to—”
“Yes, nice kid. Listen, pretty girl, I saw you have a practice court at eleven, and I was hoping I could switch with you.”
Charlie yanked on her bikini top. There was a little metal plate holding the two cups together, and it was burning hot from the sun. If she wasn’t careful, she’d have double Ts for Trina Turk literally burned into her chest. “What time do you have?”
“I am at four. The last one. But I want to get it over with so I can have some time by the pool today.”
“Sorry, I can’t do it. With the shoot starting at sundown, I’ll need to be in hair and makeup by then. Maybe someone else can switch?” Charlie pushed her sunglasses up on her head and stared out over the azure sea. She could barely believe she’d been invited on this shoot. And with Marco? In Anguilla, no less? The whole thing was insane.
“Oh, come on,” Marco wheedled. He slid his hand under her bikini top and cupped her in his hand. Instead of feeling good, it pulled the already burning metal doodad against the underside o
f her breast, where it seared her flesh. She pushed his hand away.
“Stop! We’re in public,” she whispered, hating the way she sounded.
“In case you haven’t noticed, the public is very happy to watch us fool around,” Marco said with that devilish grin that always made her stomach flip-flop. “What do you say? You take four and I’ll get you a massage. My treat.”
The pool boy returned, and Marco accepted the smoothie without saying thank you. He took a long pull on the straw. “Good enough,” he declared.
“Thank you so much,” Charlie said to the boy, overcompensating with a huge smile. “I think we’re good now.”
“Yes, Ms. Silver,” he said before once again bolting.
Charlie turned to Marco. “I can’t do it. I’ve got the court from eleven to twelve-thirty. Dan is all lined up and Todd will be with us via Skype. After that there’s lunch and then lifting.” Charlie glanced at her watch. “Why don’t you ask Natalya? I saw on the sign-up sheet that she has the court at nine.”
“Forget it,” Marco said, obviously irritated. He dropped his smoothie on the side table hard enough that some splashed over the edge and stood up. “I’ll see you later. I’ve got a lot to do.” And without a kiss or a smile or a farewell, he started to walk away.
“Seriously, Marco? You’re mad because I won’t switch practice times with you?”
She knew he heard her, but he didn’t stop walking. Moments later he disappeared inside the poolside restaurant.
Charlie sighed and placed her earbuds back in. Practice courts at tournaments were hard enough to negotiate—there was a whole stressful system based on a mysterious combination of ranking, seniority, timing of matches, and the aggressiveness of one’s coach in bullying the schedulers—but today wasn’t like that. There was one court at the hotel designated for their use and there were six players invited to the Tennis’s Hottest Players spread featured annually in Vanity Fair’s June issue. They each got ninety minutes of court time and were expected to work out meals and lifting schedules on their own, with the plan that the shoot would take place during “magic hour” that evening, the short window of time just before sunset when the light was at its most perfect.