‘Marcy …’ Charlie couldn’t disguise the sounds of her crying.

‘You deserve the best, C. You work hard for it, always have. So while I wish this all could have ended differently, yes, I hope you know I’ll be cheering you on from the sidelines. With that Achilles’ all healed and the Todd Feltner Midas touch, there’s no saying how far you’ll go …’

Charlie couldn’t speak now, and hated herself for it.

‘I’ve got to run,’ Marcy said, sounding as sorry as Charlie felt. ‘This isn’t good-bye, okay? We’ve got plenty of business stuff to sort out over the next couple of weeks – put me in touch with Todd’s assistant and I’ll make sure the transition goes smoothly – and plenty of personal stuff, too. Hey, you still have that hideous chiffon dress you borrowed for that banquet, remember? Don’t think you can just keep that ugly thing.’

They both laughed. It was hollow, but it helped, at least momentarily.

‘Marcy? I’m sorry. I’ve loved working with you all these years. I wasn’t planning – I didn’t even think – I, just … I’m sorry.’

‘I know. I am, too. Talk soon.’ And before either of them could say another word, Marcy disconnected the call.

Charlie stared at the phone in her palm for a few seconds. Even with all the flights and the anonymous hotel rooms and the cities and countries, Charlie usually didn’t feel alone. It was strange, this sensation of being adrift somehow without one of the only constants in a life that was defined by movement and change.

Ready or not, she thought, just as she smelled the burning and the smoke alarm sounded from the kitchen. Here we go.

5

connecting rooms

MELBOURNE, JANUARY 2016

The sound of a vibrating cell phone woke Charlie from a deep sleep, and she pulled it under the heavy down duvet where she was hiding from the air-conditioning. Who said only Americans wanted AC? The Australians seemed to like it just fine.

‘Hello?’ Her voice was raspy, as though she’d smoked a pack of cigarettes. Which, needless to say, she had not.

‘Charlotte? What the fuck are you doing?’ Todd boomed through the speakerphone that Charlie had accidentally turned on in her fumble for the phone. ‘It’s already seven and I’m standing alone on the court.’ He sounded livid, which was really nothing new, and yet it made Charlie anxious every time. Like she was always doing something wrong.

Charlie pulled her phone away to look at the screen. ‘It’s only seven, Todd. Our practice time isn’t until eight,’ she mumbled, already swinging her legs to the floor. She glanced at her right foot and breathed a sigh of relief when it looked completely normal. Of course it would look normal – both the Achilles’ tendon and the fractured wrist had healed completely months earlier – but examining the areas had become habit.

‘Get your ass out of bed. Did you watch the tapes I left you last night? I ordered an egg white omelet to your room, it should be there in ten minutes. I want you on-site in thirty minutes. You think Natalya is lounging in bed, watching TV? That’s not what top players do. And remember, if you’re not early, you’re late.’ Without waiting for a response, he hung up.

If you’re not early, you’re late. Charlie bit the inside of her cheek.

There was rustling from the other side of the bed. Charlie had almost forgotten Marco was there until he said, ‘Did you tell him you are not lazy, just very tired from fucking?’

‘No, I didn’t tell him that,’ she said, swatting him across the chest.

‘It is always good to tell the truth,’ Marco said, pushing himself up on his elbows. ‘What? You are looking at me and thinking I am, how do you say, Adonis? Yes, I have this problem with women all the time.’

Charlie laughed, but she knew Marco was hardly kidding: he was freaking gorgeous. He knew it, she knew it, the entire female population of planet earth knew it – at least, anyone who had tuned in to watch a men’s tennis match in the last five years and had caught a glimpse of Marco changing shirts between sets. That ten-second flash of bare chest had garnered Marco Vallejo a People’s Sexiest Man Alive award. His perfect body was splashed on billboards all across the world showcasing underwear, sneakers, watches, and cologne, and he regularly walked red carpets with actresses and musicians and models. His ranking hadn’t slipped below number four in three years. Having last won the US Open in a breezy three-set final, he was favored to win the Australian Open. He’d made millions in winnings, tens of millions in endorsements, and kept homes or flats in countries all over the world. It was widely agreed upon that Marco Vallejo was one of the greatest players of the Open Era. And he was in Charlie’s bed.

There was a knock on the door. Charlie glanced around and, not finding any of her clothes or even a robe, yanked the sheet out from under the duvet and wrapped it around her chest. ‘Just like the movies,’ she muttered, pulling the door open.

The room service waiter couldn’t have been a day older than nineteen. He sneaked a glance at Charlie, clearly nude under the sheet, and flamed red from his neck to his hairline. He glanced toward the bed, where the rumpled sheets and pillows confirmed everything, but Marco was much too experienced to get caught in such an amateurish way. Years of sleeping in strange hotel rooms with different women had taught him all the tricks, and even now Charlie wondered how he’d made it from the bed to the bathroom without anyone noticing.

‘Good morning, er, Ms Silver. I have an egg white omelet with mushrooms, onions, and spinach, hold the feta. Fruit instead of potatoes. A large decaf Americano with skim milk. And some ice water. Is there anything else I can get for you?’

‘Decaf? Really?’ By now Charlie was familiar with Todd’s no-caffeine policy, but she found it newly annoying each time he instituted it.

‘That’s what the order says. Would you like me to bring you regular?’ the boy asked, his eyes darting, afraid to settle on any one detail.

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Charlie said, despite meaning the very opposite. She’d been officially signed on with Todd since last August, and the nearly five months of rehab, training, and strategy had gotten her exactly where he’d promised: strong and confident, ready for the Australian Open. It was true Marcy never would have asked her to give up coffee. Hell, Marcy never would have had her dieting. But she couldn’t argue with her newly flat stomach and toned thighs, nor her more muscular arms and improved cardiovascular fitness.