The Singles Game
Page 19
‘Sorry, I’ve got to get to sleep. Just wanted to ask if you wouldn’t mind turning the music down, but no worries. I have earplugs.’ I have earplugs? she yelled at herself. Why don’t you just say you carried a watermelon?
Charlie reached her own door at the exact same moment she realized two things. One, she’d locked herself out. Two, she was wearing only a nightshirt that just barely covered her butt – and no underwear.
‘Now you have to come in,’ Marco said. ‘Come, you can call the front desk from here.’
It turned out that Marco wasn’t stashing some groupie model in his room. He was merely doing a series of push-ups and sit-ups to obnoxious musical accompaniment. ‘And I dance a little, okay? I admit it,’ he said with the cutest, most devious smile Charlie had ever seen.
He offered her water from the minibar while they waited for a bellboy to come up with a key. Marco motioned for her to take a seat on the bed, but she couldn’t manage it without exposing her entire naked crotch. And so they both stood, making small talk about the availability of practice courts and other insipid topics. When they heard a knock at the door and Marco bade her good night, she was almost offended he hadn’t made a move. The last time in London right before Wimbledon had been incredible, hadn’t it? Sure, it had been six months, but he’d texted her a bunch while she was rehabbing her injury. He must have moved on, she thought, trying hard to convince herself that she didn’t care. She was a modern woman, capable of handling a casual fling without feeling like her entire self-worth depended on hearing from him again. But just to be safe, Charlie bolted back to her room and threw on a lacy thong. She couldn’t change into cuter pajamas without looking like she was trying too hard, but she could make a few minor, hopefully unnoticeable adjustments: mouthwash, clear flavored lip gloss, scented moisturizer. A swipe of the brush through her hair and, okay, fine, maybe a quick little session on her bikini line with the tweezer. It wasn’t the easiest thing to keep perfectly groomed when you were on the road forty-five-plus weeks a year. Back under the covers and pretending to watch her show, Charlie was just starting to feel ridiculous and wholly rejected when she heard a knock on the door that adjoined both their rooms. Which of course she answered.
It had been an insanely fun night, and although she knew she would eventually be exhausted from staying up way too late, right now she felt pretty terrific.
Charlie ate quickly and gulped her bland coffee. Someone from the front desk buzzed up to let her know that the car had arrived to take her to Melbourne Park. She pulled on a pair of spandex shorts, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt, pausing only to slip her feet into rubber flip-flops. Her racket bag was prepacked, of course, with everything she needed for a day of training and practice: she may have stayed up a little too late last night with Marco, but she never, ever forgot to pack her bag.
Charlie settled into the backseat of the Lexus SUV and stretched her legs. The sex had been good, yes. Okay, it had been great. It always was with Marco, which was part of the problem. They’d known each other for years already, having met as juniors when they were both sixteen, but they didn’t sleep together until earlier that year, when Charlie had lost in the early rounds of Indian Wells and Marco had been eliminated before the semis. Coincidentally, both had taken an exceedingly rare night off from training before the next tournament and checked in, completely separately, to the Parker Méridien in Palm Springs for some solo decompression time. Charlie had been reading a magazine in the spa, waiting to get called in for her massage, when she heard a man say her name.
Hesitatingly, almost grudgingly, she lifted her gaze. The last thing on earth she wanted was to be recognized by some tennis fan who wanted to chat about her less-than-stellar performance the day before. Or worse, someone she actually knew, so that she would be forced to make conversation and ask all about their life and then – god forbid – have dinner together and catch up. She was shocked when she glanced up to see Marco Vallejo smiling across the spa’s quiet room, wrapped in a robe so small it barely cinched closed.
‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he said, his smile literally stopping her heart.
Charlie somehow managed to keep her cool. They’d known each other forever, yes, but had not spent any time together alone. Certainly not undressed alone. ‘Hey,’ she said, praying she sounded more casual than she felt. ‘You doing hot stone or aromatherapy?’
After their treatments, they met for dinner, which was flirty and fun, and then, at Marco’s suggestion, took a bottle of champagne to the deserted outdoor pool. It had been three months, maybe more, since Charlie had had a drink, but she didn’t hesitate when Marco poured her a glass. One turned into two and two into three, and before she knew what was happening, they were naked in the deep end of the pool, treading water and staring up at the night sky. It felt like she was in someone else’s body entirely, another girl from a novel or a film without a care in the world, someone who laughed and winked and pushed her shoulders back with confidence. The champagne buzz was incredible, heightened by its rarity and the sensations surrounding her: the glow from the stars above; the completely free feeling of wearing nothing binding or constricting; the way the warm water enveloped her entire body when she floated on the surface and the quickness with which her nipples hardened the instant they hit the cold desert air. It felt like every neuron was firing double-time.
They swam until they were both shivering and hopped into the hot tub, where they finished the champagne by passing the bottle back and forth. Neither had thought to organize towels before stripping down, so they ran back to Marco’s poolside casita room naked, freezing, clutching their clothes and laughing like teenagers. Not that either of them had had many chances as teenagers to do anything crazy or reckless. Charlie helped herself to a robe in the bathroom. By the time she came back out, Marco had lit two candles by the bedside, wrapped some sort of sarong-like fabric around his waist, and pointed the remote control at the gas fireplace. A perfect fire roared forth from the fake logs.
‘Well, what do we have here?’ he asked, opening the minibar. Out came two mini bottles of Absolut and a can of tonic.
‘Are you serious?’ Charlie asked with mock surprise. ‘Tonic? Do you know how much refined sugar is in tonic water?’
This cracked them both up, at least until the cocktails were mixed. It was an almost inconceivable act, this casual drinking of alcohol: she knew that, until that night, neither of them had consumed more than a single drink at a time in months.
Charlie reached her own door at the exact same moment she realized two things. One, she’d locked herself out. Two, she was wearing only a nightshirt that just barely covered her butt – and no underwear.
‘Now you have to come in,’ Marco said. ‘Come, you can call the front desk from here.’
It turned out that Marco wasn’t stashing some groupie model in his room. He was merely doing a series of push-ups and sit-ups to obnoxious musical accompaniment. ‘And I dance a little, okay? I admit it,’ he said with the cutest, most devious smile Charlie had ever seen.
He offered her water from the minibar while they waited for a bellboy to come up with a key. Marco motioned for her to take a seat on the bed, but she couldn’t manage it without exposing her entire naked crotch. And so they both stood, making small talk about the availability of practice courts and other insipid topics. When they heard a knock at the door and Marco bade her good night, she was almost offended he hadn’t made a move. The last time in London right before Wimbledon had been incredible, hadn’t it? Sure, it had been six months, but he’d texted her a bunch while she was rehabbing her injury. He must have moved on, she thought, trying hard to convince herself that she didn’t care. She was a modern woman, capable of handling a casual fling without feeling like her entire self-worth depended on hearing from him again. But just to be safe, Charlie bolted back to her room and threw on a lacy thong. She couldn’t change into cuter pajamas without looking like she was trying too hard, but she could make a few minor, hopefully unnoticeable adjustments: mouthwash, clear flavored lip gloss, scented moisturizer. A swipe of the brush through her hair and, okay, fine, maybe a quick little session on her bikini line with the tweezer. It wasn’t the easiest thing to keep perfectly groomed when you were on the road forty-five-plus weeks a year. Back under the covers and pretending to watch her show, Charlie was just starting to feel ridiculous and wholly rejected when she heard a knock on the door that adjoined both their rooms. Which of course she answered.
It had been an insanely fun night, and although she knew she would eventually be exhausted from staying up way too late, right now she felt pretty terrific.
Charlie ate quickly and gulped her bland coffee. Someone from the front desk buzzed up to let her know that the car had arrived to take her to Melbourne Park. She pulled on a pair of spandex shorts, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt, pausing only to slip her feet into rubber flip-flops. Her racket bag was prepacked, of course, with everything she needed for a day of training and practice: she may have stayed up a little too late last night with Marco, but she never, ever forgot to pack her bag.
Charlie settled into the backseat of the Lexus SUV and stretched her legs. The sex had been good, yes. Okay, it had been great. It always was with Marco, which was part of the problem. They’d known each other for years already, having met as juniors when they were both sixteen, but they didn’t sleep together until earlier that year, when Charlie had lost in the early rounds of Indian Wells and Marco had been eliminated before the semis. Coincidentally, both had taken an exceedingly rare night off from training before the next tournament and checked in, completely separately, to the Parker Méridien in Palm Springs for some solo decompression time. Charlie had been reading a magazine in the spa, waiting to get called in for her massage, when she heard a man say her name.
Hesitatingly, almost grudgingly, she lifted her gaze. The last thing on earth she wanted was to be recognized by some tennis fan who wanted to chat about her less-than-stellar performance the day before. Or worse, someone she actually knew, so that she would be forced to make conversation and ask all about their life and then – god forbid – have dinner together and catch up. She was shocked when she glanced up to see Marco Vallejo smiling across the spa’s quiet room, wrapped in a robe so small it barely cinched closed.
‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he said, his smile literally stopping her heart.
Charlie somehow managed to keep her cool. They’d known each other forever, yes, but had not spent any time together alone. Certainly not undressed alone. ‘Hey,’ she said, praying she sounded more casual than she felt. ‘You doing hot stone or aromatherapy?’
After their treatments, they met for dinner, which was flirty and fun, and then, at Marco’s suggestion, took a bottle of champagne to the deserted outdoor pool. It had been three months, maybe more, since Charlie had had a drink, but she didn’t hesitate when Marco poured her a glass. One turned into two and two into three, and before she knew what was happening, they were naked in the deep end of the pool, treading water and staring up at the night sky. It felt like she was in someone else’s body entirely, another girl from a novel or a film without a care in the world, someone who laughed and winked and pushed her shoulders back with confidence. The champagne buzz was incredible, heightened by its rarity and the sensations surrounding her: the glow from the stars above; the completely free feeling of wearing nothing binding or constricting; the way the warm water enveloped her entire body when she floated on the surface and the quickness with which her nipples hardened the instant they hit the cold desert air. It felt like every neuron was firing double-time.
They swam until they were both shivering and hopped into the hot tub, where they finished the champagne by passing the bottle back and forth. Neither had thought to organize towels before stripping down, so they ran back to Marco’s poolside casita room naked, freezing, clutching their clothes and laughing like teenagers. Not that either of them had had many chances as teenagers to do anything crazy or reckless. Charlie helped herself to a robe in the bathroom. By the time she came back out, Marco had lit two candles by the bedside, wrapped some sort of sarong-like fabric around his waist, and pointed the remote control at the gas fireplace. A perfect fire roared forth from the fake logs.
‘Well, what do we have here?’ he asked, opening the minibar. Out came two mini bottles of Absolut and a can of tonic.
‘Are you serious?’ Charlie asked with mock surprise. ‘Tonic? Do you know how much refined sugar is in tonic water?’
This cracked them both up, at least until the cocktails were mixed. It was an almost inconceivable act, this casual drinking of alcohol: she knew that, until that night, neither of them had consumed more than a single drink at a time in months.
