The Singles Game
Page 69
Eleanor’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Neither girl seemed at all aware of the cacophony surrounding them.
Charlie couldn’t stop herself. ‘You got lucky today. Don’t think for a second it was anything more than that.’
The girl stared at her for what seemed like a very long time. Then, clearly deciding to take the high road, she looked Charlie straight in the eye, held out her hand, and said, ‘Good match.’
Charlie shook Eleanor’s hand limply, the shame of it all settling on her like a weight, and made her way to her chair. She packed her bag quickly and ignored the shouts from the fans and the requests for autographs. Leaving the court quickly so Eleanor could enjoy her moment of victory was the very least Charlie could do after her own humiliating loss and even more shameful behavior. She planned to hide in the locker room as long as she possibly could, stand under the shower and let the scalding-hot water pelt her clean. But as soon as Isabel intercepted her in the tunnel leading from court to tennis center, Charlie knew her torture wasn’t over yet.
‘I need a shower first,’ she told Isabel in her best clipped, authoritative tone.
‘Sorry, Charlie’ – Isabel coughed – ‘I’m sorry, but we must do the post-match interview right now.’
‘It’s a first-round loss, for chrissake,’ Charlie grumbled, continuing to walk. ‘No one cares.’
Isabel placed her hand firmly on Charlie’s arm. ‘I’m afraid when a player who is favored to win gets upset early, they do care. I know this is a terrible time. I promise I’ll make it as short and as painless as possible. But we must go now.’
Charlie followed her a few paces to a sort of anteroom with a podium and microphone in front of a French Open step-and-repeat. Waiting for her were a handful of reporters and photographers talking among themselves, but they all grew silent the moment she entered the room.
The quiet lasted for exactly six seconds before the questions started firing.
‘How does it feel to be eliminated in the first round of a tournament you were favored to, if not win, then at least make it to the second week of?’
‘Was it a particular aspect of McKinley’s game that you couldn’t handle? Or was it something in your own game that felt off?’
‘In the last few months you’ve had quite the image overhaul. How much of the Warrior Princess was on the court today versus the old Charlotte Silver?’
Although the questions were hardly original – if she hadn’t heard them before, she certainly could have predicted their being asked today – she found herself stumbling through her memorized, media-trained answers. ‘That’s the thing about the Slams: you never really can tell what’s going to happen.’ ‘At the end of the day, image doesn’t mean a thing if you’re not winning.’ ‘I’ll need to revisit some things with my coach and regroup.’ ‘Of course I’m disappointed, but I plan to be ready to start fresh at Wimbledon in a few weeks.’ Charlie repeated these canned answers blandly, almost without inflection, biding her time until they grew tired of her and she was permitted to escape to the shower. Only a few more minutes, she told herself, and felt her throat start to close. She took a couple of deep inhales and was grateful when the sensation of imminent crying subsided.
‘Did Eleanor beat you today, or did you beat yourself?’ Shawn, a longtime reporter on the tennis beat, asked. He traveled with the women’s tour and had a reputation for hitting on the younger players.
‘Well, of course Eleanor played well today, I think we can all agree on that. She played a beautiful match. And, unfortunately, I don’t think I played my best. Clearly not.’
‘And why do you think that is?’ There was a glint in his eye, a little glimmer of amusement that made Charlie instantly uneasy.
‘A lot of reasons. I had too many unforced errors in the first set, including an inexcusable amount of double faults. And my mental focus wasn’t where it should have been in the second. I’ve certainly come back from a set down before, but I couldn’t make it happen today.’
Shawn cleared his throat.
Charlie’s entire body went on alert: she knew, just instinctively knew, that something horrible was about to happen.
He reached into his canvas briefcase and pulled out a huge iPad, the one that was the size of a laptop. It was already turned on, and from somewhere behind her she could hear Jake murmur, ‘Oh Christ no.’
‘Charlotte, would you say that your less-than-stellar performance on the court today had something to do with this?’ Shawn asked in the most sickening self-congratulatory tone.
Jake stepped forward and clamped his hand around hers. ‘It’s bad, Charlie,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘Let’s cut this off now. Follow me.’ He tried to yank her away from the small press conference, but Charlie couldn’t stop herself from turning back.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t exactly had time to read the news yet today. I don’t know to what you’re referring.’
Shawn held the screen toward her so she could read the headline. It was unmissable, in what felt like a five-hundred-point font: Dethroned? Tennis’s Warrior Princess Flunks Drug Test.
Flunked a drug test? What are they talking about? Charlie’s mind bounced about, trying to make sense of what she’d just read. She’d gotten the results from her test in Charleston weeks earlier and of course they had been 100 percent clear. Doping? It was an insane suggestion. Every few years a rumor would surface here or there concerning a couple of the women on the tour, especially the ones who were inordinately muscular, but by and large nearly everyone agreed that the constant testing and conversation about doping was excessive and unnecessary. Tennis was a far cry from cycling or baseball: doping might occur in the rarest of circumstances, but it was hardly a sport-wide pandemic.
‘I have no comment on that other than to say that there is no truth to it whatsoever.’ Charlie said this in a strong, confident voice that made her feel immediately proud of herself. She knew for a fact that the paper would have to print a retraction.
This time Shawn held up his phone. The screen was too small to see anything clearly, but the room had gone eerily quiet. A video was playing. It was difficult for Charlie to make out at first, but after a few seconds she could tell that it was from the hotel suite the night before.
Charlie couldn’t stop herself. ‘You got lucky today. Don’t think for a second it was anything more than that.’
The girl stared at her for what seemed like a very long time. Then, clearly deciding to take the high road, she looked Charlie straight in the eye, held out her hand, and said, ‘Good match.’
Charlie shook Eleanor’s hand limply, the shame of it all settling on her like a weight, and made her way to her chair. She packed her bag quickly and ignored the shouts from the fans and the requests for autographs. Leaving the court quickly so Eleanor could enjoy her moment of victory was the very least Charlie could do after her own humiliating loss and even more shameful behavior. She planned to hide in the locker room as long as she possibly could, stand under the shower and let the scalding-hot water pelt her clean. But as soon as Isabel intercepted her in the tunnel leading from court to tennis center, Charlie knew her torture wasn’t over yet.
‘I need a shower first,’ she told Isabel in her best clipped, authoritative tone.
‘Sorry, Charlie’ – Isabel coughed – ‘I’m sorry, but we must do the post-match interview right now.’
‘It’s a first-round loss, for chrissake,’ Charlie grumbled, continuing to walk. ‘No one cares.’
Isabel placed her hand firmly on Charlie’s arm. ‘I’m afraid when a player who is favored to win gets upset early, they do care. I know this is a terrible time. I promise I’ll make it as short and as painless as possible. But we must go now.’
Charlie followed her a few paces to a sort of anteroom with a podium and microphone in front of a French Open step-and-repeat. Waiting for her were a handful of reporters and photographers talking among themselves, but they all grew silent the moment she entered the room.
The quiet lasted for exactly six seconds before the questions started firing.
‘How does it feel to be eliminated in the first round of a tournament you were favored to, if not win, then at least make it to the second week of?’
‘Was it a particular aspect of McKinley’s game that you couldn’t handle? Or was it something in your own game that felt off?’
‘In the last few months you’ve had quite the image overhaul. How much of the Warrior Princess was on the court today versus the old Charlotte Silver?’
Although the questions were hardly original – if she hadn’t heard them before, she certainly could have predicted their being asked today – she found herself stumbling through her memorized, media-trained answers. ‘That’s the thing about the Slams: you never really can tell what’s going to happen.’ ‘At the end of the day, image doesn’t mean a thing if you’re not winning.’ ‘I’ll need to revisit some things with my coach and regroup.’ ‘Of course I’m disappointed, but I plan to be ready to start fresh at Wimbledon in a few weeks.’ Charlie repeated these canned answers blandly, almost without inflection, biding her time until they grew tired of her and she was permitted to escape to the shower. Only a few more minutes, she told herself, and felt her throat start to close. She took a couple of deep inhales and was grateful when the sensation of imminent crying subsided.
‘Did Eleanor beat you today, or did you beat yourself?’ Shawn, a longtime reporter on the tennis beat, asked. He traveled with the women’s tour and had a reputation for hitting on the younger players.
‘Well, of course Eleanor played well today, I think we can all agree on that. She played a beautiful match. And, unfortunately, I don’t think I played my best. Clearly not.’
‘And why do you think that is?’ There was a glint in his eye, a little glimmer of amusement that made Charlie instantly uneasy.
‘A lot of reasons. I had too many unforced errors in the first set, including an inexcusable amount of double faults. And my mental focus wasn’t where it should have been in the second. I’ve certainly come back from a set down before, but I couldn’t make it happen today.’
Shawn cleared his throat.
Charlie’s entire body went on alert: she knew, just instinctively knew, that something horrible was about to happen.
He reached into his canvas briefcase and pulled out a huge iPad, the one that was the size of a laptop. It was already turned on, and from somewhere behind her she could hear Jake murmur, ‘Oh Christ no.’
‘Charlotte, would you say that your less-than-stellar performance on the court today had something to do with this?’ Shawn asked in the most sickening self-congratulatory tone.
Jake stepped forward and clamped his hand around hers. ‘It’s bad, Charlie,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘Let’s cut this off now. Follow me.’ He tried to yank her away from the small press conference, but Charlie couldn’t stop herself from turning back.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t exactly had time to read the news yet today. I don’t know to what you’re referring.’
Shawn held the screen toward her so she could read the headline. It was unmissable, in what felt like a five-hundred-point font: Dethroned? Tennis’s Warrior Princess Flunks Drug Test.
Flunked a drug test? What are they talking about? Charlie’s mind bounced about, trying to make sense of what she’d just read. She’d gotten the results from her test in Charleston weeks earlier and of course they had been 100 percent clear. Doping? It was an insane suggestion. Every few years a rumor would surface here or there concerning a couple of the women on the tour, especially the ones who were inordinately muscular, but by and large nearly everyone agreed that the constant testing and conversation about doping was excessive and unnecessary. Tennis was a far cry from cycling or baseball: doping might occur in the rarest of circumstances, but it was hardly a sport-wide pandemic.
‘I have no comment on that other than to say that there is no truth to it whatsoever.’ Charlie said this in a strong, confident voice that made her feel immediately proud of herself. She knew for a fact that the paper would have to print a retraction.
This time Shawn held up his phone. The screen was too small to see anything clearly, but the room had gone eerily quiet. A video was playing. It was difficult for Charlie to make out at first, but after a few seconds she could tell that it was from the hotel suite the night before.
