The Singles Game - Softcover

Weisberger, Lauren

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1476778396 ISBN 13: 9781476778396

Publisher: S&S/ Marysue Rucci Books, 2017

Synopsis

The new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Wears Prada and Revenge Wears Prada—a dishy tell-all about a beautiful tennis prodigy who, after changing coaches, suddenly makes headlines on and off the court.

How far would you go to reach the top?

When America’s sweetheart, Charlotte “Charlie” Silver, makes a pact with the devil, the infamously brutal coach Todd Feltner, Good Girl Charlie is banished. After all, no one ever wins big by playing nice. Charlie finds herself catapulted into a world of celebrity stylists, private parties, charity events on mega-yachts, and secret dates with Hollywood royalty. But in a world obsessed with good looks and hot shots, is Charlie willing to lose herself to win it all?

The Singles Game is a sexy and wickedly entertaining romp through a world where the stakes are high—and no one plays by the rules.

About this title

About the Author:

Lauren Weisberger is the New York Times bestselling author of When Life Gives You Lululemons, The Singles Game, and The Devil Wears Prada, which was published in forty languages and made into a major motion picture starring Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway. It was announced in 2017 that musician Elton John and Paul Rudnick will adapt The Devil Wears Prada for the stage. Weisberger’s four other novels, Everyone Worth Knowing, Chasing Harry Winston, Last Night at Chateau Marmont, and Revenge Wears Prada, were all top-ten New York Times bestsellers. Her books have sold more than thirteen million copies worldwide. A graduate of Cornell University, she lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children. Visit LaurenWeisberger.com to learn more.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

The Singles Game

1

not all strawberries and cream

WIMBLEDON

JUNE 2015

It wasn’t every day a middle-aged woman wearing a neat bun and a purple polyester suit directed you to lift your skirt. The woman’s voice was clipped, British proper. All business.

After glancing at her coach, Marcy, Charlie lifted the edges of her pleated white skirt and waited.

“Higher, please.”

“I promise you, everything’s in order down there, ma’am,” Charlie said, as politely as she could.

The official’s eyes narrowed to a steely squint, but she didn’t say a word.

“All the way, Charlie,” Marcy said sternly, but it was obvious she was trying not to smile.

Charlie pulled the skirt up to reveal the waistband of the white Lycra shorts she wore beneath. “No underwear, but they’re double-lined. No matter how much I sweat, no one will get a show.”

“Very well, thank you.” The official made a notation on her legal pad. “Now your shirt, please.”

At least a dozen more jokes sprung to mind—it’s like going to the gynecologist, only in workout wear; it’s not just anyone she’ll show her underwear to on the first date; et cetera—but Charlie held back. These Wimbledon people had been welcoming and polite to her and her entire entourage, but no one could accuse them of having a sense of humor.

She yanked her shirt up so far it covered most of her face. “My sports bra is made of the same material. Totally opaque, no matter what.”

“Yes, I can see that,” the woman murmured. “It’s just this band of color here around the bottom.”

“The elastic? It’s light gray. I’m not sure that counts as a color,” Marcy said. Her voice was even, but Charlie could hear the smallest hint of irritation.

“Yes, but I must measure it.” The official removed a plain yellow tape measure from a small fanny pack she wore over her uniform suit and gingerly wrapped it around Charlie’s rib cage.

“Are we through yet?” Marcy asked the official, her irritation now readily apparent.

“Very close. Miss, your hat, wristbands, and socks are all acceptable. There is only one problem,” the official said, her lips pressed together. “The shoes.”

“What shoes?” Charlie asked. Nike had gone above and beyond ensuring that her regular sneakers were modified to fit Wimbledon’s stringent standards. Her usual cheerfully bright outfits had been changed entirely to white: not cream, not ivory, not off-white, but white. The leather around the toe cage was pure white. Her laces were white, white, white.

“Your shoes. The sole is almost entirely pink. That is a violation.”

“A violation?” Marcy asked in disbelief. “The sides, back, top, and laces are entirely white, strictly to code. The Nike logo is even smaller than it’s required to be. You can’t possibly have an issue with the soles!”

“I’m afraid swaths of color that large are not permitted, even on the soles. The rule is a band of one centimeter.”

Charlie turned in panic to Marcy, who held up her hand. “What do you suggest we do, ma’am? This young lady is due on Centre Court in less than ten minutes. Are you telling me she can’t wear her sneakers?”

“Of course she must wear trainers, but according to the rules, she may not wear those.”

“Thank you for that clarification,” Marcy snapped. “We’ll handle it from here.” Marcy grabbed Charlie’s wrist and hurried her toward one of the private training rooms in the back of the locker room.

Seeing Marcy rattled gave Charlie the sensation of experiencing turbulence on a plane. When you glanced toward the flight attendants for reassurance, it was almost nauseating to see them panicked. Marcy had been Charlie’s coach since Charlie was fifteen, when she’d finally excelled beyond her dad’s skill set. Marcy was chosen for her coaching acumen, of course, but also for the fact that she was a woman: Charlie’s mom had died from breast cancer only a few years earlier.

“Wait here. Do some stretching, eat your banana, and do not think about this. Focus on how you’re going to dismantle Atherton’s game point by point. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Too nervous to sit, Charlie paced the training room and tried to stretch out her calves. Could they be tightening up already? No, that was impossible. Karina Geiger, the fourth seed with the body of a refrigerator that earned her the unfortunate but mostly affectionate nickname the Giant German, popped her head into the training room.

“You’re on Centre, right?” she asked.

Charlie nodded.

“It is a madhouse out there,” the girl boomed in a strong German accent. “Prince William and Prince Harry are in the Royal Box. With Camilla, which is unusual, because I think they do not like each other, and Prince Charles and Princess Kate are not there.”

“Really?” Charlie asked, although she already knew this. As if playing Centre Court at Wimbledon for the very first time in one’s career wasn’t stressful enough, she had to be playing the lone seeded British singles player. Alice Atherton was only ranked number fifty-three but she was young and being hailed as the next Great British Hope, so the entire country would be cheering for her to crush Charlie.

“Yes. Also David Beckham, but he is at everything. It is not so special to see him. Also one of the Beatles, which one is still alive? I can’t remember. Oh, and I heard Natalya say that she saw—”

“Karina? Sorry, I’m just in the middle of some stretches. Good luck today, okay?” Charlie hated to be rude, especially to one of the few nice women on the tour, but she couldn’t stand the talking for even one more second.

“Ja, sure. Good luck to you, too.”

Karina passed Marcy on the way out, who had reappeared at the door with a tote bag full of all-white sneakers. “Quickly,” she said, pulling out the first pair. “These are a ten narrow, by some miracle. Try them.”

Charlie dropped to the floor, her black braid smacking the side of her cheek hard enough to hurt, and pulled on the left shoe. “They’re Adidas, Marce,” she said.

“I am really not interested in how Nike feels about you wearing Adidas. Next time they can get the sneakers right and none of us will have to worry about it. But now you’ll wear what feels the best.”

Charlie stood up and took a tentative step.

“Put on the other one,” Marcy said.

“No, they’re too big. My heel’s slipping.”

“Next!” Marcy barked, tossing over another Adidas shoe.

Charlie tried the right one on this time and shook her head. “I’m a little jammed up in the toe cage. And it’s pinching my pinky toe already. I guess we could tape the toe and try it . . .”

“No way. Here,” Marcy said, untying a pair of K-Swiss sneakers and placing them at Charlie’s feet. “These might work.”

The left one went on easily and felt like it fit. Hopeful, Charlie slipped on and tightened the laces on the right shoe. They were clunky-looking and ugly, but they fit her feet.

“They fit,” Charlie said, although they felt like she was wearing cinder blocks. She did a few jumps followed by a short jog and a quick cut to the left. “But it’s like wearing a pair of bricks. They’re so heavy.”

Just as Marcy was reaching into the bag to pull out the last pair, an announcement came over the ceiling speakers. “Attention, players. Alice Atherton and Charlotte Silver, please report to the tournament desk to be escorted to your court. Your match is scheduled to begin in three minutes.”

Marcy knelt down and pushed against her toes. “You definitely have room in there. Not too much, right? Will they work?”

Charlie did another hop or two. There was no denying they were heavy, but they were the best of the three. She probably should try on the final pair, but she glanced up just in time to see Alice in her own all-white outfit walk past the training room and toward the tournament desk. It was time.

“They’ll work,” Charlie said with more conviction than she felt. They have to work, she couldn’t help thinking.

“Good girl.” The relief on Marcy’s face was immediate. “Let’s go.”

Marcy slung Charlie’s enormous racket bag over her shoulder and headed out the door. “Remember, as much spin as you can. She struggles when the balls jump high. Take advantage of your height over hers and force her to hit high ones, especially on her backhand. Slow, steady, and persistent will win this one. You don’t need excessive force or flash. Save that for the later rounds, okay?”

Charlie nodded. They were only just approaching the tournament desk and already her calves were feeling tight. Was the right heel rubbing a little? Yes, it definitely was. She was going to get blisters for sure.

“I think I should try on those last—”

“Charlotte?” Another Wimbledon official, also clad in the same purple polyester skirt suit, took Charlie’s elbow and led her the final ten steps to the tournament desk. “Please, just a signature right here and . . . thank you. Mr. Poole, both ladies are ready to be escorted to Centre Court.”

Charlie’s and her opponent’s eyes met for the briefest of seconds and they each nodded. Half nodded. The only other time they’d played before had been in Indian Wells two years earlier in the first round, and Charlie had beaten her 6–2, 6–2.

The entire group—Charlie, Marcy, Alice, and Alice’s coach—­followed Mr. Poole through the tunnel that led to the most storied tennis court in the world. On both sides were enormous glossy black-and-white photos of tennis legends who had emerged victorious from Centre Court: Serena Williams, Pete Sampras, Roger Federer, Maria Sharapova, Andy Murray. Clutching the trophy, kissing it; thrusting their rackets high into the air; pumping their fists. Exultant. Winners, all of them. Alice was glancing from side to side, too, as they walked toward the door that would take them onto Centre and thrust them onstage.

A hard squeeze on her upper arm from Marcy brought her back to the moment. She accepted her racket bag and slung it over her shoulder as though it weighed nothing, even though jammed inside were six rackets, a roll of grip tape, two bottles of Evian, one bottle of Gatorade, two outfit changes identical to the one she was wearing, extra socks, wristbands, shoulder and knee tape, Band-Aids, an iPod, over-the-ear headphones, two visors, eyedrops, a banana, a packet of Emergen-C, and the lone laminated photo of her mother that lived in the small zipped side pocket and attended every practice and tournament with Charlie.

Marcy and Alice’s coach left to take their seats in the players’ box. Although the two women walked onto the court at the same time, the audience cheered extra loudly for Alice, the hometown favorite. But it didn’t much matter who they were cheering for: Charlie’s pulse began to race in the exact same way it did before every match, big or small. Only this time she felt a tingling wave of sensation through her chest, a fluttering of anxiety and excitement so strong she thought she might be sick. Centre Court at Wimbledon. She allowed herself a quick look up to the stands, a moment to take it all in. All around her were crowds of well-dressed people standing and politely clapping. Pimm’s. Strawberries and cream. Pastel suits. She’d played Wimbledon before, five glorious times, but this was Centre Court.

The words reverberated in her mind over and over again as she tried to will herself to concentrate. Normally, the routine Charlie performed when she reached her courtside chair was focusing: racket bag placed just so, water bottles neatly arranged, wristband put on, visor adjusted. She did all those things in the exact same order as always, but today she couldn’t pull herself together. Today, everything registered when it should have disappeared into the background: the on-court anchorwoman repeating her opponent’s name into the camera; the match announcer introducing the chair umpire; and most of all, the way her socks slipped into her sneakers, something that never happened when she was wearing her own shoes. She had enough experience to know that none of this was a particularly good omen—not being able to control your thoughts before play began usually didn’t end well—but she simply could not block out all the stimuli.

Warm-up was a blur. Mindlessly, Charlie whacked the ball to Alice’s forehand and backhand and then fed her volleys and overheads. They each retreated to opposite sides to try a few serves. Alice was looking loose and comfortable, her lean legs moving fluidly around the court, her narrow, boyish torso twisting effortlessly to reach the ball. Charlie felt tight just watching her. Although the new shoes technically fit, they were making her arches ache and her right heel was already beginning to chafe. Again and again she willed herself back to the present, to the natural rush she felt every time she stroked the ball just so and it spun and bounced exactly where she’d intended. And then, suddenly, they were playing. She had lost the coin toss and her opponent bounced the ball on the opposite baseline. They’d done a coin toss, right? Yes, she thought so. Why couldn’t Charlie recall any of the details? Whoosh! The ball whizzed past her left shoulder like a bullet. She hadn’t even managed to make contact with it. Ace. First point of the match to Alice. The crowd cheered as madly as British etiquette permitted.

It took four minutes and thirty seconds for Alice to win the first game. Charlie had only one point to show for it, and that was because Alice double-faulted. Focus! she screamed to herself. This whole match will be over before you know it if you don’t get your damn act together! You want to flame out on Centre Court at Wimbledon without even trying? Only a loser would do that! Loser! Loser! Loser!

The mental screaming and cursing worked. Charlie went on to hold her own serve and break Alice’s. She was up 2–1 and could feel herself starting to settle. The queasy adrenaline that had troubled her before the match was morphing into that blissful state of flow where Charlie could no longer feel the irritation of her socks slipping or see the familiar faces in the Royal Box or hear the golf claps and quiet cheers of the infinitely well-mannered British audience. Nothing existed but her racket and the ball, and nothing mattered but how those two made contact, point after point, game after game, crisply, powerfully, and with intention.

Charlie won the first set, 6–3. She was tempted to congratulate herself, but she knew enough to recognize that the match was far from over. In the ninety seconds during the changeover, she calmly drank some water in small, measured sips. Even that took mental discipline—her whole body was screaming for huge, cold gulps—but she controlled herself. When she had rehydrated and taken three bites of a banana, she rooted through her racket bag and pulled out her backup pair of socks. They were identical to the ones she was wearing, and while there was no reason to believe they would perform any differently, Charlie decided to try. When she removed her old socks, her feet were a horror show: meaty, swollen, red. Both pinky toes were bloodied and the skin on her heels hung in loose, blistered rolls. The outsides of her ankles were covered in purple bruises from hitting the stiff tops and tongue of the leather. The whole of her feet ached as though they’d been run over by a bus.

The new socks felt like sandpaper, and it took every ...

About this edition

• Publisher: S&S/ Marysue Rucci Books
• Publication date: 2017
• ISBN 10: 1476778396
• ISBN 13: 9781476778396
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 352