She hit the ground hard, like a kid falling from a top bunk. Every millimeter of her body hurt so much it was nearly impossible to ascertain where the awful popping sound had originated. Across the net Alice stood watching Charlie, a sympathetic expression carefully arranged on her face. Pushing her palms into the impeccably manicured grass, Charlie tried to hoist herself to sit but her wrist folded in like paper. The chair umpire held her hand over the microphone and leaned forward to ask Charlie if she needed a medical time-out.

‘No, I’m fine,’ Charlie said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Just need a minute to get myself together.’ She knew she had to pull herself up and get back into position. She could take a medical time-out, but it was practically cheating: unless a player was actually bleeding all over the court, it was generally thought that they should suck it up. Suck it up, she thought, giving herself another little hoist. This time she felt the pain that shot up her left palm, straight through her wrist, and into her shoulder. Two more points to even it out. Suck it up. Stand up and win your match!

The spectators began to clap for her, tentatively at first and then more enthusiastically. She wasn’t the favorite, but those Brits knew their sportsmanship. Charlie raised her right hand in a gesture of thanks and reached forward across the grass to get her racket. The exertion made her head spin, and more pain – this time from her foot or ankle or shin, it was impossible to tell – shot up her leg. Those f’ing shoes! she yelled to herself, the panic beginning to set in. Was she seriously injured? Would she have to withdraw? Dear god, what was that awful sound and how hard is it going to be to rehab? The US Open is only eight weeks away …

The umpire’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and the sound of her own name snapped her back to reality. ‘I am granting a three-minute medical time-out for Ms Silver. Please set the timer for … now.’

‘I didn’t request a medical time-out!’ Charlie said peevishly, although her voice clearly wasn’t carrying. ‘I’m fine.’

In an effort to ward off the head trainer, who was fast approaching her, Charlie swung her legs beneath her body and summoned every last ounce of energy to push herself to stand. She made it upright and was able to glance around her, to take in Alice’s barely detectable smile and the umpire’s careful observation of the televised match clock, ready to pounce the moment the time-out was over. In the front row of the Royal Box, Charlie could see David Beckham checking his cell phone, her injury of no interest whatsoever to him, and then to the right, in Charlie’s own box, the panic-stricken look of concern on Marcy’s face; she was leaning so far into the court from her seat that it looked like she might fall. Her father and Jake wore matching grave expressions. All around her people chatted with good cheer, took sips from their Pimm’s, and waited for the match to resume. The trainer was standing next to Charlie now and had just reached his cool, strong hand to her throbbing wrist, when, without any warning at all, the whole world went black.

2

the love department

TOPANGA CANYON, JULY 2015

The very first thought that crossed Charlie’s mind when she awoke from surgery on her Achilles’ injury was: I’m done. Finished. Like it or not, it’s time to retire, because there is no returning from this injury. It felt like someone had run over her right foot with a car, built it back up using a paring knife, and laced it together with rusty wire and some rubber cement. The pain was indescribable; the nausea, overwhelming. She had thrown up twice in the recovery room and once in her hospital bed.

‘It’s just the anesthesia,’ a portly nurse clucked, checking Charlie’s gauges and screens. ‘You’ll feel much better soon.’

‘Can you hook up one of those morphine drips? To keep her quiet?’ Jake asked from his chair underneath the window.

The nurse didn’t answer. Instead, she told Charlie she’d return with a tray for dinner and left.

‘She loves me,’ Jake said.

‘Clearly.’ Charlie felt a wave of nausea wash over her and she grabbed the kidney-shaped puke bin.

‘Should I, like, hold your hair?’

Charlie coughed. ‘I’m fine. It passed.’

She must have fallen asleep, because when she woke up, the sky through her tiny room’s window had darkened and Jake was chewing an In-N-Out burger.

‘Oh, hey. I ran out for some decent food. I have an extra burger here if you can stomach it.’ Jake dunked two fries in a little tub of the special sauce and popped them in his mouth.

Charlie was surprised when she felt a pang of hunger. She nodded, and Jake unpacked a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke on the tray next to her bed. He placed a straw in the soda, yanked open a few ketchup packets, and pushed the swinging tray in front of her.

‘This right here is pretty much the only benefit to rupturing your Achilles’ and having to drop out in the first round of Wimbledon on Centre Court in front of the entire world, just as you’re about to win the match,’ Charlie said, stuffing the burger into her mouth one-handed, since her left arm was in a cast from thumb to elbow. The first bite was almost orgasmic. Ever since the Bloody Mary she’d gulped on the flight home from London to California in preparation for her surgery at UCLA, Charlie’s only consolation had been the food.

‘It might be worth it?’ Jake asked through a full mouth.

‘I listened to a TED Talk the other day about the founders of In-N-Out. Do you know it’s family owned, and they plan never to sell or franchise it?’

‘Fascinating.’

‘No, it really is. I bet you haven’t noticed that they discreetly print Bible citations on their cups and burger wrappers?’

‘I most definitely did not.’

‘Well, I thought it was interesting.’ Charlie had no idea what it meant, but she noticed the bottom of her Coke cup said JOHN 3:16.

Jake rolled his eyes. ‘Dad told me to tell you he’ll be back as soon as he’s finished. There was a special event at the club tonight, some fund-raiser, so they had him teaching clinics back-to-back. I had to promise a thousand times I wouldn’t leave your side for a second.’

Charlie groaned. ‘I am so getting babysat around the clock, aren’t I?’

‘You are. He’s convinced you’re going to wake up thinking your career is over and throw yourself off the nearest bridge. Or I guess you would have to walk in front of a train. There aren’t really bridges around here …’