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  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.

  Charlotte “Charlie” Silver has always been a good girl. She excelled at tennis early, coached by her father, a former player himself, and soon became one of the top juniors in the world. When she leaves UCLA—and breaks her boyfriend’s heart—to turn pro, Charlie joins the world’s best athletes who travel eleven months a year, competing without mercy for Grand Slam titles and Page Six headlines.

  After Charlie suffers a disastrous loss and injury on Wimbledon’s Centre Court, she fires her longtime coach and hires Todd Feltner, a legend of the men’s tour, who is famous for grooming champions. Charlie is his first-ever female player, and he will not let her forget it. He is determined to change her good-girl image—both on the court and off—and transform her into a ruthless competitor who will not only win matches and climb the rankings, but also score magazine covers and seven-figure endorsement deals. Her not-so-secret affair with the hottest male player in the world, sexy Spaniard Marco Vallejo, has people whispering, and it seems like only a matter of time before the tabloids and gossip blogs close in on all the juicy details. Charlie’s ascension to the social throne parallels her rising rank on the women’s tour—but at a major price.

  Lauren Weisberger’s novel brings us exclusive behind-the-scenes details from all the Grand Slam tournaments: the US Open, the French Open, the Australian Open, and Wimbledon. Charlie Silver jets around the globe, plays charity matches aboard Mediterranean megayachts, models in photo shoots on Caribbean beaches, walks the red carpet at legendary player parties, and sidesteps looming scandals—all while trying to keep her eyes on the real prize. In this sexy, unputdownable read about young tennis stars who train relentlessly to compete at the highest levels while living in a world obsessed with good looks and Instagram followers, Charlie must discover the secret to having it all—or finally shatter the illusion for good.

  Praise For New York Times BestsellernLauren Weisberger:

  Revenge Wears Prada

  “A juicy drama.”

  —US Weekly

  Last Night at Chateau Marmont

  “Accurate, revealing and yes, occasionally chilling.”

  —USA TODAY

  Chasing Harry Winston

  “[A] glitzy Manhattan romp.”

  —People

  Everyone Worth Knowing

  “Deliciously entertaining.”

  —Life Magazine

  The Devil Wears Prada

  ‘[A] pure gossipy pleasure.”

  —Chicago Sun Times

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  Lauren Weisberger is the New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Wears Prada, which was published in forty languages and made into a major motion picture starring Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway. Weisberger’s four other novels, Everyone Worth Knowing, Last Night at Chateau Marmont, Chasing Harry Winston, and Revenge Wears Prada were all top-ten New York Times bestsellers. A graduate of Cornell University, she lives in Connecticut with her husband and two children. Visit LaurenWeisberger.com.

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  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  Dear Reader:

  I’m thrilled to present you with Lauren Weisberger’s new novel, The Singles Game. If you’re a fan of The Devil Wears Prada, you’ll love this delicious dive into the glamorous and scandalous world of professional tennis.

  The Singles Game follows Charlotte “Charlie” Silver, a wholesome all-American who has diligently worked her way up the women’s tour with grace and class. Charlie has endorsements and a respectable ranking, but no Grand Slams. When Charlie fires her longtime coach and hires Todd Feltner, a ruthless, even diabolical coach known for grooming male winners, she quickly finds her game, her diet, and even her wardrobe overhauled. Soon Charlie is rubbing elbows with tennis’s most elite and glamorous, playing charity matches aboard mega-yachts, and enjoying (yes, enjoying!) secret dates with A-list Hollywood stars. But it all comes at a price.

  If you pan the crowd (or the red carpet) at Wimbledon or the US Open, you’ll find a Who’s Who of the hottest and most fabulous celebrities in the world—think David Beckham, Anna Wintour, Prince William and Princess Kate, Beyoncé and Jay-Z. Combine this star-studded milieu with Lauren’s deep love for the game and her incredible research (players’ lounge at Roland-Garros? Check. Locker rooms at Wimbledon? Check) and you have the makings of a sizzling read.

  Welcome to The Singles Game, your summer binge read.

  Enjoy,

  Marysue Rucci

  Marysue Rucci

  Vice President and Editor-In-Chief

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  also by lauren weisberger

  Revenge Wears Prada

  Last Night at Chateau Marmont

  Chasing Harry Winston

  Everyone Worth Knowing

  The Devil Wears Prada

  Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Lauren Weisberger

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition July 2016

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  Interior design by Ruth Lee-Mui

  Manufactured in the United Sta
tes of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  ISBN 978-1-4767-7821-1

  ISBN 978-1-4767-7840-2 (ebook)

  Dedication TK

  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 shooting a look 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 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. She was chosen as much for her acumen on the women’s tour as 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.

  “Ya, 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 laced up 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 the toe cage. “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 traditional cup, 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.