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It takes me a minute to rewind to the prior night. And as pieces of it come back a little at a time, I huddle deeper under the covers in shame.
Noah driving me home. Noah carrying me inside and up the stairs. Holding my hair as I puked everything up. Tucking me into bed. The shame shifts from embarrassment, to despair, to some heavy-duty self-loathing.
My eyes dart to the other side of the bed. The unmistakable shape of a body is pressed into the comforter so there’s no question he slept here. My stomach starts to churn nervously and it has nothing to do with tequila. God help me if I’m not wearing any clothing.
I lift the sheet slowly, very slowly in fear of what I might find. Dear God, please let there be clothing. And when I find I’m still wearing them the breath I’m holding hisses out.
My phone rings, bouncing on the bedside table. I answer without checking to see who’s calling.
“Have you seen TMZ?” a thickly accented Russian demands. No preamble necessary is Katya’s personal style, one I appreciate.
“No.” Now or ever, I want to add but don’t. I can tell she’s already incensed and I learned a long time ago not to poke the Russian bear.
“There is video of Maren Murphy dancing and singing very badly.”
She pauses, most likely waiting for an explanation I don’t have. “Are you looking for me to apologize for the bad singing, or the video?”
“Both.”
“I had a little too much fun. You know I never do this. It won’t happen again.” The headache I’m currently suffering makes that an absolutely sincere statement. I sit up in bed and my stomach has something to say about it too.
“Do I need to have talk about endorsements?”
Everybody’s Darling, Maren Murphy: The WTA’s Newest Sensation.
That was the headline of the article that launched my career. They slapped me with the label at twenty-two when I upset the number two seed at the Australian Open. I went on to play in the finals, and although I lost the tournament, the name stuck.
At first I didn’t mind it. It was fine, I guess. In a world filled with celebrities behaving badly, it certainly helped me land some sweet endorsement deals. My parents aren’t wealthy. Before I turned pro my grandfather paid for everything, otherwise I would’ve been forced to quit.
It takes more than skill and timing to succeed in this sport. It takes a lot of money and the endorsements went a long way for me to be able to afford it. Over the years, however, it has turned into the bane of my existence.
Someone talks shit on the court? I answer with my trademark smile.
Some troll on social media calls me a no-talent Barbie doll that deserves to be run over by a car and catch MERSA on her face? I’m so grateful for all the support I receive is my stamped reply.
Some ho writes in the comments section of an article that I’m really a dike and Oliver is my merkin? Yeah, I didn’t know what that was either, had to look it up. I sit on my hands and do not respond.
“Never respond to comments,” were practically the first words Katya ever spoke to me when we met. “Katya Surkovska. I want to represent you. Never respond to nasty comment.”
Do you have any idea how hard that is day in and day out? And I can’t shut my social media accounts down. They’re the life blood of sports endorsements.
People want someone they can root for. Someone who inspires them. Unfortunately they love to witness a fall from grace even more. And that’s why Katya is so protective of me. I can’t fault her for caring.
“No,” I grumble like a five-year-old. Katya has a knack for making me feel like a child.
My phone buzzes and I glance at the screen. “Katya, I have to call you back. It’s Oliver. I promise, no more videos.”
“I’ve been trying to call you all night, Maren!” I hear as soon as I switch over the call.
“I know. I’m sorry.” My pounding head reminds me of how sorry I really am.
After his third voicemail last night I switched my phone to vibrate. Which came after I’d texted him that I was busy with family stuff. “I…this place gets me wired and I needed to blow off some steam.”
“Is that what you call getting wasted and making a complete fool of yourself? Have you seen the TMZ clip?”
What the…
I’m suddenly, irritably awake. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Do you want to wind up another Jennifer Capriati?”
Capriati won plenty after her little meltdown. She never did win the US Open Women’s Singles however.
“Are you done with the inquisition? Because I’d like to take a shower.”
“What the hell has gotten into you? You’re acting like a real bitch.”
