Page 29 of Match Point

I shared a look with my sister across the table, who was grinning while chopping her strand of dough into thumb-sized pieces. “How are the ladies treating you?” she asked.

“Let me guess,” my other sister next to her said. “You’re too busy for women.”

“I am too busy for women,” I replied.

“See?”

“But… I met someone.”

Every head within hearing range turned to me. For the next ten seconds I was bombarded with questions, accusations, and demands.

“It’s nothing serious,” I told them. “Not yet, at least. I don’t know if we’ll be able to line our schedules up. Especially since I’m flying to Dubai in two weeks.”

“Excuses, always excuses,” Mom chided down at the other end of the table where she was stirring pasta sauce. “Find a woman, make babies. No excuse.”

“I think we’re all proud of Dominic,” my brother said while passing around glasses of wine. “A toast, to Dominic! You’re the best of us, brother.”

“And the worst looking,” my other brother said.

We playfully shoved and teased each other while making the gnocchi, my loss at the Australian Open long forgotten.

14

Gabriel

Our plane was one of the last to land in Paris, and the terminal was deserted. Quiet, wan faces stared at the baggage carousel before shuffling off to their automobiles. I was equally exhausted after the flight, which had taken place after several hours of interviews in Melbourne.

The Australian Open was my first major win. I had come close many times before, always falling short in the finals or semifinals. But not this time. I was beginning this year as a champion.

I did not expect my parents to be waiting at the airport. Throughout my life, they had never shown their support in that way. But a small part of me had hoped, and a small part of me felt disappointed.

“Nobody knows,” I said in French while looking around the airport terminal. “It is like nothing has changed.”

“Hmm?” my girlfriend said. She was staring down at her phone. “Did you say something?”

“No. Nothing. It is fine.”

She continued tapping at the screen. “Timothée Chalamet and Kylie Jenner broke up.”

“Wow.”

We took a taxi to my flat in Montmartre in silence. Occasionally my girlfriend’s face lit up with a huge smile, but it was only because she was taking a photograph for Instagram; the smile lasted only as long as the photograph. The driver glanced at us in the rear-view mirror several times, but gave no indication that he recognized me. We got out and carried our bags up to my flat on the top floor.

“It is nottoolate,” I said. “Shall we get supper? Maybe celebrate a little?”

“I’m ordering sushi right now,” my girlfriend replied. She glanced up at me. “Do you want me to get you something?”

“Double whatever you’re getting,” I said.

We ate the food quietly at my breakfast table, facing the glass windows that overlooked Square Louise Michel. My girlfriend ate her sushi with one hand while scrolling TikTok on her phone, looking bored the entire time. The room was silent except for the sound of chopsticks clicking on plates.

Was this the life I wanted? I thought it would all be so different once I won a major tournament. Yet I felt like the same man I had been two weeks ago, unsatisfied and hungry. After one piece of sushi, I put my chopsticks down.

“I do not think this is working,” I said.

15

Miranda

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