Page 71 of Match Point

Gabriel: Yes, this is what I mean. I am usually putting on a face. Today, I was myself. This has been what you have wanted from me, yes?

I stared at my phone for a while without answering. I didn’t know what to say.

Me: I think you’re acting this way to convince me to go out with you.

Gabriel: Ah, but I do not need to convince you of such a thing!

Me: Why not?

Gabriel: Because you have already agreed to go out with me. We made a wager. I won all of Wimbledon without losing a single set, and so you now owe a date to me.

Me: I never agreed to that.

Gabriel: You never said no. That is acceptance by omission. I learned this term watching your famous American crime show, Law and Order.

Me: That’s not how this works.

Gabriel: Very well. Miranda, would you do me the tremendous honor of going on a date?

I imagined Gabriel the way I had last seen him, standing on the court with his hands on his hips, tousled hair swaying with the wind while he smiled at the woman giving the post-game interview. There was a pull to this man that I couldn’t ignore, couldn’t deny. I wasn’t just attracted to him—I feltconnectedto him. Maybe it was because, back at the Academy, he had reminded me of myself. We were both smaller than the competition, unappreciated among our peers. We were both underdogs, lacking the confidence and charisma of all the other athletes whoknewthey were going to be the next big tennis stars—and acted like it. Gabriel and I weren’t born with that self-assurance. Ever since we were young, we had to fight for every ounce of respect we deserved in this cut-throat sport. Even now, after so many years had passed, I felt closer to him than anyone else in my profession.

Even more than the two men I’m seeing.

It pained me to think of the situation like that, but it was true. I was close to Dominic and Tristan. I cared about them both deeply, and knew that I had tremendous potential for long-term relationships with both of them. But even though I had a more impressive career, it still felt like they were in another league above me. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how many championships I had won, deep down I was still that same insecure little girl with a tennis racket in her hand, pretending like she belonged.

Me: Okay. I will go on a date with you. But I’m leaving early tomorrow morning, so it will have to wait until the next time we are both in the same city.

Gabriel: Wonderful! Our date will be in August, before the US Open. Is this acceptable to you?

Me: I would agree to this, yes.

Gabriel: I will see you then. Have a safe flight :-)

I sighed with relief. Even though we had already been on an impromptu date, the idea of another one—planned out this time—made me anxious. The fact that it was a long way away, over a month, helped soothe my nerves.

*

I flew back to New Jersey the next day. Although I didn’t have a private plane, NBC had paid for business class. The special pod-shaped seats that folded flat into a bed were a luxury I didn’t think I would continue to enjoy after retiring. When I walked into my condo, I let out a deep sigh.

“It’s good to be home,” I said to the empty foyer.

I liked being alone. Or more accurately, I enjoyed solitude. I knew people who always wanted to be around others, hanging out at bars or watching TV with friends. I preferred being alone with my thoughts. I considered it the ultimate sign of self-confidence to be able to be alone with yourself.

My email inbox was, to use one of Tristan’s phrases, a shit-show. I had hundreds of emails from reporters from every sports column in the country—and plenty outside the United States, too. Everyone wanted an interview with me about my relationship with Tristan. One reporter from a newspaper in Columbus, Ohio had sent me four increasingly-desperate requests for a comment, practically begging me by the end.

To make matters worse, a few New York reporters paid visits to my house at random times. Ringing the doorbell, disturbing my peace. I gave each of them the line Hammy had recommended:I don’t comment on my personal life. But that didn’t seem to work, unless it was paired with slamming the door in their faces.

I was used to being under scrutiny when I was a player. I didn’t mind it then, since I was able to tune it all out and focus on the next match. But now that I was retired, I thought I was free from all of that.

Maybe I never will be.

The avalanche of emails abruptly cut off two days prior, on Saturday afternoon. That lined up with when the highly-ranked player—Dominic—had threatened the press if they didn’t leave me alone. There were still a few straggler emails that came in from lesser-known publications, but the difference was night and day.

I pulled out my phone to thank him, then stopped myself. He said he wanted to put things on hold. And sure, a text message wasn’t a big deal, but the core problem was that our relationship was a distraction. The best way to thank him would be to leave him alone, at least for now.

Not being able to text him stung. It was like we reallyhadbroken up, even though we were never really together to begin with.

I distracted myself by calling an old friend and inviting her out to play tennis the next day. It was good to move around, hitting the ball and getting my blood flowing. The volume on all the other worries in my life seemed to dim when I was between the lines. It was also nice to play forfun, rather than competitively. Doing anything as a job seemed to suck the enjoyment out of it. I needed to get out here more often now that I could actually have fun.

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