Page 73 of Match Point

Finally, I blurted out, “Gabriel! How do you know where I live?”

He chuckled and said in that smooth accent, “This is a silly question.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I am here for our date,” he replied simply.

I gawked at him. “I said I would go on a date with you close to the US Open. Which is still four weeks away.”

He raised a finger. “Ah, but that is not what you said. You agreed to a date when I was in the United States. Those were your exact words. And as you can see, I am presently in the United States.” He gestured down at himself with both hands.

My mind raced. I didn’t have plans tonight. I had intended to stay in and relax in front of the TV. I was not mentally or physically prepared to go out on a date.

“I am seeing what you are thinking,” Gabriel said, “and you need not worry. This date is not fancy. You will not require significant time to prepare. You can go as you are.”

“I played tennis earlier,” I said. “I haven’t showered or washed my hair.”

“Your hair is perfect.” He smiled. “But if you wish to shower, I am content to wait.”

“The paparazzi,” I said. “They will go crazy if they see us together. I don’t want my name in the tabloids again.”

“Nobody will bother us,” Gabriel insisted. “I am quite sure.”

I could tell he wouldn’t be talked out of this. And hewasin the country. It was ridiculous for him to fly all the way here just for a date… but it would be even more ridiculous for me to turn him away after he had gone to so much trouble.

“What am I supposed to wear for this date?” I asked.

“Dress comfortably. Nothing fancy, as I said.”

“So yoga pants and a tank top?” I asked.

He nodded. “This is acceptable to me.”

“I was joking.”

“I am not,” he replied.

Finally, I sighed and held open the door. “Come in. You can wait downstairs while I get ready. There’s wine in the fridge if you want a drink.”

Without waiting for an answer, I went upstairs to take a shower. It was strange preparing for a date while the man was in my own house, separated from my nudity by a single floor. But weirdly enough, I wasn’t bothered by it. I knew he wouldn’t do anything intrusive. I trusted him.

Instead of yoga pants, I wore a comfortable pair of jeans and a nice crop top. Getting ready for a date without knowing where we were going was pretty much my nightmare, but at least this outfit would fit in at most places. When I returned downstairs, I found Gabriel in my trophy room just off the main foyer.

“That was the first one,” I said, gesturing to the silver plate he was examining. “Second place at Wimbledon when I was still a teenager. Somehow, that one still means the most to me, even though I lost.”

He stood up straight. “It was your best run. Nobody was expecting you, an unranked girl, to go so far.” He smiled. “You impressed the world. We all watched your games from the Academy.”

I felt myself blush at the thought of everyone watching me. “Do you have a trophy room in your home?”

“I do,” he admitted. “Though it is still quite sparse. I hope to make it as full as this room someday. Come, the car is waiting.”

I was expecting a private town car, or even a limousine, but the car in the driveway was neither of these. It was a white Honda Civic. And not a newer model—one of the older ones from the nineties.

“This is what you’re driving?” I asked.

“I am trying to fly under the radar, so to speak,” he replied while opening the passenger door for me. “Madam.”

Beneath the velvet curtain of night, we drove out of New Jersey and into New York’s urban sprawl. The George Washington Bridge guided our passage, its lights painting ripples on the Hudson below while the twinkling Manhattan skyscrapers loomed over us like a hundred steel gods.

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