Page 80 of Match Point

“You can ask anything of me,” I said, meaning every word.

“Why do you put on your arrogant persona? And don’t tell me your agent convinced you to do it in order to get media attention. I don’t believe that. I am also an observant person, and I can tell nobody is forcing you to act that way.”

This topic had been on my mind quite often. A personal battle raging inside of me at all times—even when I was on the court. Having Miranda ask me about it again felt like a crossroads of sorts, in my own life and my infatuation with this woman.

“When I was a boy, perhaps seven or eight, my father took me to the Louvre,” I explained. “There was so much to see! I could have lived there for two weeks and not seen everything. I enjoyed the paintings, and tapestries. The Mona Lisa was fine, if overrated. But do you know what fascinated me the most?”

“The gift shop?” Miranda asked.

“My father did not take me to the gift shop, because we could not afford to buy anything,” I replied.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “My favorite section of the museum contained the medieval armor. All kinds of armor and weaponry! Some were ancient and rusted, and others were polished so finely you could use them as a mirror. Pieces from the Hundred Years War. Thick plate mail that knights would wear to battle, making them nearly invulnerable against their enemies.

“My father explained how swords could not pierce this armor. Enemies had to aim for the weak parts. The joints where the armor met and overlapped. Then the English developed the longbow, which could fire arrows with such power that they punched through the armor as if it was paper. So the French made thicker armor. The English countered this with advanced arrow tips. And so the armor became evenmorethick, my father explained.

“I began playing tennis around the same age. I was a scared little boy, smaller than everyone else. I was teased. I was bullied. Their taunts were like arrows, piercing my heart. So I built up my armor in the form of arrogance and bravado. When I was a teenager, and everyone grew faster than me, I made this armor thicker. And thicker. Eventually, when I became a professional tennis player, the armor was so thick that nobody could hurt me.”

I paused to collect my thoughts. Miranda said nothing; she simply caressed my arm with her fingertips, waiting.

“But what my father did not tell me,” I went on, “was the thicker the armor, the heavier it is. An obvious fact, of course, but I did not realize the magnitude. My armor protects me, but it weighs me down. Each step is slower, more cumbersome. I know that I cannot continue like this forever. And yet I have worn the armor for so long that I know of no other way tobe.”

“Your skill on the court is all you need now,” Miranda said softly, eyes flashing up to meet mine. “You have reached the top, Gabriel. You can take the armor off.”

I turned and smiled at her sadly. “That is the other lesson I have learned. The more complex the armor, the longer it takes to remove. But I am trying. Mon dieu, I am trying.”

39

Miranda

Gabriel stayed in town for a long weekend—three days and three nights. He had a hotel in downtown Manhattan, but after the first night he came back to my place and stayed there. He was only in town to see me, it turned out, and everything was easier when he wasn’t driving in and out of the city.

My schedule was empty, but even if it wasn’t, I would have cleared everything for Gabriel. We filled our time with only three things: tennis, sex, and food. And usually in that order. Gabriel seemed to know all the good restaurants in the New York area, and had food delivered directly to my house. Even Michelin star restaurants that didn’t deliver somehow made exceptions for him. When I asked him about it, he simply shrugged and said, “I have friends.”

All of the meals were divine, but my favorite was the dessert on Saturday night: a vanilla ice cream with a powerful chartreuse sauce. The specific reason it was my favorite was because I got to lick it off Gabriel’s bare chest. His bronze skin, and the taut muscle underneath, somehow made it taste even better than out of a bowl.

My retirement had been kind of listless up to this point, which was a strange way to live. Aside from working the broadcast team at tennis tournaments, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself on a day-to-day basis. But with Gabriel here, it was nice to have nothing on my schedule. We could actually enjoy our time together.

One evening, Gabriel and I took a shower to clean all the sticky ice cream off our bodies. We ran our hands over each other, cleaning the other person with soapy suds. Showering with another person was remarkably intimate, even more than sex.

Cleaning led to teasing, and teasing led to kissing. Soon his fingers were rubbing me in a way that had nothing to do with cleanliness, sliding up and down my slit while his tongue writhed inside my mouth. I expected him to bend me over, as that was the best position in the shower. But instead, he lifted my leg up until my foot was resting on the soap dispenser.

“Don’t let me slip!” I said.

He gave me a mischievous grin and grabbed a handful of my ass. “I will hold you steady.”

“Such a gentleman...”

I moaned as he slid his cock into me, not wasting time with any more teasing. The angle was different, but in a good way. Areallygood way. He pumped into me slowly, still squeezing my ass to hold me in position.

I closed my eyes and lost myself in the rhythms of his body. Gabriel nuzzled at my neck, sighing with every thrust. Faster and faster he began to move, driven by his lust for me, a desire I could sense with every nerve in my body. I reached down and rubbed at my clit, burning a fire into my sex in time with his motions.

“Do you trust me?” he suddenly asked.

“Of course,” I replied.

He gazed into my eyes. “Tell me if I should stop.”

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