Page 24 of Match Point

And it was so good to see Tristan again! His dirty-blond hair spilled out underneath his backwards cap, and there was a determined look in his eyes as I showed him how I wanted him to adjust his swing. He was taking this seriously. He wanted my help. He smiled at me like we were old friends, rather than one party interaction separated by fourteen years.

But after Dominic stopped by, Tristan became quiet. I got the impression he wasn’t listening to my instructions, and he seemed to lose focus while we practiced. He was swinging as hard as he could on every shot, sending the ball directly into the net or sailing past the baseline. Only one shot in ten landed inside the lines.

“Ease up a little bit,” I called. “Focus on making smooth strokes while you rebuild that muscle memory.”

Tristan did slow down for a few rallies, but then ramped up his power again. The sound of his racket smacking the tennis ball echoed in the indoor facility. It reminded me of the sound of a boxer laying into a punching bag.

“Okay, let’s make another adjustment,” I said, leaving my side of the court and coming around the net. “When I was injured, and I switched backhands, my footwork was the biggest issue. You’re doing a good job on getting closer to the ball, but your body positioning is still not ideal. So much of the power in a backhand comes from—”

“We don’t have time for a long explanation,” he interrupted. His normally smooth Australian accent sounded annoyed. “Just show me.”

“Your right foot needs to be more forward. That allows you to turn sideways, and reallytwistyour body as you drive through the ball.” I showed him by turning my body almost sideways to the net.

“Right,” he said, without making any effort to copy my footwork. I glanced at his coach, who gave me an almost imperceptible shrug.

“Let’s do some more drills,” I said. “Do we have any cones? I know how to burn it into your muscle memory if we—”

“This is a waste of time,” he interrupted again. “It’s not working.”

“We’ve barely been at it an hour,” I replied. “It takes time.”

He put his hands on his hips and towered over me. “Time is the one resource we do not have. My first match istomorrow.”

“Then why did you bring me here at all?” I asked.

“This is what you wanted,” the coach told Tristan. “A way to compensate for your injurywithoutbacking out of the tournament.”

“I was wrong.” For some reason, he wouldn’t look me in the eye. “This was a mistake. I’m going to stick with my regular backhand.”

“Even if you have less power?” his coach asked. “Even if your opponents hammer that side in your matches?”

“Tristan, hold on a minute,” I said, stepping closer and touching his arm. “I really think this can work if we—”

“It’s my decision, not yours,” he said emphatically, jerking away from me.

I was shocked by his outburst. I understood being frustrated with an injury, but I didn’t expect him to take it out onme. I glanced at his coach, who gave me an apologetic grimace.

Is he embarrassed about being coached by a woman?That would explain why his attitude changed after Dominic saw us working together. But Tristan didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would care about that. Maybe if it became public, but he certainly wouldn’t care about another men’s player knowing.

“What is this really about?” I asked.

“It’s notaboutanything,” he snapped. I stared into his eyes, and for a brief moment he didn’t seem angry. He seemed, if anything,hurt. “Thanks for the help, but you can go now. Enjoy the rest of your time in Melbourne.”

“Good luck tomorrow.” I collected my things and left the practice court.

11

Miranda

I went back to my hotel, changed into some regular clothes, and then returned to Melbourne Park. I could get VIP seats at any of the matches, but I wanted to watch some tennis today without fans constantly asking me for autographs and selfies. With my Mets cap pulled down over my eyes, I managed to walk around the grounds without drawing any attention.

After watching one men’s match and two women’s, I grabbed some lunch at a food cart and then headed into Rod Laver Arena, the largest court on the grounds. My seat was up in the nosebleeds, but it was a small arena, so my view of the blue court was still good. I took off my baseball cap and sighed happily; the sky was overcast, but it was pleasantly warm outside.

The players had already been announced, and were hitting a few warm-up serves before the match began. Dominic was wearing white shorts, a black polo shirt, and a white hat—all of which bore the swoosh logo of his sponsor, Nike. Even though he was six feet tall, his opponent was a Swedish man who was nearly a foot taller. But the Swede was unranked, and didn’treallypose much of a challenge to the current world #1.

Unless something goes wrong,I thought.

I was used to the way tennis matches were scored, but it was undeniablyweird. Players started at zero points, which was calledlove. After winning a point, they went to 15. Then 30. Since it’s multiples of 15, the next point should be 45, right? WRONG, the next point is 40 for some reason. Win one more point after that, and you win the game.

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