Page 28 of Match Point

Out on the court, Dominic was looking at me. When he saw that I was looking back, he smiled and gave me a wink. He didn’t look disappointed that he had lost. If anything, he was almost relieved.

I glanced sideways at Gabriel’s blonde girlfriend. She was model-thin, with a chest that couldnothave been natural. She covered her heart with her hand and made a dramatic face for the camera, as ifshewere the one being honored.

Gabriel blew her a final kiss, then turned back toward the court.

And stopped when his eyes fell on me.

He froze, then took a step in my direction. He removed his sweatband and ran a hand through his curly brown hair. “Miranda,” he said in a thick French accent.

“Hi, Gabriel,” I replied. I didn’t know what else to say.

His blue eyes were round and full of shock, like he had seen a ghost. The cockiness he displayed on the court was gone, replaced by something… different. For a few heartbeats while we stared at each other, he reminded me of that bashful little boy again, the one who had French kissed me in front of everyone else at the Academy. For a few heartbeats it seemed like that was the real Gabriel.

“You are glowing,” he breathed. “It appears that retirement suits you.” He held my gaze a moment longer, then turned back to the court, his cocky persona sliding into place like a mask.

Who is the real Gabriel Moreau?I wondered as he stepped up to take his championship trophy.

13

Dominic

Being a professional meant knowing how to win gracefully. But more importantly, a pro had to know how tolosegracefully. The way a player lost said a lot about them. Did they hang their head and pout? Did they refuse to shake their opponent’s hand? Did they cry, or snap at the line judge, or embarrass themselves in any other number of ways?

For me, losing was a part of life. I had been playing tennis competitively since I was four years old, which meant I had losta lot. Today’s loss held more significance, though. Since winning the US Open two years ago, I had been the number one ranked male player in the world for 70 straight weeks. I had dominated the sport in that time, making it to the finals in every major championship and only losing one of them. During that time, I had defeated Gabriel Moreau in three tournaments. But each match, he came a little bit closer to figuring me out.

Until today, when he finally emerged victorious.

Even though I was still technically the number one ranked male player, it felt like my career had peaked. He was a little bit younger, a little bit faster, and a little bit hungrier. I was on the back end of my career, now. Today’s loss carried more weight than any other I had ever experienced. Yet the crowd was cheering, and watching, and waiting to see how I would react.

I congratulated Gabriel and smiled and waved to the crowd. But I didn’t have to fake it. I was soaking all of this in, enjoying it while it lasted, because I knew I wouldn’t have many more moments like this.

Life was short, and I was luckier than most.

“You’ll come back strong at Roland Garros,” my coach told me on the flight back to America. “I have some thoughts on how to defeat Moreau there, if we happen to face him.”

“I’ll be glad to hear them,” I replied. “For now, I’m looking forward to a few weeks of rest.”

The trip home took over twenty-four hours, with a layover in LAX. It was five in the afternoon when we landed at Newark Liberty International, and I was ready to take an Uber home and immediately fall asleep.

But when I walked out to the baggage claim, I was bombarded with cheers. Two dozen men, women, boys, and girls were crowded together with signs exclaiming their love for me, and that I was still number one. I smiled broadly as I walked up to them.

“You didn’t have to meet me here,” I told my mom.

My very small,veryItalian mother clung to me in a tight hug. “It’s not every day my favorite son returns from the Australian Open.”

Another man to my right grunted. “He’s your favorite?”

“You were my favorite when you got that promotion last month, Tony,” she replied while cradling my head in her hands. “Today, it’s Dominic.”

“Uncle Dominic!” a high-pitched voice called. “We watched you on TV! You didso good!”

“Thanks, Becky,” I said to my niece.

I spent at least ten minutes greeting all the members of my family: my dad, four of my brothers, three sisters, and eleven nieces and nephews. By then my baggage had come off the carousel, but I was still fending off well-wishes and hugs from all the members of my big Italian family.

Rather than going to my apartment, we went back to my childhood home in Montclair. When I won the US Open, I used most of the prize money to renovate the dilapidated house. Now it was new and pristine, with an open floor plan and an enormous kitchen where our family could cook together. We all donned aprons, washed our hands, and immediately began rolling dough so we could make pasta.

“Do not stop!” my mom, the matriarch of the family, commanded while slapping my brother’s hand. “Never stop making gnocchi!”

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