Page 31 of Match Point

I checked into my hotel, took a nap, and then got dressed for dinner. I picked out a little black dress that I rarely got a chance to wear, with a lacy hem and a neckline that wasjustlow enough to show off a tasteful amount of cleavage, especially when paired with a silver tennis pendant on a chain. I turned several heads as I left my hotel, and all from people who didn’t recognize me from tennis.

The restaurant Dominic had picked was just two blocks from the Champs-Élysées, with only seven or eight tables inside and two more on the sidewalk outside. After giving the host the name of the reservation, I was seated at one of the latter tables, giving me a nice view of the Parisian pedestrians going about their business.

Before the waiter could take my order, I got a text from Dominic saying he would be thirty minutes late. After going several months without seeing him, I could wait a little bit longer. Besides, I was in one of the greatest cities in the world! I ordered a glass of wine and enjoyed the scenery.

I had visited Paris every year for the past fourteen years, but I had never gotten toreallyexperience the city. I was usually too busy preparing for Roland Garros—the name of the French Open. And as soon as it was over, I was launching straight into preparations for Wimbledon, which began the next month. And even when Ihadgone into the city for a nice meal with my coach, I couldn’t enjoy it the way I wanted to. The stress of the upcoming tournament poisoned everything with anxiety.

Sitting at my little table with a glass of wine, watching the people walk by, was strangely soothing. It was like finally sitting down and watching a movie that I had only caught snippets of. The full experience was so much better than the abridged version I was used to.

I was finishing my first glass of wine and preparing to order a second when I heard a group of men laughing. They were walking along the sidewalk, joking and carrying on in French. Two of them glanced at me in passing, and a third took a very long look at my legs, but otherwise they didn’t stop.

After they had passed, a memory clicked into place. The fourth man, the one who hadn’t looked over. It couldn’t be…

“Gabriel?” I called.

16

Miranda

Gabriel turned and looked over his shoulder. His friends kept walking, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw me. Then he grinned.

The sight of Gabriel loosened something that had been knotted in my chest. The last time I had seen him in person, he was drenched in sweat from his match at the Australian Open. His angular face was quite striking, in a more mature way than when he was a boy, although his curly brown hair was completely unchanged by the fourteen years that had passed. His jeans fit him snugly, and he had his hands shoved into the pockets of a leather jacket.

“Miranda Jacobs?” he asked in that smooth French accent of his. “What are you doing in my city?”

“I’m joining the broadcast crew for some of the matches next week,” I replied.

I stood and hugged him, and when we let go, he braced me by the arms so he could look me up and down. “I meant every word that I said in Melbourne. Retirement suits you. You are stunning.”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing at the compliment.

One of his friends called out to him, and he replied in French. “Mind if I sit?” he asked, taking the seat across from me.

“I’m waiting on a date, but he’s running late.”

“He has terrible priorities, then.” He called out to his friends in French again. “I told them I will catch up. I cannot pass up the opportunity to share a drink with the number one ranked woman in the world.”

“Formernumber one,” I corrected.

He held up a finger and grinned at me. “Ah, but no. You are still number one until after the points of Roland Garros are calculated. And even so, Iga Swiatek must advance to the semifinals to accrue enough points. Because who knows?” He spread his hands. “It is possible that you will unretire at any point.”

“I can promise you I won’t change my mind,” I said with a laugh.

A man wearing a chef outfit burst through the door from the restaurant. “Gabriel!” He rattled off a flurry of French too fast for me to catch, and the two of them embraced. As they spoke, I noticed that Gabriel seemed totally different. He wasn’t the cocky, arrogant player I saw on the tennis court and in front of television cameras. He was more soft spoken, and humble. It reminded me of the boy from the Academy.

“Louis,” Gabriel said, “this is an old friend of mine. Miranda Jacobs.”

“Any friend of Gabriel is family to me,” the man said in stunted English. “Please be welcome at my restaurant. You also tennis?”

“I used to play,” I said.

“Miranda won Roland Garros twice,” Gabriel explained.

Louis clapped a hand over his mouth and began babbling in French. He rushed inside, almost knocking over a customer in the process.

“Louis says he has a special appetizer he is bringing out for us. And a better bottle of wine. He says customers like us deserve the best.”

I winced as we sat back down. “I prefer it if people don’t know who I am. I don’t like using my fame for special treatment.”

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