Page 33 of Match Point

He shrugged. “I am as strong and ready as I possibly can be. I think I can win. My draw is not the easiest route to a victory. I will have Medvedev in the quarterfinals, and Alcaraz in the semis. And of course, deGrom in the final, if he advances that far. IbelieveI can win. I am strong on clay. But anything can happen.” He shrugged again. “We shall see. I am trying not to think about it too much.”

“That’s very… diplomatic of you,” I said.

“It is the truth. I will do my best, and hopefully that will be enough.”

I glanced at my watch. “Thank you for the wine and appetizer, but I think I’m going to go back to my hotel to try and reset my internal clock.”

I reached into my purse to pay the bill, but Gabriel quickly put a hand on mine to stop me. “You are in my city. A guest. Please, allow me.” He placed two hundred Euros onto the table. “And you cannot go back to your hotel. That will not do. I must show you around Paris, to make up for your date’s foolishness.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, referring to both the money and the offer to show me around the city. “What about your friends?”

“I see them quite often. They will not miss me.” He glanced at his watch, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. “Come. There is much for us to do.”

I smiled as he took my hand and led me away.

17

Miranda

Gabriel led me three blocks away from the restaurant, where a motorized scooter was parked on the sidewalk. He hopped on and patted the seat behind him. Ignoring how high I had to hike up my dress, I squeezed onto the seat and wrapped my arms around his waist.

“Shouldn’t we wear helmets?” I asked.

“We probably should, yes.” Without another word, the scooter engine puttered to life and we shot out onto the street. I yelped and held on tighter to Gabriel’s midsection.

We cruised through Paris, the cool air blowing my hair back as we weaved in and out of traffic. I didn’t know the city very well, and had no idea where we were going—except that the Eiffel Tower was in the distance to our left, illuminated brightly against the deepening night sky. As afraid as I was when we first began driving, I quickly trusted Gabriel to navigate us through the city. He seemed used to this mode of transportation, and always narrowly avoided the other cars on the road.

Gabriel was smaller than most tennis players, but his body still felt sturdy and strong as I clung to him. His curly brown hair smelled like fragrant shampoo, and I breathed in the scent while trying not to be too conspicuous about it.

We stopped in front of a bakery, and Gabriel hopped off the scooter. “It’s closed,” I said, pointing to the sign. I didn’t know much French, but I knew what the wordfermémeant.

But Gabriel only smiled. “Wait here.” He went up to the door and cupped his hands to peer through the glass. Within seconds, a woman with white hair came running up and unlocked the door for him, babbling at him in French while kissing him on the cheek. He disappeared inside, then returned with three baguettes in a bag.

“Three more stops,” he said.

“I didn’t realize we would be doing your grocery shopping,” I replied.

He smiled without looking back at me. “Hold on!”

I let out a squeak as the scooter shot back into traffic and cut off a car, which blared its horn at us.

I didn’t know what we were doing or where we were going, but it was nice not knowing. For the past decade and a half, I’d had every minute of every day meticulously planned and scheduled. Practices, meals, cross-training, exhibition matches, tournaments. My life was basically a shared Excel spreadsheet of tasks. Letting Gabriel lead me around Paris on a scooter was a refreshing change of pace.

“This is the most stereotypical French that I can imagine!” I said to Gabriel when we were stopped at a traffic light. “Riding around Paris on a scooter with a bundle of baguettes clutched to my chest!”

“I will fetch you a beret as well,” he asked. “And a cigarette. Then you will truly be French.”

He stopped to get soup, pasta, and wine—all at different restaurants. The grocery bag was so full that I struggled to hold onto it while also keeping an arm around Gabriel. Then we were zooming away on the scooter again, deeper into the heart of Paris.

“I know where we are,” I said. “The Louvre is right over there! I saw the top of the pyramid thing.”

Gabriel turned down an alley and then slowed to a stop. “Yes. Come, this way.” He took the groceries from me and led the way down the alley, stopping at an unmarked steel door that didn’t have a doorknob or handle. Gabriel made a phone call, said a few words in French, and then the door opened. A large man in a suit with a walkie-talkie poked his head out, gave me averylong look, and then nodded to Gabriel.

As we followed him inside, I was too scared to ask where we were going. The hallway was narrow and illuminated by harsh white light every thirty feet, leaving the spaces in between dark. The three sets of footsteps echoed strangely, like we were in a cave. I began wondering if it was a good idea to follow Gabriel, a man I didn’t really know that well.

The hallway ended at a door, and we passed into a larger room. The air was very cool, with a hum of overhead fans and circulation that stirred my hair. Wooden crates were spread out, spilling over with straw.

“Paintings that are not on display,” Gabriel told me.

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