Page 36 of Match Point

He smiled politely. “On paper, yes. But I feel the pressure of the tournament already. The pressure of an entire city, an entirenation. No French player has won here since 1983. My people are expecting me to win. Anything less would be a complete failure. That expectation…” He walked in silence for a few steps. “I wake up at night shivering, sometimes. It has been a long three months since I won in Melbourne.”

I rubbed his back. “I know how you feel. Try not to think about winning the entire thing. Just take it one match at a time. The only thing you should think about is playing Brandon Nakashima next Monday.”

He let out a long sigh. “This is good advice. Thank you, Miranda. I will try to focus on that.”

As we continued walking arm-in-arm, I marveled at how different Gabriel was. He was so cocky and arrogant on the court, as quick to anger as John McEnroe used to be. But being with him tonight, around the people he knew and by ourselves, I was seeing a completely different man. It changed everything I felt about him.

We rounded a corner and saw the club up ahead, with a bright neon sign showing the way. Yet as we approached, I realized there was a cluster of photographers across the street. Paparazzi waiting for him.

Or for us.

A flash of anger ran through me. Had Gabriel set this all up? Had he insisted we go to the club so that photographers would snap pictures of us together? I’d had dates take advantage of my fame in that regard before, but never someone like Gabriel who was famous in his own right.

“Merde,” Gabriel cursed. “My friend must have bragged that I was going to be here. We do not wish to create any rumors, yes?”

“I would like to avoid that,” I agreed.

He nodded. “See that alley? Hide there while I go talk to the paparazzi. I will make them happy, then when they are gone, I will let you into the club from the side door. Nobody will see you. Go, now. Hurry!”

We split up, me heading off to the alley on the right while Gabriel strode directly toward the paparazzi on the left. Once I was safely concealed, I peered around the corner to watch Gabriel go to work.

The cameras began flashing rapidly as he approached. He gave a little bow for them, then spoke in French. They conversed back and forth in their native language, and then one photographer shouted at him in English.

“Gabriel! Are you worried about potentially facing Tristan Carfrae in the third round?” he asked in an Australian accent.

“Tristan who?” Gabriel retorted in English. “The washed up Australian? He has not made it to the semifinals in three years. He will likely stub a toe in his hotel room and need to withdraw. But if he manages to avoid injury long enough to meet me, I will happily send him home.”

I winced at the comment. Tristan’s frustration with his oblique injury in Melbourne was still fresh in my mind.

“Are you worried about a rematch with Dominic deGrom?” a reporter with an English accent asked.

“Worried? I am hoping for it,” Gabriel shot back with a mocking laugh. “That American does not belong here, and he is aware of this fact. Paris is my city, and I will defend it. But I do not expect deGrom to make it to the finals, if I am to be quite honest with you. I saw his photographs in Sports Illustrated. He is in no shape to challenge anyone at tennis. The only thing he has been challenging since Melbourne is a plate of cheeseburgers.”

The reporters all laughed, but the joke hit a nerve with me. Seconds ago, Gabriel had been quiet and humble. He had shown a vulnerable side of himself, concerned about the tournament and the hopes of the entire nation. And in the blink of an eye he was back to being that arrogant asshole, mocking his opponents and boasting about how good he was. His taunts weren’t even accurate; Dominic had lookedamazingin his Sports Illustrated shoot. Chiseled with almost zero body fat.

I don’t want to dance with Gabriel,I decided, my stomach souring on the idea.Or any other activity the night might lead to.

I slipped away without saying goodbye.

19

Tristan

“To the last night before sobriety,” I toasted at the hotel bar.

My best mate, Andrew, slammed his pint glass against mine so hard it almost shattered the glass. “To your health.”

“I’ll drink to that.” The two of us laughed and downed our beers. It was a long-standing tradition with Andrew, a former pro from Australia who retired two years ago. One final night out drinking, usually a week before the tournament started, before we switched to strict diets and stringent rules. I still planned on having a beer at the welcome dinner, as I always did, but tonight was the lastrealnight of drinking. Even if it was at the hotel bar rather than a proper pub somewhere deeper in Paris.

I was on my fourth beer, and Andrew was on his sixth. Enough that I had a good buzz—and he had some slur to his words and sway to his step.

“Good to see you healthy,” Andrew reiterated with a clap on my back. “Shame when someone so talented doesn’t have a body that can keep up with them.”

“My body is just fine,” I said, “and I have many more years of success ahead of me.” I didn’t really believe that, but it felt good to be confident now. My oblique injury had healed since the Australian Open, and I felt stronger than ever. Poised to make a deep run here in Paris, which was by far my worst tournament.

“Look who it is,” Andrew said, gesturing at the TV. Gabriel Moreau was there, wearing civilian clothes outside of a bar or club. It was a French news channel, but Gabriel was being interviewed in English.

“Tristan who?” he said with a mocking laugh. “The washed up Australian? He has not made it past the semis in three years.”

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