Page 37 of Match Point

“He’s a real cunt,” Andrew said.

“Do you hear that?” I cupped my ear. “That’s the sound of nobody disagreeing with you.”

The two of us roared with laughter and took long pulls from our drinks. Moreau rubbed me the wrong way, and I wasn’t the only one. Cockiness only worked in moderation, but Moreau seemed to wield it like a sword. I couldn’t remember the last player who was as cocky as him. Agassi or McEnroe, but then again, they had the skill to back it up. More recently, Federer and Nadal were both confident players—but they were never assholes about it.

“It’s nice having a bad guy to root against,” Andrew went on. “Like a heel in wrestling.”

“Except wrestling is fake,” I pointed out. “It’s scripted. But Gabriel Moreau is real.”

“A real cunt,” Andrew said with a chuckle.

There was a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me. Are you Tristan Carfrae? Can we get a selfie with you?”

“Of course you can,” I said, turning to the two little girls standing behind me. They had English accents. “But only if you tell me what you think of him.” I pointed at the TV.

“Moreau?” they asked. “He’s… he’s okay.”

“He’s not your favorite player?” I pressed.

One girl shook her head. “No. He’s not even in my top five.”

“That is the correct answer. Here, give me the phone—I’ve got longer arms. Right, on the count of three say Roland Garros. One, two three, Roland Garros!”

We posed and snapped the photo. For the first time in a while, my smile was genuine. Ilikedinteracting with fans, usually.

“You’re like your old self again,” Andrew gestured with his pint glass. “It’s good to see, innit?”

“I’m healthy,” I said simply. “When there aren’t any injuries nagging me, I feel like myself.”

My buddy knocked on the wood of the bar. “Don’t jinx it, mate.”

“I don’t believe in superstition. I just believe in myself.”

“There are worse things to believe in.” His eyes darted to something behind me. “I’ll believe inher. She looks familiar, though.”

I turned and gave a start. The woman that had walked into the hotel lobby was quite familiar. “That’s Miranda Jacobs,” I said.

Andrew squinted. “Indeed it is. Didn’t recognize her with her hair down like that.”

Miranda was in a hurry, walking through the hotel lobby with long strides. She looked annoyed by something. But she was beautiful in her dress, and I was totally transfixed by the sight of her.

And then she glanced over at the bar.

I whirled around on my barstool and cupped my pint with both hands. Seeing Miranda for the first time in four months brought forth a complex storm of emotions. I was just trying to enjoy my last few pints before the tournament. I wasn’t expecting to have to deal withthis.

“Stop staring at her,” I hissed at Andrew. “I don’t want her to know I’m here.”

“Too late, mate,” he replied. “She’s coming this way.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“Andrew Flemming?” Miranda asked, extending her hand. “I don’t think we’ve formally met, but I’ve followed your career over the years.”

“That’s kind of you to say, seeing as I never won a grand slam,” he replied while shaking her hand. “Do you know my best mate, Tristan?”

“I do, actually.”

I turned to face her. She was wearing a half-smile, but still looked flustered or annoyed by something.

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