Page 46 of Match Point

Dominic nodded along. “Seriously, you didn’t need to tell me all of that. But I’m glad you ditched him. That guy is a real piece of work.”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered. Now for the rest. “I do have a confession to make, though. Since the Australian Open, Ihavehad a sexual, err, relationship with someone. It has only happened once…”

“I don’t want to talk about your love life,” Dominic interrupted, leaning his nude form back against the pillows. “I don’t want to think about the past. I’m enjoying theright now, here with you, and with the French Open looming. I need to devote all of my emotional energy toward that.”

“Okay,” I said. “I respect that.”

“And with that in mind… in two or three days, I’m going to be focusing entirely on the tournament. If that’s okay.”

It took me a moment to realize what he meant. “Wait. I thought you said you didn’t believe in the Rocky school of thought.”

“The what now? When did I say that?”

“Back in Melbourne,” I replied. “I asked if you were afraid about women weakening legs, and you said you didn’t believe in that. You also said it didn’t matter because Rocky still lost to Apollo Creed.”

“Wow, spoilers,” he said with a grin.

I pointed at him. “That’s exactly what I said! And you told me the statute of limitations has expired because the movie came out forty years ago.”

“I’m starting to remember bits and pieces of the conversation,” he admitted. “But seriously. Are you all right if I can’t make time for you?”

I crawled across the bed, taking care not to knock over the plates of food, and kissed him on the cheek. “I understand better than anyone. Also, I survived the last four months without your dick. I can go right back to surviving without it again.”

He gasped and put a hand on his chest. “You’re implying that my penis isn’t as critical as food, water, and shelter?”

“As wonderful as it is,” I said, trailing a fingernail along his thigh, “it’s pretty low in my hierarchy of needs. Sorry.”

“My ego will never recover from this.”

“Now you sound like Gabriel Moreau.”

He tossed a pillow at me. “Take it back!”

“Never!”

We knocked over the plates as we play-wrestled, but we were too happy to care.

22

Miranda

The start of the French Open brought up a lot of memories for me. It was so strange being on the broadcasting team this year, rather than down on the court playing for a championship. In a way, it was more relaxing. There wasn’t any pressure.

But in another way, I hated sitting on the metaphorical sideline. Watching other professionals playing tennis gave me anitchto go down to the court and pick up a racket. I had known I would get this itch when I retired, but now that it was here? It was hard to ignore.

I was scheduled to broadcast two matches on the first day of the tournament—a women’s singles match in the morning, and Gabriel Moreau’s match in the afternoon. The first game went smoothly, and helped me get into a groove in the broadcaster’s booth.

When I arrived at Court Philippe Chatrier (the primary stadium) I was greeted with a surprise. A massive bouquet of flowers was waiting in my chair in the booth. It was too large for any one person to carry, and was filled with arrangements of red, yellow, and orange.

“You’ve got a fan,” one of the broadcast techies said.

“Those are for me?” I asked.

“Wait until you seewhothey’re from.”

It took me several seconds to search the flowers for the tag. I chuckled when I read it:

To: Miranda Jacobs

---