Page 52 of Match Point

“And you’re only thirty,” she replied. “Athletes are playing in this sport longer, especially men. Roger Federer retired at age forty-one. Nadal says he won’t retire until thirty-seven. Andre Agassi played until thirty-six.” Miranda stopped massaging my shoulders and came around to sit next to me on the bed. “You haveso muchof your career left. Especially considering how healthy you are. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but this isn’t the end. It’s not even close.”

It was the kind of cliché story I expected her to tell, or for someone like my coach to use. Usually, I wasn’t so easily motivated. The passion that was inside of me burned intensely, and mere words couldn’t affect it very much in either direction.

But for some reason, it was exactly what I needed to hear. Miranda had been in this exact situation—or at least so similar of a situation that it didn’t matter. That gave her opinion more weight.

Maybe it will be the same for me. Maybe I’ll retake my number one spot.

“I lost my doubles partner today, too,” I said. “Manuel is out for Wimbledon, and might not be healthy in time for the US Open.”

“I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“I guess it will allow me to focus on my singles game,” I said.

Miranda shook her head and climbed behind me to resume the massage. “You don’t need to focus on anything right now. Just relax and let me make you feel better.”

“I’m not in the mood for sex,” I found myself saying.

Miranda chuckled behind me. “I’m not here to fuck you. I’m just here to be supportive. We’re going to order room service and binge-watchThe Officeon TV. Now seriously, shut up and relax.”

“It’s especially easy to relax while you yell at me,” I said, smiling.

“I’m glad you see it my way.”

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about my loss.

25

Tristan

I watched the Roland Garros men’s final from my hotel in London. I had flown here immediately after my loss to Dominic in the semifinals, and would stay here until Wimbledon began in three weeks. That was much easier than flying home to Australia and then turning around and flying right back. Traveling halfway around the world sucked.

I was interested in the match because it involved two of my biggest competitors. This was basically like scouting my opposition, even though I already knew everything about their styles of play. Even if two no-names were competing in the final, I still would have watched it. I genuinelylovedtennis, even when I wasn’t playing.

But what made this even more exciting was listening to the commentary.

“Dominic deGrom is holding strong after three match points,” Miranda Jacobs said on the television. “Is this the start of an incredible comeback, or is he merely delaying the inevitable?”

“I think Moreau ends it right here,” her broadcast partner said. “The Frenchman can taste victory. He doesn’t want to have to wait until the next game. He wants to win it now, on his serve.”

“I’m putting feelers out about playing doubles at Wimbledon,” my coach said in the chair next to my bed. He was on his phone, not paying attention to the match on TV. “The odds are against you this late in the season, but we’ll see what shakes out.”

“And you’re sure it will be good for me?” I asked absently. Miranda was still talking, her voice filling the room. Making it seem brighter.

“You were rusty at Roland Garros,” my coach replied. “Doubles will help you stay sharp.”

“You don’t think it will hurt my singles chances?”

“Sure, it might,” he replied bluntly. “But the point is to be sharp in time for the Australian Open next year. You said that was your top priority, right? Well, this is how you get there.”

On the screen, Moreau rushed to the net and hit a volley that deGrom couldn’t reach. The Frenchman tossed aside his racket and dropped to his knees, exulting in victory as the crowd lost its mind.

I shook my head. I was actually rooting for Dominic in spite of our… personal complications. Sure, he was a rival of mine. Both in tennis, and when it came to Miranda Jacobs. But I would have rooted for Lucifer himself if he was playing against Gabriel Moreau.

It was such a strange situation. Both of us were sort of seeing the same woman—one of the most famous women in our profession. And she was a commentator for his match. Weirdly, I didn’t feel jealous. Or at least, notthatjealous. Maybe it was because I knew Dominic. He wasn’t some faceless man stealing Miranda’s time away from me. He was, most people agreed, a good guy. Better than if she were dating, say, Gabriel Moreau.

But deep down, I knew I wanted more from Miranda. Long-term, I wanted to date her. To spend more time with her. To call her my girlfriend, and maybe more than that. To have her on my arm while we attended tennis events around the world.

I was terrified to say that to her, though. It might push her away. If I made her choose, she might choose Dominic instead. In the face of such a possibility, I didn’t mind sharing her.

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