Page 55 of Match Point

I was getting some Gatorade between drills when my coach stepped away to take a call. “Yes, absolutely. Tristan accepts. We’ll hook up tomorrow and start training. See you then.”

“What was that about?” I asked.

Coach turned and grinned at me. “It was the best news you could have received. I found a doubles partner for you. And the Wimbledon schedule makers accepted the change.”

I smiled too… until he told me who it was.

26

Miranda

For the past fourteen years, the schedule of my life was dictated by the four big grand slam tournaments. The Australian Open in January; Roland Garros at the end of May; Wimbledon in July; and finally, the US Open at the end of August. The framework of those tournaments dictated my play schedule, and the time between them was spent resting and recovering. Even though I was retired, my job as a broadcaster meant I was still shackled by this schedule.

I didn’t mind the big gap earlier in the year between the Australian and French Open. Filming Survivor kept me plenty busy. But now that the French Open was over, and I had a month until Wimbledon, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.

I reveled in the little things. I stayed up later, and slept in. I drank way too much coffee, hoping it would give me the motivation to find something more productive to do with my time. I sat out by my pool, soaking in the sun while listening to podcasts. But after a few days of this, I started getting bored.

My friends had plenty of suggestions for me. Go on vacation. Hike in the Rockies, or the Alps. Get a dog. One friend even told me to write a book. What kind of a suggestion was that? I didn’t even like to read!

Hammy, my agent, said he had lots of gigs for me. Commercials, ad spots, interviews. But I wasn’t motivated by any of that. I had earned enough money during my career to live comfortably for the rest of my life. I would continue broadcasting tennis matches, but because Ienjoyeddoing it. It gave me a connection to the sport rather than making a clean break.

And, of course, it also gave me an excuse to be around Tristan and Dominic.

After several weeks of boredom, I hopped on a flight to London. It was strange flying back to Europe; it felt like I was just here for the French Open. When I was still playing tennis, I would usually go straight from France to England to avoid flying across the Atlantic too many times. That might be a good plan in the future if I continued commentating tennis matches.

I was staying in an Airbnb down in the Wimbledon area, just south of London. It was a cute little stone cottage with a moss-covered roof and lush gardens all over the grounds. It was within walking distance to a market, and I could even bike to Wimbledon if I was so inclined. When it wasn’t raining, of course. The sky was a threatening shade of grey as I walked up to the front door.

“Here we are,” Hammy said while unlocking the door. “Our home for the next few weeks.”

I didn’t have a chance to appreciate the interior of the cottage, because I was distracted by bouquets of flowers that were spread throughout the living room. Vases full of every color of rose, and dozens of other flowers I didn’t recognize. Every surface within sight—the kitchen counter, dining table, couch, coffee table—were covered with them.

“You didn’t do this, did you?” I asked. “I don’t like flowers.”

Hammy pursed his lips while inspecting the room. “This wasn’t me. I would assume they’re welcome gifts from the person we’re renting from, but I didn’t tell them the great Miranda Jacobs was staying here.” He lifted the card on the nearest bouquet. “Oh.”

“Oh what?” I asked.

He handed me the card.

A room full of flowers cannot compete with your beauty. But perhaps they come close.

-Gabriel

I stared around the room. There must have been a thousand dollars—or pounds—worth of flowers. Maybe two thousand. Nobody had ever made such a grand gesture to me before. It was a lot,too mucheven… but it struck a chord in my heart.

You can’t win me over that easily, I thought.Not if you’re going to continue acting like a jerk whenever the camera is on you.

Hammy groaned. “Please do not tell me this is GabrielMoreauwaterboarding you with flowers.”

I sighed. “I’m afraid so. He’s been persistent since we ran into each other in Melbourne.” I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text:

Me: Do you think this many flowers is going to work?

“I could spin this into some positive marketing for you,” Hammy suggested. “The more your name is in the news, the higher your asking price for commentating gigs and commercials.”

“Pass,” I replied, moving flowers off the couch so I could sit down. “I don’t want that kind of attention.”

“I thought so, but figured I would ask.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of that, NBC is happy with your performance as a color commentator. They’ve started floating the idea of signing you to a long-term contract.”

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