Page 7 of Match Point

“What interview?”

Catherine shook her head. “The arrogance. You would think he was Napoleon himself.”

Ashley handed me the water glass so she could fish her phone out of her clutch. She pulled up YouTube and navigated to the last viewed video, then held it up for me to watch.

The face on the screen was one I was familiar with—for more reasons than one. Gabriel Moreau still looked like that bashful teenage boy from the Academy all those years ago, although there was a fire in his cunning eyes now, and a smirk on those lips that I had kissed.

“Competition?” he said in a smooth French accent, responding to a question from a reporter. “There is no competition this year. The only one who can potentially match up well against me is Dominic deGrom, but he can never seem to win here in Melbourne. I can assure you he will not make it to the semifinals.”

“What about Nadal?” the interviewer asked. “Or Carfrae?”

Gabriel waved a hand dismissively. “Nadal is too old. Perhaps if we were playing on clay he would prove a challenge for me. And Carfrae?” He barked a mocking laugh. “Tristan Carfrae is no threat to anyone, let alone me. He will lose in the second round to that American boy. Brooksby.”

“How can you be so certain, Gabriel?” the interviewer asked.

He rolled his blue eyes. “If you knew what I knew about Carfrae, you would feel the same. When this tournament is completed, I will have taken the World #1 ranking from deGrom. Perhaps I will do so without losing a single set the entire tournament. I do not believe that has ever been done, no?”

Without waiting for an answer, he winked at the camera and walked away.

I shook my head. “Wow. Bold words before the first point has been played.”

“You went to the same Academy as Gabriel, did you not?” Catherine asked me.

“I did.”

“I bet he was just as cocky back then,” Ashley said.

I thought back on the Academy. Although I had never interacted with Gabriel much, that night at the party stuck out in my mind. He was so shy back then, barely able to look me in the eyes the whole evening. After French kissing me, he blushed the rest of the night. It was tough to believe that the man in the video clip was the same boy.

“Surprisingly, no,” I replied. “He was kind of bashful back then.”

Catherine snorted. “You are a retired woman now, Miranda. You can gossip all you want.”

“I haven’t been retiredthatlong,” I replied.

The two of them laughed at that. And when Catherine shifted her weight to one leg, I caught a glimpse of the coach who had stopped by my interview earlier today. Standing next to him was the man I had spent all afternoon thinking about. Time seemed to slow for just a fraction of a second. His tall frame exuded an air of confidence that seemed to command attention without effort, and my gaze traced the lines of his well-fitted suit that hinted at a careful attention to detail. A subtle gasp escaped my lips as my heart quickened its pace, responding to the magnetic pull of Tristan’s presence.

As he moved with a fluid grace, my eyes lingered on his strong jawline, catching the play of light on the faintest hint of stubble. His piercing eyes, a shade of deep ocean blue that was nearly black, held a captivating intensity that seemed to see through the surface, igniting a spark of curiosity within me. A lock of dirty-blond hair fell carelessly onto his forehead, adding an element of casual charm that was impossible to ignore.

I found myself momentarily lost in the way he carried himself, a blend of self-assuredness and approachability that made my heart flutter. My lips curved into a soft, involuntary smile as I watched him move across the room, admiring the way he engaged with those around him, his laughter filling the air like a melody.

And in that fleeting moment, I couldn’t help but feel a subtle connection, a recognition of something captivating that extended beyond the surface. My admiration was not solely for his striking appearance, but for the enigmatic aura he carried, leaving me with a desire to know more about the man who I had kissed all those years ago.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” I ducked away from them and walked toward one of theotherboys I had kissed that night so long ago.

Okay. Let’s see what offer they have for me.

4

Miranda

Tristan Carfrae had been tall as a teenager, and he had added even more height in the fourteen years since the Academy. He was the tallest man in the room by a wide margin, standing almost a full head higher than the coach next to him. That’s what made him such a strong serve-and-volley player: his height allowed him to hammer his serve with much more power than the other players. He was famous for being a lighthearted goofball, one who joked with his opponents on the court and fist-bumped the ball boys in between points. His glass of champagne looked tiny in his massive hand, but he had not yet taken a sip. With his open face and wide smile, somehow the years had made him lookmorelike Heath Ledger than I remembered.

Even after all this time, the sight of him in person gave me butterflies. I had watched him on TV plenty of times, but our paths had rarely crossed over the years; whenever I went to events like this, he abstained. If I had a match in the Grandstand, he was scheduled in Louis Armstrong Stadium. Now that I gave it some thought, it felt so unlikely toneverrun into him. It was like fate had conspired to keep us apart.

I took a moment to quash the nervous feeling in my stomach.I’m not a sixteen year old girl anymore. I’m a retired champion. I have more grand slam wins than him! He should be the one nervous to talk to me!

I downed the rest of my wine, grabbed another glass from a nearby server, and then charged forward like a Roman centurion in heels.

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