Page 62 of Match Point

“Only losers make excuses. And Dominic and I intend to win tomorrow.”

He kissed me again, but the mention of my other tennis lover caught me off guard. After a few seconds, Tristan sensed my mood and pulled back to look at me.

“Was that weird? Mentioning him?”

“It’s not weird for me. I’m just surprised hearingyoubring him up while you and I are together.”

He shrugged. “I told you the truth. I’m not jealous. As long as you don’t dump me for him.” He quickly held up a palm. “I know we’re not technicallytogether, so there’s nothing to dump.”

“I know what you meant.” I cupped his cheek in my hand. His skin was bristly from a day of beard growth. “I’m glad you’re not insecure about it.”

Tristan grinned. “I’ll show you just how secure I am about it all.”

I squealed as he dove into me again.

30

Miranda

The Men’s Semifinals were the next day; Dominic was matched up against a Serbian in the morning, and then Gabriel was playing Juncheng in the afternoon. I was assigned to the broadcasting team for both matches—which meant I would miss the Men’s Doubles Final that afternoon.

It would be a long day for Dominic, playing singles in the morning and then doubles after lunch. Usually the schedule makers tried to avoid a situation like that, but two days of rain earlier in the week meant the schedule was scrunched up.

After grabbing a breakfast of strawberries and cream—a Wimbledon favorite—I headed to the broadcast booth on Centre Court, signing a few autographs and taking several selfies with fans on the way there. It was a warm, cloudless day, as good as one could hope for in England.

I was in afantasticmood. Since retiring, I had felt like a ship without a rudder, drifting along in random currents. I never thought I would want to be a broadcaster, but calling games for NBC was the perfect way to segue into retirement. A way to ween myself off the drug of professional tennis, rather than quitting cold turkey. Not to mention things seemed to be going well with both of my boyfriends.

Boyfriends. Was that what they were? No matter what we said about keeping things casual, I realized I was developing feelings for both Dominic and Tristan. When I thought of either of them, my heart soared. How was that possible? Wasn’t a woman supposed to fall in love with just one man?

Falling in love. I shook off the thought. That was going too far. I just liked both of them, a lot.

But deep down, I wondered if I was only lying to myself.

Despite the internal confusion this caused, it didn’t dampen my mood one bit. I practically skipped through the tunnels at Centre Court and up into the booth, where the rest of the broadcast team was already waiting.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, shedding my coat and purse. “I started signing autographs on the way here, and more and more people came up to take selfies. I didn’t want to tell them no!”

“I know the feeling,” Tim Henman said with a forced smile.

“Doesn’t matter—you’re right on time,” our producer said quickly. “We’re live in three minutes, and I’m assuming you read all the prep-work we sent over?”

“Front to back, twice,” I replied.

Henman cleared his throat. “Miranda. There’s something you should know.”

“Oh, fuck off,” our producer said. “We don’t have time for this.”

“She deserves to know,” Henman insisted.

“Know what?” I asked. Was it something to do with Gabriel? Had he taken things a step too far in his pursuit of me? I didn’t know what that might entail, but my imagination conjured up images of extravagant gifts like lingerie.

Our producer threw up his hands and walked away. I turned to Henman and waited for him to explain.

“The Daily Mail called us this morning,” he said. “Did they call you?”

“They’ve called me a thousand times since I went pro,” I replied. “My agent fields all of their BS tabloid nonsense. Why?”

He pulled out his phone, swiped a few times, then handed it to me. “This story broke ten minutes ago.”

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