Page 63 of Match Point

It was an article from theDaily Mailwith the headline,Reality Star Relishes Ravishing Racquet Relationship.Below the headline were photos of Tristan and me together: the first one was at the cafe where we had gotten tea together, showing us holding hands under the table. The second photo was at the cottage where I was staying, showing Tristan and I kissing in the doorway.

I barely skimmed the article. I didn’t need to read it.

“Oh.”

“This story is going to spread fast,” Henman said, shooting a glare over at our producer in the corner of the booth. “You deserve to have a heads-up.”

“Thanks.” Before I could say more, Dominic and his opponent came walking out of the tunnel down at court level, evoking a cheer from the crowd. We grabbed our headsets and quickly prepared for the match.

I wonder if Dominic knows,I thought while going through the pre-match information. I squinted down at the court, analyzing his movements. The way he sat on the bench, unzipping his bulky tennis bag and choosing a racket. He didn’t wave to the crowd or smile like normal—he frowned, staring down at his feet, avoiding looking at anybody. And I was certain it had nothing to do with the pressure of the looming match. My heart sank.

Yeah. He knows.

31

Tristan

I was sitting up in the nosebleed seats at Centre Court, my feet stretched out onto the seat in front of me and a hat pulled low over my eyes to shield the warm sun. I liked sitting up here because I could blend in a little more. Enjoy taking in a match without being bombarded with selfies and autograph requests. Dominic, my doubles partner, was serving to begin the match. The sound of racket meeting ball echoed through the stadium, but the first serve sailed long. His second serve was more accurate, and his opponent—Juncheng, the Chinese player I had lost to—wasn’t able to return it.

“Fifteen love,” the chair umpire announced to a smattering of claps.

I had several reasons for being interested in the match. The first one was selfish: I was hoping Dominic would win in straight sets, finishing early and preserving his energy for our doubles final in the afternoon. But more than that, I genuinely wanted to see Dominic win. The two of us had always been polite opponents over the years, but we had grown closer in the two weeks playing doubles together. I wouldn’t say we were best mates… but we were quickly becoming friends. When he won the first point of the match, I had to stop myself from pumping my fist and shouting encouragement down at him.

We could play the US Open together, too,I thought.If his other doubles partner isn’t healed by then.

My phone buzzed with a text message. It was from my coach.

Coach: I don’t care how you spend your free time, but I do care that you warn me about things that affect your game. This news is going to make things complicated.

Me: What are you talking about?

He responded with a link to aDaily Mailarticle. An article about me and Miranda, with photos backing it up.

“Fucking hell,” I cursed.

A little boy sitting two seats over whipped his head over to me, then whispered to his mom, “He said a naughty word.”

“Yes, he did,” she replied, glaring at me.

I held up a hand in apology, then skimmed the article on my phone. How long had the paparazzi been watching us? Long enough, it seemed. I had never had any of my other relationships posted in the tabloids, though.

My other relationships weren’t this noteworthy.

Suddenly aware that I was out in public surrounded by thousands of tennis-aware fans, I pulled my cap down lower. Did anyone recognize me? As I gazed around, I saw lots of people looking at their phones. I wondered how many people were reading the article.

Down on the court, Dominic made another serve—once again, he hit it long. Then, on his second serve, he missed again. “Double fault. Fifteen all,” the chair umpire announced. I frowned. Usually, Dominic hit his second serve slower and with a lot more topspin, but he had crushed that one.

I didn’t realize what was up until the next point, when Dominic smashed several hard forehand shots in a row. It was like he was hitting the ball as hard as he could to work off some energy.

He must have read the article before the match.

No longer interested in the match, I got up and left the stadium when the players switched sides after the first game. I tried to appear like I was any other casual fan walking around the Wimbledon grounds, but this became impossible as I approached the player’s section. A cluster of reporters were standing by the gate, waiting for something.

Waiting forme.

As soon as I drew near, they turned and began bombarding me with questions. Asking about Miranda, how long we had been together, if it was serious. One reporter asked if it was a conflict of interest for Miranda to commentate games that I was playing in. I ignored them, flashed my player badge, and hurried inside. Then I found a secluded chair near a television and texted Miranda.

Me: I don’t know how they found out, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t tell them anything, I swear.

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