Page 64 of Match Point

Miranda: I know you didn’t. The paparazzi are just ruthless. UGH, this is a nightmare.

Me: At least they don’t know that you and Dominic are sort of seeing each other, too. Then things would get really complicated.

Miranda: True. I think Dominic knows, though. He’s playing stiff.

Me: I agree. Someone must have sent him the article before the match.

Miranda: Sorry I’m taking so long to respond between texts. I’m still technically calling this match on NBC.

Me: Don’t apologize. Are you okay? How are you dealing with your love life being broadcast to the world?

Miranda: Fine, I guess? We’ll see when I leave this booth later.

Miranda: Try to focus on your doubles match.

Me: I’ll try. Easier said than done. Good luck focusing on the broadcast.

Me: Also easier said than done!

As I watched Dominic struggle on TV, I thought about the complications of the whole situation. He now knew that Miranda and I had been seeing each other, but he didn’t know that I knewhewas also seeing her. How would I handle that can of worms? This was a disaster—the worst possible way this could have come out. Especially since Miranda and I had planned on telling him everything once Wimbledon was over.

The match went as poorly as I feared: Dominic lost in straight sets, 2 - 6, 4 - 6, 5 - 7. By the end I could barely watch. We still had three hours until our doubles match, so I changed into my tennis gear and met my coach at the private indoor practice court. Coach and I worked on some drills for an hour, then I showered, changed a second time, received a sports massage, and then went to the locker room beneath Centre Court for the doubles final. To my surprise, Dominic was already seated on a bench inside, bent down to tie his shoes. I froze in the doorway, searching for the right thing to say.

“Miranda texted me after my match,” he said, not looking in my direction. “She came clean about everything. I know you know about me and her.”

“Oh,” I said, clearing my throat. “Listen, Dominic…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he interrupted. “Not right now. I just want to focus on tennis. Today is a challenging enough day for me without adding personal drama to the mix.”

“Right,” I said. “Okay.”

He finally finished tying his shoes and looked up at me with cold eyes. “Are you going to be able to focus on the match?”

“I wouldn’t have gotten to this level if I wasn’t able to tune out all the other noise,” I replied curtly.

Dominic nodded, then put on a pair of headphones and turned to face the other direction.

Half an hour later, we were leaving the locker room and walking out onto Centre Court. Doubles wasn’t as popular as singles, but the crowd still roared when we appeared. When the cheers died down, an excited buzz still filled the stadium. It probably had to do with all the drama surrounding me today.

Tune it out. None of that matters right now. All I should think about are my two opponents.

We came out strong, winning my serve and then immediately breaking our opponents to go up 2 - 0. On Dominic’s serve, I went up to the net to prepare to volley. His first serve hissed past my ear, so close I thought I could feel loose strands of felt brush against my skin. The ball was out, though, so he prepared to serve again.

I heard his racket connect with the ball, and about a millisecond later I felt a sharp pain in my lower back. I winced and whirled around; Dominic had hit me with his serve. He raised a hand in apology, then switched sides for the next serve.

“Love fifteen,” the chair umpire called.

Just an accident,I told myself.He wouldn’t hit me and lose the point on purpose.

We lost Dominic’s serve, and lost the game after that. Eventually we reached a 6 - 6 tie, forcing us to play a 10-point tiebreaker—which we lost. Miranda was right: Dominic looked stiff, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with the fact that he had already played three sets this morning.

Somehow, we managed to crawl back and win the second set. We were winning 3 - 2 in the final set, but then disaster struck. I was running to my left to chase down a backhand shot. Both of our opponents were at the net, so I had a narrow window of space down the line to hit the ball. And I had tocrushit. Time seemed to slow down as I reached back for some extra energy, uncoiling my body like a spring and smashing the ball in the perfect spot and winning the point.

But I didn’t see where the ball ended up, because it suddenly felt like a sharp knife had stabbed into my side.

32

Tristan

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