Page 66 of Match Point

“We were going to,” I said. “After the tournament.”

“That plan worked out great. It really did.” Dominic turned, fingers rolling into a fist, and for a moment I thought he might punch one of the lockers. Then he relaxed his hand. “I trusted you, Tristan.”

“Mate…”

“Doubles partners are supposed to be able to trust each other. Manuel and I, we’re close friends. We tell each othereverything. I expected the same from you. I guess I was a fool to think so.”

“How could I have told you?” I argued. “You would have reacted exactly like this.”

Dominic shook his head. “You don’t know that. And you never will, because you didn’t try. Are you and Miranda serious?”

The change of topic caught me off guard. “I don’t know what we are.”

“What do youwantit to be?”

I hesitated before answering. “I don’t know. It’s complicated, mate.”

Dominic stared at me for several heartbeats, then pointed at my chest. “I know exactly what you want it to be. I can see it in your eyes. I recognize it because it’s the exact same thing I want from her.”

I clenched my jaw. He didn’t know what I wanted. He didn’t know anything about me. We had only been doubles partners for two weeks.

“And what about you?” I demanded, going on the offensive. “You were seeing Miranda all this time too, and you never brought it up.”

“That’s different.”

“Don’t think it is.”

“You knew about Miranda and me,” Dominic said. “I had no idea you and Miranda were fooling around. If I did, I would have told you about us.” He took a step forward, eyes full of fire. “I wouldn’t have hid it from you.”

“I don’t believe you,” I replied.

“Believe whatever you want. I don’t care.” He shoved his clothes into his tennis bag and slammed the locker. “See you in Queens next month.”

“What about the media room?” I asked. “We’re required to answer questions…”

“Fuck the media,” Dominic said, leaving the room without even showering.

33

Miranda

My producer sent me home at lunch.

“I’m not blaming you for the story breaking,” he explained. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But you were distracted in the deGrom-Juncheng match, and it made you sloppy. We’re bringing in Erica to cover for you in the afternoon match.”

I wanted to argue, but I knew he was right. I exited out of the stadium through the loading dock and took a car back to my cottage so I wouldn’t have to deal with any reporters hounding me about my love life.

I turned on the TV and watched the Men’s Doubles final. It was obvious that things were strained between Dominic and Tristan; not only did the American hit his partner with a serve—accidentally or not—but the two of them rarely spoke during the match. Things got worse when Tristan re-injured his oblique muscle. After that, their opponents tore them apart.

Part of me didn’t want to watch the post-game ceremonies on the court, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn off the TV. The winners were making speeches in front of the crowd when the door to my cottage opened and Hammy strode inside.

“I’ve had a hell of a day,” he said.

“Youhave?” I asked.

“Because of your drama,” he clarified. “I spent an hour convincing an NBC executive that it’s not a conflict of interest for a broadcaster to be in a relationship with a player.” He sat down on the couch next to me. “You didn’t have sex right here, did you?”

“Well…”

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