Page 72 of Match Point

We ended up playing every day for a full week. She was a former pro, and could hold her own against me, but I still held back my best shots to allow us to get some long rallies in. It was like a palette cleanser for my mind, erasing all the troubles I had dealt with and leaving me feeling calmer than before.

One afternoon after playing tennis, I texted Tristan.

Me: How’s your injury? Have you gotten that second opinion yet?

Me: Also, I had to Google the time difference three times to make sure I wasn’t texting you in the middle of the night. Being across the international date line is confusing. Australia is dumb.

Tristan: LOL. Insulting my entire home country? You sure know how to woo a man.

Me: What can I say? I know what men like.

Tristan: I got back from the doctor yesterday. It’s only a sprain, not a full tear.

Me: That’s great news!

Tristan: Coach wants me to rest and see how it heals in the next week. Then we can make some decisions about the US Open. Right now I’m scheduled to get to the States two weeks before the tournament, to get over jet lag and spend some time practicing doubles.

Me: Doubles? Does this mean you and Dominic are okay?

Tristan: Fuck if I know. Haven’t talked to him since the match. I guess I’ll find out when I get there, unless he calls me sooner.

Me: Maybe he’s planning on murdering you.

Tristan: That would seriously hurt my chances of winning the Australian Open next year.

Me: Australian? What about the US Open?

It took Tristan a long time to text back. I went to the kitchen, made myself a smoothie, and returned to the living room before he responded.

Tristan: My primary goal is to win the Australian Open. I don’t care about any other tournaments. To me, they only exist to prepare for the one in Melbourne.

Me: I can understand wanting to win your home tournament. But saying that you don’t care about the US Open, or Wimbledon? Come on. That can’t be how you feel.

Tristan: It’s true. I would give up ever winning another match if it meant taking home the trophy in Melbourne next year.

Tristan: Or the year after that. I’ll take it whenever I can get it.

Tristan: But I’m starting to lose hope that it will ever happen. My body refuses to cooperate. Every time I feel like I’m the best version of myself, I get injured again. Oblique, elbow, shoulder… it’s always something. I just don’t know anymore.

Me: I think you have many more healthy years ahead of you. I bet you come back strong at the US Open and make a deep run that sets you up for the Australian.

Tristan: I hope you’re right. We’ll see if my oblique cooperates.

My doorbell abruptly rang, causing me to flinch and spill smoothie down the front of my shirt. Cursing, I grabbed a paper towel and dabbed myself. The UPS guy always rang the doorbell when dropping off a package, and it caught me off guard every time. I needed to hire someone to turn down the volume. It sounded like a gong going off in a Buddhist temple.

But then the doorbell rang a second time.

I had a Ring camera attached to my door, but I didn’t feel like opening the app to see who was there. I strode to the door, preparing to yell at whatever reporter had decided to hound me today.

When I threw open the door, it wasn’t a reporter waiting on my front porch, after all.

It was Gabriel Moreau.

36

Miranda

I stared at the Frenchman for a very long time. The longer I stood there, the wider his smile became.

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