Page 74 of Match Point

A detour onto the Grand Central Parkway led the car past Flushing Meadows, where the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center lay silent under the stars. The area would be bustling with fans and cheers in only a month, but for now empty courts whispered of epic matches and cheering crowds that existed only in the night’s embrace.

“I thought we were going to dinner,” I asked.

“I never said this,” Gabriel replied.

“So we’re not eating?” I teased. “Because I have to warn you that I’m starving, and will get very grumpy if I don’t get food soon.”

“Food is on the itinerary,” he said, pronouncing every syllable in the word slowly, “but first I have another activity.”

He pulled up to the player’s entrance at the tennis facility, and I realized what he intended.

“Are you taking me on a tour of the US Open grounds, the way you did at the Louvre?” I asked. “Because this place I’ve actually seen plenty of times.”

He drove a short distance and pulled to a stop. “Actually, my plan was for us to play tennis.”

I blinked. “Seriously? You don’t get enough tennis already?”

“I wanted to play a fun match against the most dominant woman from the last decade,” Gabriel explained, his blue eyes twinkling in the light of a nearby street light. “Unfortunately Serena was busy, so it must be you.”

I burst out laughing. “Okay, that was so funny I’m not even offended.”

We got out of the car and walked to the entrance of Arthur Ashe Stadium, the largest in the facility. “There’s just one problem. I don’t have any of my clothes or rackets.”

He shifted the bag on his shoulder. “I acquired everything we need from the trophy room. You kept all of your old uniforms and rackets in the drawers there.”

“Those were the clothes I wore when I won each of my championships,” I protested. “They’re sentimental.”

He glanced at me. “Do you honestly intend to do anything important with them?”

Gabriel was right, so I changed the subject. “Going through my clothes. Some women would say that’s really creepy.”

“But not you?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Not me,” I agreed. “Notthistime. But if I find out you raided my panty drawer, this date will endveryquickly.”

“Mon dieu,” he said, aghast. “I am a gentleman!” He tossed the bag to me. “I will see you on the court shortly.”

I went into the locker room and changed into the clothes. He had brought along the outfit I’d worn at the French Open two years ago, a black top and matching skirt with compression shorts underneath. I was wearing the wrong underwear for this, but the compression shorts were good enough, so I went commando underneath to preserve my panties for dinner later. The Nike shoes were still crisply white, except for a few reddish clay stains on the soles.

It was strange walking out onto the court tonight. I had played in this stadium countless times, and knew every detail and feature that separated it from the other great tennis arenas. But tonight, it was totally empty. My steps echoed on the hard surface like we were in an enormous cave, although there was only open sky above us.

Gabriel had changed into his French Open uniform as well: black shorts and matching shoes, with a red, blue, and white shirt that evoked images of the French flag. He idly twirled his racket in a hand while watching me approach the net.

“You are stunning, as always,” he said with awe in his voice.

I felt myself blushing again. “You’re looking sharp yourself. What’s the plan?”

Gabriel picked up a can of tennis balls, which hissed as he popped the lid. “Let’s warm up first, then play a full set.” He then walked around to the other side of the net, stuffing yellow balls in his pocket until he only had one left in his hand.

The sound of a tennis racket striking a brand new tennis ball was music to my ears, evoking memories and emotions that went back decades. For the next ten minutes we lightly hit the ball back and forth, warming up rather than playing competitively.

“There is a court at my condo,” I said after hitting a backhand. “We could have played there.”

“This is more fun,” he replied from the other side of the net. “I have become accustomed to playing in a certain environment. Much like I have grown accustomed to Premier Cru wine.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I replied.

“One day, I will show you,” Gabriel said. “I will take you to Chamonix, in the Alps, and we will drink Premier Cru wine while Mont Blanc watches over us like an ancient god.”

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