Page 75 of Match Point

I moved to my right to hit a forehand. The ball exploded off my racket. “So that means it’sgoodwine?”

“Yes,” Gabriel replied, laughter echoing in the empty stadium. “It is very good wine. Now, let us play a set. You may have the first serve.”

I caught his return in my hand. “Why, youarea gentleman. Love, love.”

I had already played tennis earlier today, but I wasn’t sore. If anything, it had properly warmed me up for this match. My first serve was an ace, hitting the line down the center key before Gabriel could react.

“Okay,” Gabriel said. “NowI am prepared for the great Miranda Jacobs.”

We stopped talking and focused on the match. I won my serve, and then he won his—although I could tell he wasn’t hitting his serve as hard as he could. Still, his “easy” serves were about as fast as my strongest serves, so I had my work cut out for me.

Back and forth we went, each winning our own serves and keeping pace with the other. Gabriel may not have been hitting his shots with the same velocity he used in a normal match, but I could tell he wasnotgoing easy on me. And in a way, I could sense that it was because he respected me as a player.

We took a break to switch sides after a few games. He pulled out a Gatorade from his bag and tossed it to me. “Have you decided what to do in retirement?”

I cracked open the top and took a long gulp. “I’m enjoying broadcasting for NBC. They’ve actually offered me a long-term contract.”

“But you do not want to do this,” he observed.

I frowned at him. “I’ve been torn about what to do, yeah. How did you know that?”

“Because I can see it in your eyes,” he replied, pointing with his racket. “You do not wish to broadcast forever.”

“And what do I want to do, then?”

He took the Gatorade from me and sipped. “You want to play.”

I laughed at his guess. “No, I don’t. I’m happily retired.”

Gabriel gazed at me, then took another sip. He went on as if reciting an encyclopedic fact rather than an opinion. “Most players, in tennis or any other athletic sport, retire when their bodies can no longer compete at an elite level. Miranda Jacobs retired on top, with many more years of success ahead. Surely a part of you wonders how many more trophies could fill your room at home, and this is a cause for great internal strife.”

I immediately shook my head. “I don’t need to be Serena or Steffi. I’m content with eight career grand slam wins.”

“I do not believe you. The girl I kissed at the Academy was hungry.”

“That was fourteen years ago,” I replied. “That girl is dead. I don’t need more championship wins, because I have something much better.”

“And that is?”

“Enough,” I said, twirling my racket. “I haveenough.”

Gabriel frowned as we resumed play.

37

Miranda

The rest of our match finished quickly; I immediately broke his serve, then won my own to finish the set. We met at the net and shook hands, a rueful expression on Gabriel’s vulpine face.

“You let me win, didn’t you?” I teased.

“I gave precisely the same amount of effort I always give when playing for fun.”

I gave a start. “You still play for fun?”

“Of course. Do you not?”

“Not while I was still a professional,” I replied. “It stopped being fun when it became my life, four hours of practice a day and even more constraints on the rest of my lifestyle.”

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