Page 76 of Match Point

Gabriel wiped his face with a towel. “Perhaps retirement will revive that.”

“It actually has. I’ve been playing this week with an old friend.” I grinned. “And I had alotof fun beating you just now.”

“Do not allow it to go to your head.”

“The former number one female defeating the current number one male,” I mused. “Too bad the paparazziaren’there watching us…”

I trailed off as I saw a man standing over by the player’s entrance, watching while trying to remain hidden. My body tensed.

“Gabriel,” I asked, “who is that? If a reporter sees us together…”

“I told you they will not bother us. I have made arrangements for you to be left alone.” He put a comforting hand on my arm. “This man is in my employ. Wait one moment, please.”

I watched him jog over to the man and speak quietly for a few seconds. Then the stranger turned and disappeared down the tunnel into the depths of the stadium.

I have made arrangements for you. What did that even mean? Maybe Gabriel had some weight to throw around at the French Open, but not here in the United States…

And then a memory tickled in my mind. A conversation I’d had with Tim Henman in the NBC booth at Wimbledon. He had said that a top-ranked player threatened to boycott all media questions unless my personal life was left alone. At the time, I assumed it was Dominic. That was the only thing that made sense.

But now…

“That man is responsible for our dinner,” Gabriel said, returning to me. He paused when he saw my face. “Miranda, what is wrong?”

“It was you,” I said. “You were the one who bullied the press into leaving me alone at Wimbledon, weren’t you?”

He blinked. “But of course, I did this thing, yes.”

I stood very still. “Why would you do that?”

Gabriel cocked his head and gave me a confused smirk. “Why would I not? You did not deserve that treatment for having a relationship with another player. You did not deserve such spotlight of negativity. You deserve so much more, Miranda.”

As I stared deep into his eyes, I didn’t see the cocky French player who had risen all the way to the top of the tennis world. I saw that same little boy from the Academy who had been treated unfairly himself.

“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes,” Gabriel said cheerfully. “I will meet you here.”

There were fresh towels in the women’s locker room underneath the stadium, still warm from the dryer. It was strange being here by myself, without any attendants or other athletes preparing for their own matches. It was eerie in a way; a reminder that the world still existed outside of tournaments and tennis matches, hibernating until coming alive each year. I stripped my clothes, then stepped under the hot water to rinse the sweat off me.

As I showered, I thought about Gabriel Moreau. Even though he was arguably the least popular and charismatic of the three boys I kissed at the Academy party fourteen years ago, I felt the most attraction to him. An attraction that was every bit as strong today as it was back then, if not more so. Even when he was cocky, even when he was insulting his American opponents and sneering at the camera, I couldn’t get him out of my head.

I can’t shake this feeling, I thought.So why am I fighting it?

I left the shower and toweled off, but I didn’t get dressed. Instead, I pawed along on my bare feet out into the hallway, then into the men’s locker room. Only some of the lights were on, giving the room an intimate feel. Like I was intruding on a private moment. I heard a shower running, and steam drifted through the air. I followed it until reaching the stall where Gabriel Moreau stood.

In the soft diffusion of light, the contours of Gabriel’s form moved gracefully behind the cloudy shower door. As rivulets of water cascaded down his skin, the play of shadows highlighted the gentle slopes of his shoulders and the defined lines of his back. The glass acted as a canvas, revealing just enough to stir my curiosity, leaving the rest to the imagination. I had seen him shirtless on TV, but this felt different. He was raw, vulnerable. One of the world’s most powerful men—in his most unguarded state.

“Gabriel.”

His blurry shape froze in the shower. For a long moment, the only sound was the rush of the water.

“Miranda.”

“Back in Paris,” I said slowly. “When you showed me the city and the Louvre and we kissed. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night.”

His silhouette turned to face me through the glass. “And yet you left.”

“You were an asshole to the reporter outside the club.”

“I was,” he admitted, swinging open the shower door to reveal his nude form. “Will you leave me tonight?”

---