Page 8 of Match Point

Tristan blinked in surprise when he saw me approach, then a huge grin spread across his face. His coach saw me and said, “This is the consultant I want to bring in. Her name is—”

“Miranda,” Tristan said softly. He sounded awestruck, like someone viewing Everest for the first time—although he had to lookdownat me instead of up. “It’s been a very long time.”

“Fourteen years.” I tried to extend my hand, but he opened his arms wide, and we shared an awkward little half-hug. And just like that, I felt like I was that same sixteen year old girl again.

“Good, you two know each other,” the coach said. He was wearing a suit, not a tux. “I know we all hate these kinds of events, so I’ll get right to the point.” He looked around to make sure nobody was nearby, then lowered his voice. “Tristan has been struggling with an oblique injury for the past six months. It’s on his left side, affecting his backhand swing.”

I sucked in my breath. “So that’s why you’ve been running around to use your forehand more. “I knew something was different about your play style. When you did that against Djokovic in the semis at the US Open, I assumed you were just trying to throw him off his rhythm.”

“If only.” He began to take a sip of his champagne, then stopped himself with a grimace. “Every backhand was excruciating. Still is.”

Tristan didn’t seem like the lighthearted goofball I had seen on TV. He was almost bitter. I took a long sip of wine. “Okay. Why are you telling me this?”

“You dealt with a similar issue five years ago and managed to overcome it,” the coach said.

“Sure, by temporarily switching from a one-handed grip to a two-handed backhand. It gave me a lot more stability, and took pressure off the obliques.”

The coach pointed at me. “Yes, exactly. I want you to teach Tristan to do the same.”

I chuckled at that. “It didn’t solve the core issue, though. It was only a Band-Aid. The best thing for you to do is take some time off and recover. Allow your injury to heal.”

“Our trainers have told us the same.” The coach looked sideways at his player.

“No,” Tristan said emphatically. “Absolutely not. I can’t afford to take that time off, not at this point in my career.”

“So you’re hoping to make the adjustment before Roland Garros in May?” I asked.

“We’re hoping to make the switch immediately,” the coach explained.

I blinked at him. “Immediately? You have a first-round match the day after tomorrow!”

“Not so loud,” the coach said. “If everyone knew about his injury, they would hammer his backhand non-stop. Listen. Tristan was primarily a two-handed backhand player until three years ago, when he changed to a one-handed grip. It shouldn’t be too hard to go back to it. He’s in a softer side of the bracket for this tournament. The first three rounds will be a cake walk. That will give Tristan time to adjust.”

“I still don’t understand why you don’t wait until after the tournament to make the adjustment. With three months until Roland Garros…”

“What’s your agent think about it?” the coach said, nodding to my right. “He probably wants you to take the gig, right?”

I glanced over at Hamilton, who was trying to chat up a female player in German. “Actually, Hammy is opposed to it. But only because he’s holding a grudge that you didn’t sign with him when you were an amateur.” I raised an eyebrow at Tristan.

A big smile split the tall tennis player’s face. “Oh, yeah. I remember that. He introduced himself, and I couldn’t stop laughing at him.”

“Because of his fake eye?” I asked, frowning.

“What? No! Because of his name.” When I didn’t understand, Tristan explained: “Hamilton Burger?HamBurger?”

I stared at him. “He’s been my agent for ten years and I never made that connection until now.”

“He got offended by my laughing and stormed off before I could apologize,” Tristan said, running a hand through his hair. “I was just a stupid kid laughing at what I thought was a joke name. I probably would have signed with him if he had not run off so fast.” He shrugged.

“Well?” the coach said impatiently. “Will you work with us or not?”

Tristan was looking at me hopefully. He had grown into such a handsome man, a deeper attractiveness than his boyish good looks. All my protests were meaningless. I knew what my answer would be the moment I saw him.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

“Meet us at the private indoor courts at seven o’clock tomorrow morning,” the coach said.

Tristan gave me a final grin. “See you then.”

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