Page 93 of Match Point

Is this what I’ve been missing out on while focusing on my tennis career?I wondered one night while sandwiched between my two lovers, Dominic snoring softly while Tristan’s eyes moved rapidly behind his eyelids.No, I doubt most women live like this. What I have is special.

And like all things special, it might not last forever. For now, it was divine. I finally felt like I was living my best life in retirement.

A week before the US Open, Gabriel flew into town. I met him for dinner in downtown Manhattan, at a Michelin star restaurant that was fancier than anything I had ever been to before. Gabriel had a table in a private room, sequestered from the other patrons.

“I am friends with the sommelier,” he said, greeting me with a warm hug. “Mon dieu, Miranda. You are more magnificent than I remember.”

“You’re looking sharp yourself,” I said, admiring his grey suit. It fit his slim body perfectly, like every outfit I had seen him wear.

Gabriel ordered the chef’s tasting menu with wine pairings, and we nibbled on each course while catching up. This was the only night Gabriel could meet with me this week; as the world number one, his schedule was completely full leading into the tournament.

“It was a struggle to meet with you tonight,” he admitted. “I had to cancel an appearance on a late night show.”

“Oh! Which one?”

“One of the Jimmys.” He waved a hand. “Fallon, or Kimmel, or Hendrix. I cannot remember which. But I would rather be with you.”

“The media coverage surrounding the tournament is higher than I’ve ever seen,” I said. “Are you nervous?”

He took a sip of wine and then carefully put down the glass. “I am more than nervous. I am scared.”

I blinked. “Really?”

A thoughtful expression passed across his face as he stared at his plate. “There has always been a tremendous amount of pressure on me. All professional athletes feel it, yes?” He waited for me to nod. “I have always thrived under such pressure. It allows me to focus. Yet this time…”

He paused as the servers brought out the next course: venison loin in a red wine truffle sauce.

“This time?” I asked gently.

“This time the pressure is… I cannot think of the word for it. Too much. It is affecting every interview I give, every smile I make in public.” He looked at me with worry in his eyes. “I am terrified that I will not be able to overcome it.”

I reached across the table and held his hand. “I felt that way before the Australian Open two years ago. When I was trying to accomplish acareergrand slam. I cannot imagine how much more pressure is on you to do it in one year.”

“How did you survive it?” he asked while cutting a tiny sliver off his venison.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess I stopped fighting it. Before every match, my coach told me to open myself up and allow the pressure inside, to let it overwhelm me. I trembled. I cried. I punched the air. And then, after a few minutes, I pushed it all out. After that, it was easier to focus without thinking about it.”

“Perhaps I will try this,” he said. “If it worked for the great Miranda Jacobs, surely it will work for a lowly player such as myself.”

I snorted. “Lowly player? You’re the highest ranked man in the world. You deserve more credit.”

“Perhaps. Yet I do not feel like it.” He bit into the meat. “Sometimes I think I am that same little boy at the Academy, fighting for an equal chance as all the others.”

I watched Gabriel cut into another portion. He was gentle tonight. Humble. He was trying to take the armor off.

It made me hopeful for the future.

46

Miranda

After weeks of training and fun, it was time for the US Open to begin—but first there was the US Open welcome dinner the night before the first set of matches were scheduled. It was a fancier event than at the Australian Open, with elaborate dresses for the women and tuxedos for the men.

“I’m close to signing that new Chilean star,” Hammy told me as we exited the car and walked inside. “I hate to ask, but I might need your help closing the deal out.”

“I’ll gladly talk her into signing with you,” I said, taking Hammy’s arm while photographers snapped away.

“Thank you, Miranda.” We paused for photos, then walked inside, where we were both handed glasses of champagne. “I hate to bring up work while we’re here, but I got an email from one of the suits at NBC. They’re not happy about you coaching Tristan Carfrae.”

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