Page 98 of Match Point

Gabriel won his first round match in straight sets, and was just as dominant in his second game two days later. Dominic looked equally strong on his side of the bracket, dispatching his opponents in the first three rounds without losing a set.

Tristan had a rougher start as he got used to his two-handed backhand. His shots were fine; he was hitting the ball strong, with better accuracy than I could have hoped for after less than a month of practicing. But his footwork was still off, and he was leaving hisforehandside more vulnerable.

Coaching ofanykind was forbidden during a match—that was a USTA rule and had nothing to do with NBC. Tristan’s own coach, sitting in a front-row seat, wasn’t allowed to so much asgestureat Tristan during the match without the potential for disqualification. But in between sets, I sent him a text.

Me: Tristan’s leaving his forehand side too open

Coach: I know. I’ll have him work on it after this match. But he looks good otherwise, right?

Me: He looks SO GOOD! Like he was born to use this swing!

Coach: You have yourself to thank. You’ve worked hard this past month.

I wasn’t covering Tristan’s second match, but I saw the highlights. He was making the same mistakes as the first round, over-adjusting to his left side and leaving the rest of the court open.

I texted his coach again, who assured me he was working on it. But by the third match, Tristan looked no different.

When my own match was finished, I left the NBC booth and went down to the practice court. There I found Tristan and his coach, working with a ball machine and hitting returns.

“We’re working on what we discussed,” the coach said.

“The swing isn’t the issue,” I replied. “It’s your footwork. Make the shot, then do a quick split-step to move closer to the middle.” I snatched the racket out of Tristan’s hand and stepped up to the court. The ball machine fired a tennis ball toward me. I twisted left, hit a strong two-handed backhand, and then immediately slid to my right to cover more of the court.

“Do I have to do it in heels,” Tristan asked with a hand on his hip, “or are regular trainers fine?”

I tossed the racket back to him. “Shut up and show me you can do it.”

“So demanding today.”

“Because I watched your match this afternoon.”

“The match I won?”

“In four sets,” I replied. “You could have beaten him in three.”

“Your contract with us ended last week,” the coach told me.

“Consider this pro-bono work.” I gestured impatiently. “Come on. Show me the drill four times in a row.”

Tristan gave me a grateful smile, then turned and focused on his work.

49

Tristan

Miranda was a knowledgeable coach. The three weeks leading up to the US Open were filled with practices, exercises, and drills. She left me feeling more prepared than I had in a long time.

Then she started coaching me between matches, too. She was a lot stricter now, snapping her fingers and urging me along if I took too long to respond to her commands. There was more urgency; my next match was tomorrow, and I still needed to go home, get my post-match sports massage, and then rest up.

“John mentioned one other thing, if we have time to work on it,” Miranda said from the sideline of the practice court. We were indoors, away from watching eyes. Which was a shame, because she looked stunning today in a white tennis skirt, pristine white Air Force Ones, and a blue tennis top.

“John?” I asked.

“McEnroe.” She waved a hand. “Don’t let it get to your head. But he thinks you have a tell on your first serve. When you bounce the ball twice, you’re aiming for the outside of the box. But when you bounce it three times, you hit your shot right down the key.”

I was glad to have Miranda in my corner. Beyond the coaching help, her presence was like a warm beacon from a lighthouse, helping me avoid crashing on the rocks. I knew she cared about me as much as I cared about her, which was saying something because my feelings were strong and had only grown stronger over the past few months. I loved everything about her. Having her in my life was a constant I was beginning to rely on.

I knew I was falling in love with her. There were no other words for the way I felt about Miranda when I gazed at her;lovewas the only word that came close. But that feeling terrified me, especially since I didn’t know how she felt about me. Sure, she cared about me. That was obvious. But was it possible for her to love me with as much ferocity… considering she had two other men in her life?

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