Page 2 of Backhanded Compliments

“Of course not,” Luca snaps, although heat burns across her cheeks, and she knows it makes her look guilty. “Just a press conference.” Luca waves them in and swivels in the desk chair, twisting her long legs beneath her.

Nicky rips open the plastic bag, the scent of fresh herbs filling the small room. Pesto, her favorite. “Oh, Juliette Ricci?” He frowns. “She is a piece of work.”

Luca can’t deny that. “Toss me silverware,” she says, not wanting to talk about it.

Nicky shakes his fluffy ginger waves off his face. “Hope she’s notyourJuliette.” He tosses her a plastic fork.

Luca nearly drops the utensil and carefully avoids Vladimir’s gaze from where he sits on the couch. She shovels a forkful of pesto spaghetti into her mouth, swallowing it and her anxiety down.

“You’re gonna crush her tomorrow, Lou,” Nicky says, flashing her a smile. “I’ll be watching from an airplane, unfortunately, but I know you’re gonna win.”

Luca’s stomach sinks. She’d hoped that Nicky would stick around and be in her player’s box for the final, but she hadn’t asked. Maybe it’s for the best. Nicky is only a friend—her only friend—but if he were to suddenly appear in her box, it would raise questions about the nature of their relationship. Luca doesn’t want or need that kind of distraction or speculation.

Luca shrugs. “We’ll see. I’ll do my best.”

“Do you want to talk about the final now or after a sleep?” Vladimir asks, breaking her out of her thought spiral. It’s his usual question whenever Luca is overthinking something. He gives Luca a choice aboutwhenLuca talks about it, but she always has to talk about it.

When Luca first met Vladimir, on her fifteenth birthday, she thought he was the boogeyman coming to eat her for talking back to her father. Well over six and a half feet tall, with piercing blue eyes, sleeves of tattoos scrawling across his arms, and long ink-black hair framing his hollow cheeks, Vladimir Orlic is absolutely terrifying.

Over time, Luca has come to appreciate the dichotomy between Vladimir’s appearance and his personality as a gentle giant, a vegetarian, and the owner of three cats. There’s no one Luca trusts more.

“After a sleep,” Luca decides, twirling her fork through her pasta. She wants more time to process everything. Vladimir would probably recommend that she focus on her tennis, not on Juliette Ricci’s mind games. Easier said than done.

JULIETTE

Juliette lounges in her ice bath and stares at her wrist. Her skin is numb, but her chest is throbbing with untamed nerves. She’s already starting to regret what she said in the press conference.

Even though Juliette claims not to have seen many of Kacic’s matches, she’s done her research. Her father and coach, Antony, has even sent her a six-page document on every aspect of Kacic’s game. “Lucky Luca” Kacic is the tour’s newest sensation, a college star recruited from Croatia to play at Florida. She graduated from college to the tour and, at twenty-four, has already captured dozens of titles and points, catapulting her into the Top Ten. One more win and she’ll have a Grand Slam trophy in her hands and the number one ranking spot wrangled from the current holder, Zoe Almasi.

Juliette rubs her thumb across her soulmark. Silvery like starlight, barely there, raised like a tattoo and proclaiming Juliette’s soulmate to be aLUCA.

Juliette tips her head back against the metal lip of the bath and stares at the ceiling. Could she bethatLuca? Her sisters certainly think so. Although they’ve been setting her up with Lucas of allgenders for years, they love to tease her about Luca Kacic whenever they get the chance.

Last spring, after Luca won three straight tournaments and officially caught the eye of the media, she posed for a tennis magazine. The photos were the usual staged ridiculousness, with Luca Kacic gazing off into the distance, racket over her shoulder and light brown hair whipping in the breeze. Her sisters had made her a poster with the final picture from the photoshoot. They hadn’t even been able to give her the present without dissolving into giggles.

The photo showed Kacic in all her gangly glory, all broad shoulders and pointy elbows, her mile-long legs and slender waist. Juliette had grumbled about it, but she had to admit that there is something undeniably alluring about Kacic. She was sweaty in the photo, as if she had been practicing for hours under a burning hot sun. Her cheeks were flushed, and there was the slightest curl of her lip in a near smirk. But it was her eyes that made Juliette’s mouth go dry. She was looking up from under her lashes, as if, with one glance, she knew every secret. Even shaded by her visor, her eyes burned with intensity.

Juliette is still grateful her sisters didn’t choose the picture of Kacic rubbing the sweat off her face with the hem of her tank top, exposing her expanse of pale skin and mouth-watering abs. She didn’t throw out the poster either. It’s rolled up tight and slightly crumpled in her apartment closet in Monte Carlo.

The alarm on her phone blares, and Juliette jerks upright. With shaky arms, she pushes herself out of the ice bath and shivers. By this time tomorrow, she will know once and for all ifthisLuca is her soulmate.

Her stomach lurches, bile in the back of her throat. She hopes Luca Kacic isn’therLuca. It would be the biggest cosmic joke, one she would find decidedly unfunny. And even if she is, it doesn’t matter. Juliette doesn’t want or need her soulmate. She never has and never will. She needs to win. Romance will only distract her from her goals. She is committed to tennis, through and through. She’s spent so many years dreaming of winning a Grand Slam title,and so Juliette narrows her focus to what that moment will feel like. Lifting the trophy, seeing her family’s smiling faces, finally shedding the media’s idea that she isn’t good enough.

She ducks into the shower to scrub the ice-cold water from her skin and lets all thoughts of Kacic swirl down the drain.

TWOJULIETTE

Luca Kacic starts the Australian Open final with a double fault. Juliette bounces on her toes as Kacic’s first serve sails out. Her second serve snaps into the net. First point to Juliette.

Juliette knows this won’t be that easy, but as she walks to the opposite side of the court, she hopes maybe it will be. The crowd murmurs, perhaps about the perceived nerves, perhaps about the press conference comments. Juliette tries to ignore the hushed chattering, but it echoes in her head anyway.

She crouches, watching Kacic twist the racket in her hand and breathe out. Despite how even-keeled Kacic seems, it’s clear she’s not immune to nerves. Still, Kacic settles easily and wins her first service game.

Juliette tightens her ponytail as they switch sides, annoyed at herself for not getting more returns in the court. She pauses at her bench to sip her electrolyte mix, and her eyes fall onto Kacic. It’s a mistake.

So far, Juliette’s been ignoring her opponent. She can’t let her focus slip for a moment. Kacic is all elegant lines and hard edges, her long limbs gleaming with sweat already. The muscles beneath her skin shift, power in her shoulders and lean forearms. Her hair is tied into a high ponytail, braided down so it isn’t flying all over her shoulders. A black visor obscures her face as she looks at the ground, but Juliette’s mouth goes dry anyway.

Then Kacic looks up. Juliette jolts as Kacic’s eyes skate over her. Juliette clenches her jaw and refuses to look away. Kacic is impassive, but her chin tilts up, as if challenging her. Heat coils in Juliette’sstomach, a corrosive tincture of anger and defensiveness as she stares back.

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