Page 6 of Backhanded Compliments

Luca catches sight of the scoreboard.

That can’t be right. No way she got her ball in. No way is she about to win this game. She can’t believe it, and for a moment, it distracts her from the pain.

“Trainer will be out in a moment,” the umpire says.

“This is bullshit. It’s the middle of my service game!” Ricci complains at the top of her lungs from her side of the court.

“Luca is entitled to a medical timeout, Juliette. You know that,” the umpire says.

The trainer jogs out from the side court and crouches in front of her. “How badly does it hurt?”

“It throbs.” Luca winces.

The medical trainer peels off her shoe and sock. Her ankle pulses as his fingers press into the tender spot on the outside of her foot. “Oh, right there.” The trainer continues to place pressure on different spots, but the edge of her ankle is the worst.

“How does it look?” Luca asks. She is vaguely aware of Ricci still having a meltdown with the umpire, raging about the match being paused.

“It’s not swelling.” The trainer looks up at her. “It might get worse, though,” he warns.

Luca nods, thinking. If she loses this match and her ankle gets worse, it won’t be worth it. But she cannot give up the opportunity to win her first Grand Slam. She can’t stop now. She isso closeshe can taste it.

“This is poor sportsmanship! I’m serving. Make her wait until the end of the game!” Luca is half-surprised that Juliette isn’t stomping her foot.

The umpire sighs. “There is nothing I can do, Juliette.” He speaks slowly, as if talking to a child. “I would be saying the same thing if you’d hurt yourself.”

Ricci groans and storms away, off to the box where her family sits. She waves her racket in the air, clearly ranting to them.

Luca can’t believe Ricci is still having a temper tantrum over this. She would never want emotions to throw her off her game, but maybe blowing off steam is how Ricci keeps her focus.

She waits a few beats, deliberating and rolling her ankle from side to side. The pain is already a low-level ache, barely anything worse than a tweak. “Can I have a pain tablet and a wrap around it?” she asks.

The trainer nods, pulling out a blister pack from his bag and a roll of bandages.

Luca swallows the pain tablet and watches the trainer’s sure hands wrap the bandage around her ankle. By the time he’s done, her adrenaline is rushing back, blocking out any residual pain. She slips her sock back on and laces up her sneakers.

“I’m okay,” Luca says, flexing her foot. Her ankle aches as she stands, but it isn’t a spiky pain like before. “I can play.” She stands, bouncing on her toes. The pain is worse than when she was sitting, but bearable. She knows this could hurt her more in the long run, but she doesn’t care. This is the Australian Open, and she’ll never quit.

So, she picks up her racket and strides back around the net. When she jogs, she doesn’t feel the pain. The more that she moves, the less it hurts. She may limp in between points but she can move to the ball, so it won’t matter.

Ricci glares at her as she stands at the baseline, her chest heaving as she tries to steady her breathing. Luca steels herself against the heat in Ricci’s gaze and looks down at her racket. This moment isn’t about Ricci, even though every inch of her body wants to focus on Ricci. Even if her pulse skitters around Ricci, skin flushed hot under her gaze, she tightly packs every thought away. This moment is like every regular practice. She adjusts her grip and finally looks up, a sense of calm settling on her shoulders. Ricci’s serve is good, but her next shot isn’t and Luca pounces, angling a short shot down the line to win the game. She doesn’t allow herself to celebrate yet, but when she looks up at Vladimir, he’s smiling.

Her service game and Ricci’s next one go quickly. 5–3, and Luca needs only to hold her serve.

Yet, as she stands at the baseline and bounces the ball, nerves flutter to life in her chest. She inhales, trying to silence the swirling thoughts in her mind, but her fingers still tremble. Her lungs burn from playing for over two and a half hours. The realization that she can win this match is beginning to sink in, buzzing in her bones. She looks at her wrist, the soaked black wristband.

Luca cannot think about the score or whether Ricci is her soulmate. Instead, she visualizes her toss and her serve.

Even though her shoulders and forearms are aching, her motion is as easy as ever. With her height and the snap of her wrist, the serve goes precisely where she wants it. Three serves and well-placed forehands and it is championship point. Just one more and she is a Grand Slam champion. She swipes her palm down the edge of her skirt but it’s no use, she’s drenched in sweat. Her racket nearly slips out of her hand.

The crowd chants Luca’s name. She would try to ignore it, but it rings in her ears. She steps up to the line, the pain in her ankle throbbing in time with her pulse. She watches Ricci at the towel box, wiping off her arms and hands. She doesn’t look at Luca as she goes to the baseline. A calm settles in her. With a final deep breath she hits her favorite serve.

Ricci tries to hit it cleanly, but it skips off the frame.

Luca doesn’t breathe as Ricci’s shot coasts through the air. She shuffles back, racket poised at the ready. Her breath is ragged in her throat, her ankle aches, but she moves anyway.

The ball could spin in. She still could have to hit it.

OUT.

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