Page 7 of Backhanded Compliments

Luca’s legs give out. The racket slips from her grasp as she slumps to her knees and then onto her back. The lights are blinding above her, and she can’t see. But it doesn’t matter. She covers her face with her hands, all of the tension draining from her body as laughter bubbles up into her throat.

She’s done it.

“Game, set, and match, Kacic. Two sets to one. 7–6, 3–6, 6–3.”

Luca looks at her shaking hands. She can’t believe it. Her eyes fallto the wristband around her right wrist, soaked through and heavy with sweat.

The moment of truth. It sparks on her tongue, mingling with the delicious taste of victory. Luca gets to her feet slowly, trying not to limp to the net. Ricci is already there, leaning on it with one hand. She looks like she is going to be sick, her mouth a thin, flat line. Luca holds out her hand, and Ricci stares at it. For a brief moment, Luca wonders if Ricci will snub her. Then, slowly, Ricci reaches out and they clasp hands.

Luca breathes in and out once more before she knows.

Touching Ricci feels even better than winning. Luca’s veins light up golden, and her breath catches. Their palms slide against each other, warm and clammy, but Luca knows this Juliette isherJuliette. If she ripped off her wristband at this moment, she would see the name scorched black on her skin.

“Oh,” Luca says.

Then she looks up at Juliette Ricci and sees her face contorted in barely concealed rage. Her lip curls in disdain, and Luca feels the radiant heat of Juliette’s hatred.

Juliette rips her hand from Luca’s. She flexes her fingers, as if she can get the feel of Luca off her.

The world is a blur as Luca shakes the umpire’s hand and collapses onto her bench. She buries her face into the towel, overwhelmed. All of her expectations lay in tatters, all hope for her soulmate crushed into powder beneath Juliette’s On tennis shoe.

Luca is a Grand Slam champion. She’s the number one player in the world. But the tears burning in her eyes aren’t tears of joy.

Her soulmate hates her, and that hurts more than if she had lost.

FOURJULIETTE

When Juliette was a child, her sisters said she was more bird than girl. Light on her feet and always climbing the olive trees in their Naples backyard in Italy, higher and higher until she imagined her fingers touching the velvet blue of the sky and peeling it away to see what lay behind the marble atmosphere.

Then, when she was eight, she fell.

Juliette remembers the way her stomach punched into her throat, the melting of the sky and ground as she plummeted. Then, when Juliette read the fable of Icarus, she dreamed of falling again. She still has the nightmares. Only in her sleep, it never stops. The bone crush of reality doesn’t snap her arm, she never hits the ocean and drowns; she’s always caught in the limbo of falling.

But knowing Luca Kacic is her soulmate is like finally hitting the earth and snapping every bone in her body.

The trophy ceremony is a blur of color and motion and sounds. Juliette doesn’t remember what she says. She knows she is too stiff with her wooden congratulations to Kacic. It feels like a lie rolling off her tongue. She can’t even look at Kacic. She imagines she will see her glowing with pride and triumph, lording this win over Juliette, and a rocklike ball of anger lodges itself behind her ribs.

Once back in the locker room, Juliette rips her wrist wrap off, hoping it is simply a fluke. Some kind of cruel cosmic joke. A terrible dream, like she’s falling again.

Her fingers traceLUCA. The letters are starkly black and strangely bright against the pale skin of her fragile inner wrist. It’s almost shiny,like a burn mark. It takes all of her restraint not to punch the lockers. Instead, she twists her wrap back on.

She storms into the shower stall and yanks the curtain closed. With frantic tugs, she throws her clothes off. She wants to immediately get on a plane and fly somewhere far from Australia. Maybe somewhere snowy and cold so she can bury herself in the ice. The best she can do is twist the shower to cold and stand under it. She shivers violently, but it’s enough of a shock to stop thinking about anything.

It is torture to stand under the cold water, but it’s what she deserves for losing.

She isn’t gentle as she wrenches a comb through the sweat-tangled knots. She scrubs her body harshly with soap, wanting nothing more than to wash this loss down the drain. Cold water soaks through her wrist wrap; she can’t bear to take it off. Maybe if she doesn’t look at her mark, it’ll go away.

By the time she’s done, she’s freezing. Goose bumps trail across her skin, just like they had when she first touched Kacic. Would it be better if she didn’t know? Maybe she should have snubbed Kacic and dealt with the consequences of being known as the tour bitch.

She wraps her towel around her and storms back to her stuff. Her hair drips cold droplets down her back, so she tosses on a hoodie and sweatpants as fast as she can.

The locker room door swings open with a creak that says no one’s ever oiled it.

Juliette is grateful she pulled clothes on because in comes Luca Kacic—sweaty, flushed, and happier than ever.

For a heartbeat, they stare at each other. She has her bag over her shoulders, her trophy in her arms.

“Hi,” Kacic says softly, her eyes wide. She still has her visor on. The fluorescent lights cast odd shadows over her face because of it.

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