Page 101 of Backhanded Compliments

She shrugs. “If she stays true to her game. Moves Luca around, drags her into the net.” She’s watched almost all of Luca’s matches this year, and she’s played Octavia enough to know her game inside and out. Luca can catch fire and paint lines, but if she starts throwing in errors, Octavia will stay in the points and whittle Luca to the bone with her pinpoint accuracy and swift feet.

The first game flies by in typical Luca fashion. The heat has the ball snapping off the court, and Luca’s serve, while simple in its motion, is one of the hardest on tour. As usual, she looks calm and focused, which Juliette finds incredibly irritating.

It isn’t until Luca is getting ready to return that she looks sideways, and her gaze immediately finds Juliette’s. It’s like a lightning strike through her veins. Deep pangs of longing and desire thoroughly override her every thought.

She leans back, as if she can escape the gravity of Luca’s gaze by simply extending the distance between them by a few centimeters. She crosses her arms over her chest as if she can protect herself from the searing hot focus in Luca’s eyes. Luca’s mouth is parted, cheeks flushed—whether from the heat or Juliette, she’ll never know.

Then the moment is broken, and Luca looks away.

The second game goes similarly to the first, with Octavia serving as well as Luca.

Luca takes a deep breath as she bounces the ball beneath her racket. There is a tension to the flex of her forearm, and her serve isn’t nearly as hard or well-placed as her first game.

It’s the first competitive point of the match and Juliette finally finds herself able to relax and enjoy watching the spectacular tennis.

Whenever Juliette used to watch Luca, she was consumed by jealousy. Now, all she sees is the perfect balance of Luca’s body as she glides fluidly across the court. She is comfortable and confident, at ease on the court like she is when she’s carefully spooning the perfect amount of honey into a teacup. Coordinated and smooth, like she is when she draws Juliette into her, threading her fingers through her curls, tucking Juliette into the angles of her body and making them fit.

And yet, when Octavia’s ball drops short, well inside the baseline, and the expected move is for Luca to drive the ball down the line for a winner, her steps pause and stutter. She’s off-balance, and she drills the ball into the net. Octavia’s point.

Luca stops, breathing heavily, and plants her hands on her hips, staring at the ball for a few seconds before spinning around and heading back to serve. Juliette watches her shake her head and spin her racket before taking four balls from the ball kid.

In the first service game, she looked calm and composed. She never reveals her emotions on the court, much like Octavia. Luca glances across the stadium to her box and Juliette follows her gaze.

There is only one person sitting in a sea of empty blue seats opposite Octavia’s box. Vladimir Orlic. The former Croatian legend has one leg crossed over the other, leaning sideways in a pose of nonchalant casualness. When he sees Luca looking, he gives an encouraging clap and nod but is otherwise impassive.

The next point is an easy one-two punch from Luca, an out-wide serve, and then she’s moving forward to take the popped-up short ball out of the air for a swinging volley.

Even Juliette claps politely for that one along with the crowd, who are hungry for a competitive match.

Octavia, not to be outdone, attacks Luca’s next second serve, and suddenly it’s an epic game of cat and mouse. Whenever one of them gains an offensive upper hand, the other battles to take it back until one of them puts the ball away.

Eventually, Octavia manages to draw an error from Luca, her forehand just missing the baseline by millimeters, and Octavia is up a break point.

And then Luca does the unthinkable, the regrettable, and the nearly impossible.

She double faults.

Her first serve lands in the net, and her second serve sprays so long it doesn’t even hit inside the baseline.

Luca’s racket cracks against the blue acrylic hard court. The graphite rim of the racket splinters and crunches in on itself.

Juliette flinches. In the time she’s watched Luca, she’s never seen her smack her racket against the ground. She is one of the only players who never lets her emotions get the best of her.

“That was unexpected,” Claudia whispers.

Juliette can only watch in shock as Luca storms over to her bench and tosses her racket onto her bag.

Is she cracking under the pressure?

Guilt gnaws at her insides, and Juliette wants to jump down onto the court and hug Luca until she calms down. She grips the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

Unfortunately, she’s stuck in the stands, burning with regret and guilt, and Luca is all alone.

FORTYLUCA

The first set is slipping through her fingers like water, and Luca doesn’t know how to hang on.

Her hands shake, and for the first time, being on court is not helping with the anxiety that wants to pulverize her ribs.

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