Page 103 of Backhanded Compliments

She double faults the second point.

“What am I doing wrong?” She whirls around to Vladimir, wheezing even though she hasn’t run for a point.

Vladimir heaves a sigh. “You have to breathe,” he says firmly.

“Fuck off,” Luca snarls.

“Audible obscenity violation, Miss Kacic. Love, forty.”

Luca wonders if it is possible to burst into flames. She certainly feels like it might be possible.

She spins a first serve in to try to staunch the bleeding, but Octavia rams a forehand back at Luca so fast she can barely get her frame on it. It skyrockets into the air and into the burbling crowd, who are growing rowdy in light of Luca’s behavior.

When Luca goes to get her towel, she sees Vladimir gathering his backpack and sweatshirt. She freezes. She had never considered that Vladimir would actually leave. Every word dies on her tongue as she watches Vladimir shuffle out of the player box, disappearing up the stairs and into the flood of people rushing to get into the stadium to watch the final.

Her box is an empty sea of blue. There is not a single person there for her.

She is utterly alone.

JULIETTE

This is truly a disaster.

Juliette is in actual pain being forced to watch Luca melt down. Before, she might have felt a sick satisfaction at seeing Luca break. And if Octavia was winning fair and square, by playing better, she could swallow it. She would be happy, even.

After Octavia breaks for the second time and puts herself firmly ahead, Juliette gets up. “I’ll be back,” she whispers to Claudia.

Claudia gives her a sympathetic grimace. They want Octavia to win, of course, but not like this.

The first few raindrops patter down as Juliette weaves her way out of the stadium. She isn’t exactly anonymous in Cincinnati, but within the crowds who are eager to pile in, no one is paying attention to her as she drops into the main crowd.

She catches snippets of what people are saying about Luca.

“Meltdown.”

“Unstable.”

“Never seen Kacic act like this.”

“Point penalty for audible obscenity? She’s better than that.”

It’s all supremely out of character for Luca, and Juliette tries to swallow around the lump of guilt clogging her throat. This isn’t precisely her fault, but she knows she’s contributing to Luca’s panic.

She shelters beneath the concrete overhang, watching as people stream past. Some off to the plaza of gift shops selling tennis paraphernalia, others to a smoothie bar called Maui Wowi.

Even though it’s painful, Juliette opens up her Tennis Channel app and clicks into the final.

She turns down the volume; she doesn’t need to know what the commentators are saying about Luca.

Octavia is about to hold to go up 5–1. The camera pans to Luca as she wipes her face with the hem of her shirt. She looks pale and shaky, all the color drained from her face and her breath coming in uneven pants. It is glaringly obvious when they switch over to Octavia that the player’s box behind her, the one for Luca, is completely empty.

Even Vladimir has left Luca.

Her gut wrenches. And a few seconds before the TV feed catches up, the sky opens, and rain pours from the heavens.

Delay. Luca will have time to regroup.

She must be lucky after all.

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