Page 55 of Backhanded Compliments

Their court is a secluded, lonesome one on the opposite side of the club. The vivid fluorescent lights irritate Luca’s eyes. The revolving glass door sticks as if it hasn’t been oiled in a while, and she has to shove through it. Dozens of balls litter the court, about half of which are lying at the base of the net, mocking whoever hit them.

Rapid Italian flies through the air, and she glances to her right to see Juliette Ricci repeatedly bouncing a ball on the baseline while her father yells something from the opposite side. She knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid Juliette forever. That would be an impossible endeavor, but she had hoped she wouldn’t have to run into her so soon after Naples.

Instead of Juliette, Luca focuses on Antony Ricci. This is the first time she’s seen him close up. He’s taller than Luca expected, but she usually only sees him in Juliette’s box at matches. His hair is dark, streaked with white at the temples and cut short to reveal tight ringlets. He is tan, much like Juliette, like he’s spent his entire life lounging in the sun. Like Octavia, he’s right-handed, but a brace keeps his arm immobilized.

Antony’s eyes snap to Luca and narrow, annoyed that she’s entered the court. Does he know that she’s theLucanamed on his daughter’s wrist? She shrinks into her hoodie, hating how his gaze pierces through her.

“Ricci,” Vladimir says, breaking the moment.

Luca glances at Juliette, who has paused the bouncing ball to stare at her. She’s clad in all-white with her hair tied up into a tight bun and a headband tied around her forehead, the ends brushing her shoulders. Luca quickly looks away, not knowing how to handle Juliette’s scrutiny.

“Orlic. We still have an hour and a half,” Antony Ricci says in a clipped tone.

“I’m aware,” Vladimir says calmly, dropping Luca’s bag before joining the Ricci patriarch on the other side of the net.

Luca forces herself to move to the unused bench. She busies herself with peeling off her sweatpants and withdrawing both her and Vladimir’s rackets.

“I thought you didn’t have space for my baggage,” Juliette says, and it takes all of Luca’s self-control to keep from looking up.

She shrugs, trying to come off as nonchalant despite how much she’s sweating. “I don’t pick my hitting partners. Vladimir does.” She sets her racket on the other side of the bench and lifts her foot to tighten her shoelaces.

Juliette thunks a ball rhythmically against the grass. “I see.”

Luca hums because she doesn’t trust her voice.

The ball stops abruptly.

“I thought we were going to be friends,” Juliette says, her voice so close that Luca flinches.

She looks up to see Juliette leaning in close, a tightness to her jaw that Luca wants to smooth away with a brush of her lips. “Aren’t we?” she whispers back, and Juliette’s lips press into a flat line.

“You tell me, Kacic.”

It’s jarring hearing her last name when all she wants is to hear the way Juliette’s lilting accent curves around the vowels inLuca.

“Luca. You can call me Luca,” she says, finally meeting Juliette’s eyes. Juliette blinks, startled. “If you want,” Luca adds in a rush, the tightness in her chest forcing the words out.

“Do you want me to?” Juliette asks, the edge of her mouth twisting into a smirk.

Luca shrugs. “It is my name.”

“So is Kacic.”

Luca looks down and switches feet to distract herself. She fiddles with the loops of her laces. “Okay, but you don’t call your friends by their last names, do you?”

“Depends on the friend, I guess. I call Rowland by her last name.” Juliette sounds thoughtful.

“Just call me Luca, okay?” She says, even though it feels dangerously intimate. Her last name could nearly be a barrier, but it’s just tooweirdto have Juliette call her by her last name when they’ve kissed.

Heat strikes Luca in the stomach and she tries to distract herself by grabbing her racket.

“Whatever my soulmate wants,” Juliette says and Luca’s whole body jolts.

Soulmate.

The word carves through her and she snaps her gaze up to Juliette. Is she messing with her again? Before practice to make her play terribly?

“That’s not funny,” Luca says, crossing her arms over her chest, racket strings pressed against her as a shield.

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