Chapter Three Luca
THREE LUCA
Luca never understood the reasoning behind the nickname Lucky Luca, and although she’s never said anything about it, she doesn’t like it. If she were a man, she might’ve been touted as Legendary Luca, because it would’ve been her skill that was attributed to her rise through the rankings.
But as her shot rolls on the edge of the net, dribbling over onto Ricci’s side, she is thankful for her so-called luck.
Her legs tremble like jelly as she sits down on the bench. It is surreal to be halfway to a Grand Slam win. She can almost taste the victory on her tongue. Or maybe that’s the blue Gatorade.
Crack .
Luca glances to her left and sees Ricci’s racket in splintered pieces. The crowd’s cheering ripples into boos and jeers.
Brat.
Luca hides her smug smirk with a sip of water. She has been diligent in not thinking about Ricci’s press conference comments. Vladimir told her that what happened off-court didn’t matter and to talk with her racket.
So far, the advice is working out in her favor.
When Luca is in a point, it’s easy to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.
Then those butterflies make her sneak glances at Ricci during the changeovers.
She is softly pretty, her delicate features hiding the sharply competitive spirit beneath.
But every time her dark gaze snags on Luca’s, she sees how much Ricci wants this.
Or maybe Luca is simply seeing her own desire reflected back at her.
Luca sinks back into her chair and watches Juliette stalk off the court. She knows the crushing feeling that comes from losing a tight set.
Luca reaches into her bag for new wristbands.
She makes quick work of her right one, but the stadium lights reflect on the silver of her soulmark.
As she fiddles with her left band, she assesses the set.
Despite all the nerves and glances and missed shots, this is undeniably fun.
Ricci is tactically a different player than Luca, relying on her speed and high-percentage shots to keep her in the rallies.
Luca has to take points from her with pinpoint accuracy and raw power.
It’s like playing against a ball machine at times.
They’re evenly balanced, as soulmates should be.
If they are soulmates.
Luca swipes sweat from her brow with her towel and pushes that thought far from her brain.
By the time the umpire calls time, Luca’s legs have stopped shaking and she’s regained control of her breath. Ricci will serve first in the second set, and Luca bounces on her toes at the back of the court.
She looks at her box. Others might say it’s sad to have only a single person in it, but Luca prefers it.
She doesn’t know how Ricci plays with her entire family in her box.
The pressure on her shoulders must be immense, especially with Claudia and Octavia Ricci being professionals too.
Surely they’d be sitting there thinking they could do better, they should be the ones on court battling for the title.
By contrast, Vladimir is front and center, calm and serene.
He dips his chin at Luca as their gazes meet, and she nods back to him.
Ricci arrives back on court with her wild curls now twisted into a tight knot at the crown of her head instead of spilling freely down her back.
It brings a sharpness to her, with the locked set of her jaw and a burning intensity in her eyes.
Juliette wins her first game without Luca winning a single point, which isn’t unusual, but it does put Luca on her back foot.
Luca always plays better when calm. Once her emotions spiral out of her control, she’s lost. The opposite seems to be true for Ricci.
Yet another key difference between them.
Luca knows, logically, that her serve is her best asset.
The smooth, fluid, and simple motion makes it reliable but also hard to read.
She flexes her wrist a certain way and the ball snaps in an entirely different direction.
So, when Ricci starts smacking her serves for winners, it’s unsettling.
Ricci is good at returning to begin with, but the way she’s stepping into Luca’s serves is different, more aggressive.
And she’s more vocal with grunts and yells of come on! whenever she hits a good shot. It’s deeply irritating, and Luca doesn’t want it to bother her, but it does. The fun she was having evaporates and a coil of panic closes a fist around her lungs.
She gets broken at zero and has lost all eight of the first points of the second set. She glances at Vladimir, who claps encouragingly at her. “You have this, Luca. Settle in.”
“I know, I will,” Luca says as she towels off her face.
She does, eventually, get a grip on her strokes and her serve, but Ricci is like a dog with a bone—she refuses to give an inch. Even if Luca can win a few points on Ricci’s serve, it’s never enough to get back the game she lost.
Ricci holds her serve for a final time to take the set six games to three.
And when she does, Luca watches her raise her arms and wave them, egging the crowd on and bringing more yells and jeers.
She cups her palm against her ear and listens to the screams. Luca tries to block it out, but it grates against her nerves.
Many players use the crowd and antics to pump themselves up, but as Ricci turns around, she smirks at Luca.
It’s mocking, meant to rile Luca up and throw off her focus.
Luca’s heartbeat thunders in her ears. There was nothing sporting or fair about that taunt.
When Luca sits down, she throws her towel over her head.
It blocks out the bright blue court, the shouts and screams, the fact that this is the Australian Open final and whoever takes this last set will be the new champion.
But she can still see Juliette and the wicked curve of her mouth when she blinks.
Champion. The word rings in Luca’s head.
Sharp and metallic. She forces her jaw to unclench, and her breath hisses through her open mouth.
She has played plenty of tight matches in her life, both in other tournaments and in college.
Here, the pressure is all on her. The only person she’ll disappoint is herself.
It doesn’t matter if Juliette Ricci is her soulmate.
Either she will be or she won’t, but Luca won’t know until the match ends.
And when it does, Luca will be the winner.
And if she is, they’ll figure it out in the aftermath of the match; not now.
That thought steadies her more than she thought it would. This is her match to win. This is who she is and what she was built for. It doesn’t matter what Ricci does; Luca will fight for this win.
She pulls the towel off her head and crams an energy bar into her mouth, washing it down with her water.
She switches rackets and leaves the other one on her bag.
It’s superstition, changing rackets after the loss of a set, but if they’re going to insist on calling her Lucky Luca she may as well lean into it.
They exchange games back and forth. It seems Ricci has cooled off in between the second and third set.
At 3–2, they switch sides again for Ricci’s serve.
Luca tightens her ponytail, the braid starting to fall loose around the end from swinging around so much.
It bothers her, the way it clings to the sweaty skin on her shoulders, but there isn’t time to fix it.
Luca towels off her face, and Vladimir nods at her again. “Come on, right here, Luca.” It isn’t much encouragement, but it settles the burgeoning annoyance in her chest.
She manages to fight her way into the points and gets the game to a critically even point. Two more points in Luca’s favor and she’ll be up 4–2. Win two more games after that, and she’ll be the Australian Open champion. She’ll know if Juliette Ricci is her soulmate.
Ricci’s next serve goes, predictably, into the widest part of the service box.
Luca sidesteps into it, rolling the ball high.
Ricci’s next shot is in the opposite corner.
Luca skids into it, barely hitting the ball when she feels her ankle roll underneath her and she stumbles, dropping her racket and planting her hands on the ground to stop from falling.
Her ankle hurts, but it isn’t sprained or broken.
Still, as she tries to walk on it, pain lances through her leg.
“I need a trainer,” she says, hobbling to her bench.
She can’t breathe, her chest tight. This can’t be how her first Grand Slam final ends.
She holds on to the throbbing ankle, trying to roll the pain away, but it doesn’t work.
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 is so close she can taste it.