Chapter Three Luca #2
“This is poor sportsmanship! I’m serving. Make her wait until the end of the game!” Luca is half-surprised that Juliette isn’t stomping her foot.
The umpire sighs. “There is nothing I can do, Juliette.” He speaks slowly, as if talking to a child. “I would be saying the same thing if you’d hurt yourself.”
Ricci groans and storms away, off to the box where her family sits. She waves her racket in the air, clearly ranting to them.
Luca can’t believe Ricci is still having a temper tantrum over this. She would never want emotions to throw her off her game, but maybe blowing off steam is how Ricci keeps her focus.
She waits a few beats, deliberating and rolling her ankle from side to side. The pain is already a low-level ache, barely anything worse than a tweak. “Can I have a pain tablet and a wrap around it?” she asks.
The trainer nods, pulling out a blister pack from his bag and a roll of bandages.
Luca swallows the pain tablet and watches the trainer’s sure hands wrap the bandage around her ankle. By the time he’s done, her adrenaline is rushing back, blocking out any residual pain. She slips her sock back on and laces up her sneakers.
“I’m okay,” Luca says, flexing her foot.
Her ankle aches as she stands, but it isn’t a spiky pain like before.
“I can play.” She stands, bouncing on her toes.
The pain is worse than when she was sitting, but bearable.
She knows this could hurt her more in the long run, but she doesn’t care.
This is the Australian Open, and she’ll never quit.
So, she picks up her racket and strides back around the net. When she jogs, she doesn’t feel the pain. The more that she moves, the less it hurts. She may limp in between points but she can move to the ball, so it won’t matter.
Ricci glares at her as she stands at the baseline, her chest heaving as she tries to steady her breathing.
Luca steels herself against the heat in Ricci’s gaze and looks down at her racket.
This moment isn’t about Ricci, even though every inch of her body wants to focus on Ricci.
Even if her pulse skitters around Ricci, skin flushed hot under her gaze, she tightly packs every thought away.
This moment is like every regular practice.
She adjusts her grip and finally looks up, a sense of calm settling on her shoulders.
Ricci’s serve is good, but her next shot isn’t and Luca pounces, angling a short shot down the line to win the game.
She doesn’t allow herself to celebrate yet, but when she looks up at Vladimir, he’s smiling.
Her service game and Ricci’s next one go quickly. 5–3, and Luca needs only to hold her serve.
Yet, as she stands at the baseline and bounces the ball, nerves flutter to life in her chest. She inhales, trying to silence the swirling thoughts in her mind, but her fingers still tremble.
Her lungs burn from playing for over two and a half hours.
The realization that she can win this match is beginning to sink in, buzzing in her bones.
She looks at her wrist, the soaked black wristband.
Luca cannot think about the score or whether Ricci is her soulmate. Instead, she visualizes her toss and her serve.
Even though her shoulders and forearms are aching, her motion is as easy as ever.
With her height and the snap of her wrist, the serve goes precisely where she wants it.
Three serves and well-placed forehands and it is championship point.
Just one more and she is a Grand Slam champion.
She swipes her palm down the edge of her skirt but it’s no use, she’s drenched in sweat.
Her racket nearly slips out of her hand.
The crowd chants Luca’s name. She would try to ignore it, but it rings in her ears.
She steps up to the line, the pain in her ankle throbbing in time with her pulse.
She watches Ricci at the towel box, wiping off her arms and hands.
She doesn’t look at Luca as she goes to the baseline.
A calm settles in her. With a final deep breath she hits her favorite serve.
Ricci tries to hit it cleanly, but it skips off the frame.
Luca doesn’t breathe as Ricci’s shot coasts through the air. She shuffles back, racket poised at the ready. Her breath is ragged in her throat, her ankle aches, but she moves anyway.
The ball could spin in. She still could have to hit it.
OUT.
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 fall to 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 is her Juliette.
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.