Chapter Thirty-Nine Luca
THIRTY-NINE LUCA
A storm brews on the horizon. Luca can’t see it, but she can feel it as she steps out onto Center Court.
If she squints, she swears she can see a crackle of electricity in the snapping heat.
The sky is a marbled tapestry of charcoal and dove gray.
The temperature has been cruel, rising steadily all week until Saturday, where it is reaching a crescendo, and the threat of the storm is ratcheting up.
The hair on the back of her neck rises, and goose bumps bubble across her skin as the crowd roars. Luca hopes she can win quickly.
She shouldn’t be worried. She has played Octavia Ricci twice before, winning both times. But she is Juliette’s sister, and Luca can’t afford to think about Juliette right now.
Octavia struggles to guess where her serve will go. And when she does get into a rally with Luca, she has Octavia dance on a string, running her from side to side until Octavia makes an error or Luca ribbons the ball down the line for a winner.
Luca’s mind is unusually clear. The match is playing out in even, clinical strokes, and she wins her first service game easily.
They switch sides, and Luca straightens her strings, plucking at them as more of a habit than them actually being uneven.
She glances to her left, eyes lifting, and meets the intense and intimately familiar gaze of Juliette Ricci.
A shiver traces down Luca’s spine as Juliette holds her stare before taking a breath and leaning back in her seat, lazily lounging with her arms crossed.
Luca knew that it was more than likely that Juliette would be at the match. She thought she was ready for it. She’d seen her around the tennis complex without issue. Sure, her pulse had sped up, but she hadn’t spiraled.
She snaps out of her stupor and jogs to the baseline, heart hammering in her chest.
She hadn’t thought it would affect her this much, to see Juliette. Still, her stomach clenches uncomfortably at the idea that Juliette had positioned herself front and center so Luca could see her. Regardless of whether it was intentional or not, Luca won’t let it affect her.
JULIETTE
It is odd to be sitting in the opposite player’s box than the one Juliette had been in less than twenty-four hours earlier. Now, instead of being flanked by her father and Octavia, she’s in the center of the box next to Claudia and Leo.
She watches her sister exit the tunnel, waving at the crowd.
To the untrained eye, anyone would think Octavia was the pinnacle of calm.
But Juliette can distinctly see the tension shifting in her shoulders, her nerves in the way she fiddles with her watch, the way she smooths the collar of her tank top down.
Sweat trickles down Juliette’s neck, and she sighs. Maybe she should have followed her father’s advice and gotten on the plane to New York. She uncaps her water bottle and sips, the coolness soothing her aching throat for a moment.
At this point, it doesn’t matter. She’s already here, feet from the court, and it would only upset Octavia if she left.
She had thought the sight of Luca would knock her breathless, but instead, her heart rate picks up, and her skin prickles. Intense longing sweeps through her so fast it’s dizzying. Luca looks focused, intense, energized. She looks more tan in her black and white kit, glowing and beautiful.
Luca and Octavia are matched in strengths and weaknesses.
Octavia is fast as lightning with quick hands that neutralize Luca’s heavy power.
But if Luca stays aggressive on the baseline, she might be able to cut Octavia apart with short angles.
Still, no matter how their styles line up, it will come down to their mental fortitude.
“Do you think Octavia can pull this off?” Claudia asks, leaning into Juliette, whispering so Leo doesn’t hear her. He is sitting on the other side of Juliette, leaning forward and already dialed in to watching, intense as ever.
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.