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“It’s amazing to meet you,” Luca says, breathless as Karoline shakes her hand firmly.

Karoline is retired now, but in the late 1990s and early noughties, she was a part of a rivalry nicknamed the Fierce Four. They always compelled Luca because of how different they were. Each one excelled at a different Grand Slam because of their distinctive play styles: Victoria Ferreyra at the Australian Open, Karoline at the French Open, Aurore Cadieux at Wimbledon, and Payton Calimeris at the US Open. There was tennis drama around the head-to-head matchups and the arguments in court, but it was the off-court scandals and incidents that Luca ravenously consumed. The cutting words tossed carelessly in press conferences, celebrity exes, and the infamous fountain incident all created a tapestry of what the public knew of them. Karoline had multiple nicknames throughout her career. Her tennis one was the Dancer, but off the court she was called the Heartbreaker and the Swiss Miss. Now, face-to-face with Karoline, Luca understands why. She is chic and sultry, distinctly feminine, and pretty in a way that conceals her predatory ambition.

Luca sits down at the table with Vladimir next to her and Karoline across from her.

“You are an excellent player, Luca,” Karoline says, lacing her hands together in front of her.

“Thank you,” Luca says, trying not to stutter. “That means a lot coming from you.”

Karoline’s smile tightens at the corners. “I apologize that I’m not much for small talk, so I’d like to simply state why I asked you to meet me here.”

Luca reaches for her water and nods.

“I would like to invite you to be the fourth member of my team for the Connolly Cup.”

Luca is glad she didn’t take a sip, because she definitely would have spit it out. “Really?”

Karoline smirks. “You are number one in the world and the reigning Australian Open champion. Frankly, I’m surprised neither Aurore nor Victoria reached out to you earlier. It’s between Roland-Garros and Wimbledon, the third week in June. You’ll have to miss Birmingham, unfortunately.” Karoline does not make it sound like it’d be a great misfortune.

And Luca does agree. It’s a small warm-up tournament, and she’d make so much more money just showing up to the Connolly Cup than winning Birmingham. “It’s in Naples this year. An indoor hard court, so I know it won’t be helpful for preparing for Wimbledon, but it’s like this.”

Luca swallows. The Connolly Cup is a charity exhibition event put on every year by the Fierce Four members in honor of their rival, Diana Connolly. She had won every Grand Slam in 2004, dethroning them and blazing through tournaments and the rankings like a meteor. Then, to the shock of all, at the end of the year, she died of a drug overdose. Now, the Connolly Cup is a charity organization that raises money for addicts and mental health organizations. This year, Karoline partnered with Payton Calimeris to set up their team to face off against Aurore and Victoria’s team. And over the last few years, Luca has enjoyed spectating from the safety of her apartment. Even though it’s technically low stakes for players, there is a hot spotlight shining on them, the entire tennis world watching as if they’re on a reality show. They’re all waiting for another scandal, although Luca doesn’t know how anything will top two years ago, when Claudia Ricci slapped her then boyfriend (and coach) after finding out from a rogue post that he was still married.

The glass slips in her fingers, and she puts it down before it shatters or she spills water everywhere. “I’m honored.”

Karoline tilts her head, dark eyes glittering in the setting sun. “I fear a ‘but’ coming,” she says, leaning back and unlacing her hands. “Say yes, Luca, you won’t regret it.”

Luca chews on her lower lip. She knows the rest of Karoline’s team, and unfortunately, Juliette Ricci is one of her picks this year. A weekend of playing on the same team as Ricci, attending events, andpretending not to hate each other sounds like torture. Still, longing hooks into her stomach, and she finds herself nodding despite the twist of anxiety in her chest. “Okay. I’d love to.”

Karoline grins, softer than before. “Perfect.”

By the time the dinner wraps up, the news of Luca being the fourth and final member of Karoline’s team has broken over Twitter. While in the car back to the hotel, Luca scrolls through the excited posts below it. A notification pops up, and Luca sees she’s been added to a group chat by Karoline. As expected, it has Claudia Ricci and Zoe Almasi, the two other players of their team, and two numbers she doesn’t know. One must be Juliette Ricci and the other is the team’s cocaptain, Payton Calimeris. A flurry ofwelcome to the teamtexts pour in from everyone except Juliette Ricci.

Typical.

SIXLUCA

Clay season rolls around after Indian Wells, and Luca dreads it. She doesn’t like sliding and slipping on the red dirt. Her game isn’t built for the slow balls and grinding rallies. She doesn’t win any of the tournaments, but at least she doesn’t embarrass herself. Eventually, the clay swing finally culminates in the French Open, Roland-Garros.

It rains on and off during the first week of the tournament. Playing tennis in the rain on clay should be a crime. Still, Luca considers herself lucky because she gets scheduled early and on the court with a roof.

With the court enclosed, it’s humid and sticky. The clay clumps beneath her shoes and the ball moves even slower through the air. Luca still wins but it takes hours, and she’s drenched like she just stepped out of a pool by the time it’s over.

Sweat slides down her temples and cheeks as she bends down to put her racket into her bag. She impatiently brushes it away, irritating her skin and making her throat tight. She rips off her wristbands and tosses them at a cluster of girls cheering her name. She smiles at them, and they squeal to each other in rapid French. She grabs her Rolex out of the side compartment of her bag and shimmies it onto her wrist, snapping it closed. She likes the money that comes from the sponsorships, but it has been a hassle remembering to put on the watch after her match.

A tournament manager approaches her with a purple pen and a smile. Luca takes it and turns to the camera. In quick scrawling letters, she signs her name on the plexiglass over the lens and adds a smileyface that is objectively terrible. She tries to fix the edge of the smile but smudges it. She shrugs and hands the pen off. As she glances up at the jumbotron, she sees herself signing the camera, a few seconds delayed.

Ice sears through her. She’s forgotten to put on her wrist wrap and her watch isn’t nearly wide enough to hide her soulmark. It stands out, brilliantly black. The first three letters wink from behind the gilded edge of her Rolex band.

She wraps her left hand around her wrist and hurries back to her bag, crouching down and shoving her hand into it so no one can read more letters. She finds her real wrap, a strip of black wide enough to cover the black block lettering, and twists it around the mark with trembling fingers. Sweat trickles down the back of her neck, prickling and itchy.

Slowly, Luca stands. She rubs her face with her towel again, trying to calm the rattling nerves in her chest. The last thing she wants is someone prying into her private life or even intimating that her soulmate is Juliette Ricci. Spiky panic cuts into her lungs like shards of glass, but she forces herself to throw her towel into the crowd too before heading onto the court again for another interview.

Luca’s phone buzzes, and she swipes it open.

A screenshot sits beneath a message from Nicky. Her stomach twists, humiliation and anger spiraling in her throat. Ricci has quote-tweeted the grainy, blown-up image of Luca’s soulmark with a winking face. Nicky’s only message is a few grimacing emojis. He’d been the first one she called after winning the Australian Open. Even jet-lagged and yawning, he’d consoled her about how terrible Juliette Ricci had been and talked through every second of the interaction with her until she finally let him go to sleep.

The sound of her name snaps her back into the room, staring at a sea of faces.