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Kacic pumps her fist for the first time, and the crowd roars. It’salmost deafening. Juliette smacks the edge of her racket against her calf. It isn’t over and she can still win the set, but she feels the momentum swing like a pendulum. Pressure tightens her shoulders, and she huffs out a breath in an effort to lower them from her ears.

There is always another chance in a tiebreak. This late in the set, fatigue and nerves could compromise even the most composed player.

Juliette crouches, eagerly waiting. So far, Kacic’s serve hasn’t been predictable. Her motion is so fluid and even, regardless of what kind she hits. Juliette has to get lucky, trust her gut. Sometimes, that’s all tennis is. Better lucky than good.

The serve is hard and cuts down the center service line. Juliette barely gets her racket on the ball, but it floats over the net. Kacic’s racket draws back, and instead of pounding the weak shot for a winner, she slices the ball. A drop shot.

Juliette runs toward the net before Kacic’s swing even comes through the ball. The shot barely drops over the net, but Juliette is there, rolling the ball into the open court. It should be a winner. She skids to a stop, every nerve in her body on fire. It bounces once. If it bounces again, it’ll be Juliette’s point to win the set.

But Kacic’s racket cuts beneath the ball just before it bounces twice, tossing the ball up in a high lob that arcs into the lights. Juliette hops back, pulling her racket back like an archer draws their bow. She should let it drop and bounce once before smashing the overhead into the middle of the court. It’s what Antony would tell her to do, but sheneedsthis pointnow.

Juliette’s heart hammers, and she can hear her breath harsh in her ears. She angles herself under the ball, but the bright light blinds her. The ball drifts farther right than she anticipated.

It drops into striking range. She drives with her elbow, snapping her wrist and racket over the ball. She connects, but not cleanly. Her shoulder tweaks as she hits it slightly off-center.

The line calling system shouts, “OUT.”

Too much angle. Not enough spin.

Juliette drops into a crouch, pressing her forehead onto the hilt ofher racket. Her chest aches, lungs begging for air. She wants to scream. She lifts her head to watch the big screen declare it aCLOSE CALL, showing everyone how she missed the overhead by a fraction of a centimeter.

Juliette straightens and walks back to the baseline. She can’t look up at Antony. She knows he’ll be shaking his head in disappointment.

They’re back even, and Juliette has squandered both her chances to win the set. 6–6. Her stomach churns, uneasy. She shakes her head, trying to force herself to have a terrible short-term memory. She can’t think about what could’ve happened. She can only be here in the present.

Kacic’s serve again. Juliette barely gets into the point, but once she’s in it, neither of them wants to lose it. They smack the ball back and forth, forehand to forehand. Kacic hits harder than Juliette does, and it takes all of her concentration and years of training to keep the ball in and not overhit.

This is the exact type of point Juliette has been trying to avoid. The moment she eases off the speed, Kacic changes the trajectory of the ball and clips the baseline for a winner into the opposite corner.

6–7. Another point and Kacic wins, but Juliette is serving. She can control the point. Juliette is used to this. This is what she practices for. Juliette swirls the balls in her palm. Both are equally fluffed up, so she chooses randomly. She keeps only one in her hand. It’s gotten to the point in the match where she’s soaked with sweat; the ball will be too damp if she has to pull it out from her skirt to hit a second serve.

She won’t be hitting a second serve.

Juliette steps a little farther wide than she usually stands. It gives a better angle for her wide serve. Hopefully, it’ll spin out too far for Kacic to hit.

Juliette breathes in and out, sharply. She runs her wristband over her forehead. It’s barely any use. It’s too humid, and it’s soaked through. Juliette glances up and sees that Kacic has moved farther back, anticipating.

Juliette cuts her serve to angle wide and short. Kacic lunges, the ball barely ticking off her strings. It should go straight into the net.

It doesn’t. It clips the top of the net and rolls along the edge, tantalizingly slow. Juliette nearly sees it in slow motion as it dribbles over to her side. There is nothing she can do. Not even the fastest person could get to it.

“Game and first set, Kacic.”

She was so close. Less than an inch from taking the first set. Tennis is always a game of inches, and this time, Juliette lost.

The whole crowd goes wild, and Kacic holds up her hand in apology. Still, there is no regret in her face. She doesn’t even celebrate winning the first set, simply strides back to her bench with her hand up. She stole the first set from Juliette, and she doesn’t evencelebrate? As if it doesn’t matter to her, as if this isn’t the biggest match of their careers. Kacic doesn’t fucking deserve it.

Juliette can barely swallow her rage until she gets to her bench, and then she smashes her racket onto the ground. It splinters and cracks, paint chips scattering across the court. The crowd gasps and then boos.

It doesn’t make her feel better; if anything, the fury skitters across her every nerve like fire. She tosses the broken racket onto her bag.

It isn’t over. Not until Kacic wins another set, but she’s halfway there. Juliette grabs her small bag of clothes and heads off the court to change and go to the bathroom before set two. She needs to splash her face with cold water. As she walks toward the tunnel, she passes the Daphne Akhurst Memorial Cup, the trophy for winning the Australian Open. The lights glint off the gold tennis rackets crossed at the top, the silvery surface shining, almost mocking Juliette.

Itwillbe hers. She won’t let Kacic take it from her.

THREELUCA

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.