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“Oh,” Remi says, interest piqued.

Juliette curses herself. “Shut it. Nothing happened. She just gave me a massage.”

“A massage!” Remi’s eyes widen, and a smile sprawls across her face. “You’re kidding! Then what?”

“Nothing!” Remi is the last person she wants to talk to about Luca and their kiss.

Remi’s pout is nearly compelling. “Come on,” she whines.

Juliette huffs out a sigh. Even if her head is swimming and her heart aches, her body thrums with a renewed, electric energy. “She gave me a massage because a soulmate’s touch cures little ailments. Like bruises and cuts.”

Remi’s mouth quirks into the start of a smile and Juliette looks away. She doesn’t know why she admitted it to Remi, but it’s not like Remi didn’t suspect it already. Still, saying it aloud makes it feel like her ribs are too tight around her lungs.

“It’s true,” Remi says, nodding solemnly.

Juliette raises her brows, seeing this as an opportunity to divert attention away from herself, but she’s also curious. “Oh, yeah?” She touches Remi’s wrist, closely wrapped in black and bracelets.

Remi rolls her eyes, equal parts annoyed and amused.

“Why are you keeping it a secret?” Juliette asks, looking up at the ceiling.

For a couple of heartbeats, Remi remains silent until she finally sighs, long and heavy, as if the weight of the secret lies on her shoulders. “She wants to keep it a secret.”

“Why?” Juliette turns over, stuffing a pillow under her head so she can look at Remi fully.

“She just wants to wait for the right time, y’know?” Remi rolls over onto her back, flopping back with a heaved sigh.

“Is she on tour?” Juliette asks.

Slowly, with her lower lip caught in her teeth, Remi nods. Some of the tension in Juliette’s chest unwinds. Maybe Remi isn’t as much of a gossiper as she thought. Maybe Remi is looking for someone to confide in about the complexities of having a rival tennis player as a soulmate.

“Are you happy?” Juliette asks softly.

Remi tilts her chin back, her grin genuine and utterly luminous. “Yes,” she breathes, as if saying it too loud will snatch the happiness from her.

“That’s all that matters then, right?” Juliette asks.

“Yeah,” Remi says, her smile softer, but she still glows with incandescent happiness.

Juliette swallows the sudden bile of jealousy in her throat and rolls onto her back to open Twitter.

“Oh, no,” she mutters as she scrolls through about a dozen tweets about her collision with Kacic.

@sexyalmasibae

i’d say this is sabotage before wimby but we all know ricci is shit on grass xD

@cozyclaudia

there is no “charity” between luca & jules it seems lol

“What is it?” Remi asks, and Juliette tilts her phone to show her the feed. “Yikes.”

“That’s an understatement,” Juliette grumbles, tossing her phone to the end of the bed, as if that’ll rid her of the internet gossip. She presses her knuckles into her eyes to try to block out the thoughts of the media scrutiny.

At big events, like WTA 1000s and Slams, the spotlight is glaring and stressful. It’s hard not to shy away from it, and Juliette is not the best at keeping the media from spinning her words and intent. Some players, like Remi, are better at it, but even she isn’t immune to the media’s criticism—of her inauthentic schmooze, of the way she reacts after games. They definitely lay into her more harshly than the white players, and while Juliette has certainly rolled her eyes at Remi’s tendency to be openly arrogant after a particularly thorough win, she has never been worse than Juliette. And sometimes, Remi deserves to be a little cocky. She’s one of the best players in the world, and Juliette rarely sees any of the same criticism lobbed at the men.

A rapid knocking on the door pulls her from her musings. “Go away,” she calls, recognizing Claudia’s annoyingly loud knock.