Page 1 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

“You’re the number one tennis player in the entire world, Santiago, start acting like it,” my mother, who is also my manager, says, flopping onto the couch of my hotel room. Her fingers move to her temples, which she massages excessively, a habit she has every time I piss her off.

My twin sister, Manuela, smirks to herself, scrolling through something on her phone. She’s thoroughly enjoying all of this.

“I don’t understand what the problem is.

Athletes go partying all the time,” I reply, pressing the cold water bottle Mamá brought me against my throbbing head.

I may have overdone it last night, not with alcohol but with staying out late and dancing until my entire body ached. Now I’m dehydrated and sleep-deprived.

“You have to uphold a certain image, mijo , and you partying and fucking someone new every day is not the golden boy image the world expects of you,” she goes on, and I flinch a little at her words.

“Why is that my problem? I’m twenty-four years old.

I’m supposed to be a little reckless,” I argue, but the glare she shoots me in response makes me cower in my seat.

Manu grins even harder, so I throw a pillow at her head.

As a tennis player herself, her reaction time is good enough to lift her arm and catch it long before it threatens to hit her face.

“You are supposed to be focused, Santiago. Tell him, mi amor ,” Mamá says, turning toward Papá, my coach, for help. He’s been furious with me for days, has barely said a word when I’m in the room, and the frown on his lips seems to be permanent now.

My father’s calculating eyes study me for a moment, not a single word escaping his lips.

Both of my parents are concerned about my reputation, I’m well aware, but I don’t think it’s as bad as they’re making it out to be.

My performance isn’t affected because of my habits.

Alcohol isn’t part of my partying behavior.

I made a decision when I first decided to go pro to stay far away from it.

It’s not something I need, so why consume it?

Going out, on the other hand, I need. Feeling like a normal person instead of the golden boy, as Mamá portrays me to the world, is the only thing keeping me from questioning who the fuck I am most days.

The whole world knows me, has expectations of me that anyone would crumble under, but I haven’t, and I won’t.

That’s what my coping techniques are for, after all, even if they’re not the healthiest.

As long as I get on the court and get the job done, I don’t see why my personal life has to be anyone’s business. I put on a show for them, make them love me, and win.

Almost every single time, I win.

What more do they want from me?

“The Grand Slam season is almost upon us, Santiago, and I have made a decision,” Papá says, standing up and walking toward the mini fridge in the hotel room to pull out a bottle of water. He takes a sip, creating a tension so thick, I roll my eyes.

“ Papá, por el amor de Dios, dimelo sin el drama, por favor ,” I say, hoping it’ll get him to speak. His two-meter body struts across the room with more elegance than a tall, muscular man like him should have, until he’s right in my face and grabbing my shoulder.

“I have picked out a new hitting partner for you.” My heart lurches in my chest.

“Who?” I ask, but his grip on me tightens until I wince from discomfort, and he doesn’t answer my question.

“Additionally, to clean up your disgusting reputation, you will be pretending to date your new partner. She’s in a bit of a situation herself, you see, so it’s a win-win for all of us.”

Papá finally lets go of my shoulder, and I jump out of my seat, trying to put some distance between us. My pounding head is not happy about the quick motion, causing the room to spin for a second before it levels out again.

“You can’t force me to date this woman or have her be my new hitting partner, whoever she is,” I reply, but Papá merely crosses his arms in front of his thick chest and watches me until I feel like running away from him.

I look to Manu for help, but she’s as silent as she always is when I’m fighting with our parents.

“You will be doing as I’ve said. You will clean up your reputation. If not, I will no longer be your coach.”

As much as I’d like to keep arguing with him, the anger in his eyes makes me hesitate. Papá was the number one tennis player in the entire world for four years in a row, seven in total in his career. I’ve always wanted to be like him.

Losing him as my coach is something I’m not ready for, not after eighteen years of him training me.

Even Manuela looks shocked as she sits up on the couch, dropping her phone.

“Papá, you can’t—,” she says, but he holds up a hand to silence her.

“Yes, I can.” I shudder at the determination in his gaze.

“How long do we have to keep up the pretense? My new partner and I?” I ask, all of a sudden feeling small and weak. Not like the adult man I am, but the child I used to be when we started training me to go pro.

“One season. That’s all it’ll take to teach you to grow up. One season sitting in her box during all of her matches and being a devoted partner will be good for you,” Papá explains, and I suck in a sharp breath.

“One season, and then I want your promise that I can go back to doing whatever I want. Either this little experiment works or it doesn’t.

I do this once, and then you’ll never get to control my life like this again,” I offer and hold out my hand for my father, waiting for him to shake it and agree to my terms and conditions.

“No more parties. No sleeping with anyone. You will be training with your new partner every spare minute you get,” he says, adding to the agreement.

“Okay, you have yourself a deal,” I say, wiggling my fingers. He eyes my hand for a minute, mischief sparkling in his eyes before he shakes it.

“Deal.”

I take a step back and inhale deeply, trying to slow my racing heart.

Every fiber of my being hates having to do this, but at least having a new hitting partner isn’t playing doubles with her, so it doesn’t impact my ability to play singles.

I’ll still get to keep my number one title if I’m good enough.

And I am.

I’ve been going through intensive training all winter to prepare to keep my place in the world.

I’m fast, know how to analyze my opponents, and become creative to win.

I’m crafty when I play, it’s why people adore me so much.

It’s entertaining for them to watch. It’s also the reason why I’m so fucking glad my father isn’t expecting me to figure out how the hell to play doubles now.

I fucking hate playing doubles.

Having a partner restricts what you can do on the court. Not to mention, having to rely on them to play well and getting angry when they don’t sucks.

The only time I’ve ever played doubles was with an infuriating partner.

Then again, we weren’t really partners. We may have played on the same side of the court, but we were rivals.

Unfortunately, we were unbeatable together, and our school knew better than to separate us. We brought them to the top in the entire country with our singles and doubles victories. Then, we both went pro, and I only have to see her occasionally for celebrations hosted for tennis players.

But every time we lock eyes…

Fuck, I almost shudder.

Catalina Sanchez is in the past and not someone I have to worry about anymore.

“So, who is going to be my new hitting partner?” I finally ask, slumping back onto the couch and letting the tension of the argument with my father leave my body.

Manu lets out a small snort from where she’s sitting, so I furrow my brows at her. She’s covering her mouth with one of her hands, but I see the amusement sparkling in her eyes. Papá gives me a full-faced smile, and I feel dread filling me from top to bottom.

“No,” I blurt out.

“Your partner for the season will be Catalina Sanchez.”

I’m going to throw myself off a fucking cliff.