Page 10 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

Having Santiago Castillo’s hands on me yesterday had me feeling things I never, ever want to feel for him again.

And yet, I can’t stop thinking about the way he felt pressed against me. The feeling of his quick heartbeat against my back. His hot breath ghosting the sensitive skin on my ear. His hand on my stomach, steadying me, guiding me. The words falling from his lips, the way he praised me.

I hate him so much.

For our past and what he’s doing to me now.

For how good it felt to have his strong arms around me.

“Catalina, are you still listening?” my sister, Ori, says.

She’s the eldest out of all our siblings and the smartest Sanchez to ever walk the Earth. She’s studying environmental science, trying to further research in renewable energies and, to summarize, save the fucking planet.

“Yes, sorry. You were telling me about the presentation you can’t finish because…” I trail off, hoping she’ll jump in and finish the sentence because I definitely zoned out.

Whenever Ori starts talking about science, my brain wanders. Not voluntarily, I know it’s important, but I don’t understand half the terms she uses. I studied business and economics in my three-year university program, not science.

“Never mind. Let’s just talk about the fact that Hernanda got her third golfing trophy of the year,” Ori says with a proud smile, one I feel lighting up my face too.

“She won the junior tournament?” I ask, adjusting on my bed where I’ve been lying in only a towel for the past thirty minutes video calling with Ori.

“Yes. She did so well they even gave her the award for best sportswoman at the tournament.” I fight back the tears of pride for my little sister that threaten to spill from the corners of my eyes.

Ori and I were already teenagers when Mamá passed away, but Hernanda and our little brother Samuel were only four and two.

They don’t remember Mamá as well as Ori and I do, so when they were growing up, they came to us when they needed something.

Dad was always working to support us, so Ori and I became parents to our younger siblings.

Their achievements mean more to me than my own.

“Is she home? Can I talk to her?” I manage to croak out, emotion making my tongue as heavy as a brick and my vocal cords feel like steel.

“No, she’s out with friends,” Ori replies, offering me a comforting smile.

“What about Sami?”

“He went to work with Dad.” I breathe past another wave of tears. “But he loves his new wheelchair. He sent you a letter saying thank you for buying it for him.” Tears shoot into my eyes.

“I hope I’ll get some time off soon so I can visit all of you,” I say instead of focusing on the homesick feeling camping out in my chest.

It won’t get me anywhere. I’ll only make Ori feel bad too, and that’s the last thing I want.

My older sister has enough on her plate as is.

Even if I want to cry to her about this whole Santi situation.

Even if I want to ask her to fly to Monaco to be with me.

I need my big sister to hold my hand while the entire world hates me for something that didn’t even happen.

“Talk to me. Are they still spreading that rumor?” Ori asks, dragging me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, and I have to go on my first date with Santi in about two hours. He’s picking me up and driving us to Nice where Isabella Ada is performing so we can pretend we’re a happy couple,” I say, scrunching my nose up in disgust.

“I know all of this is difficult, especially so close to the start of the season, but I want you to know I’m proud of you. You’re carrying so much on those shoulders, no wonder you have such back problems,” she teases, and I burst into laughter, but all my sister offers me is a small grin.

Then, she turns serious again, so I do, too.

“They gave you an image you’ve been trying to break since the day you got it.

You came out as pan and broke it a little, but now you shattered it in a way you didn’t mean to.

I know Santi is your way of not letting these rumors cost you your sponsorships, but don’t lose who you are in the process.

Don’t attempt to fit that box they’ve been trying to put you back into since you came out publicly.

Don’t let them warp you into someone else.

It’s one thing to fix a scandal and another to pretend you’re someone you’re not. ”

Ori’s words sit with me long after our call ended.

It’s why I put on a shirt with a pride flag printed across the chest area, the words “love is love” written underneath it.

Santi and I will be seen and photographed today, and I want to wear something that makes me feel a little bit more like myself and less like the person the media wants me to be.

Just because I’m dating a man doesn’t mean I’m not queer, which is something the media always accuses me of when I’m with a man.

It’s like I have to constantly prove I’m not straight for them, so they stop saying things like, “Oh, she’s with a man now, she must have outgrown that phase .

” It’s not a fucking phase, but people like to throw that at my head to take away from who I am.

I hate it.

It makes me feel bad about myself, almost like I don’t feel right in my own skin.

Society has expectations. They expect women to date men, and men to date women.

While things are significantly better nowadays, as a public figure, expectations on top of expectations rest on me.

Either I’m the “fake” queer woman dating a man, or I’m the “real” queer woman they don’t know what to do with in the world of tennis.

I know all of my friends deal with the same thing.

Everyone I know is part of the LGBTQIA+ community in one way or another.

Since I decided to be out in the world of tennis—a scandal according to the media—my friends also started dating men, women, and non gender conforming people openly.

Santiago has never announced it publicly, but I know he’s queer, too. He told me when we were young.

It’s my belief that gender identity should never determine why two people should or shouldn’t be together in our society, but in the world of sports, that is a very difficult message to make stick.

So, I have to do what makes me feel good. And I do when I’m in a shirt that makes me feel more like myself.

I like expressing who I am through my clothing, I always have.

It’s one of many things I got from my dad.

I remember when I was growing up, he’d always wear shirts with messages written on them.

Most days, he wore shirts that said he was happy.

Some days, that he was tired. On rare occasions, he wore shirts that had special messages for my siblings and me.

“Dream it into reality.”

“Love whoever you want.”

“You’re perfect just the way you are.”

There were more, and new ones follow every year.

So, I picked up a similar habit. Spin also encourages my passion.

The first year they sponsored me, they had the words “Equality For Women In Sports” written on my chest area.

It was small to ensure that while we pissed people off, we started slowly to prepare them for what came after.

Bigger letters. Flags. Pride everywhere.

I almost smile at the thought of how many homophobic people I probably pissed off, how many men , over the years.

A text lights up my phone.

Santi: I’m here. The concert starts soon. We don’t have time for you to make me wait just to annoy me.

Me: But I love annoying you. It gives me great pleasure .

I finally smile as I pick up my purse, but it’s an evil smile. Definitely not an “I enjoy talking to Santi smile.”

Santi: How about I give you a different form of pleasure in exchange for not making me wait?

Me: I’d rather get a full-body wax after getting sunburned.

Santiago is smiling brilliantly as I make my way toward his brand-new car. He told me he picked it up yesterday, but he didn’t tell me it’d be a Spark Lightning Bolt in a muddy gray that shouldn’t look as good as it does. It’s a sports car, similar to my Velocità Rossa, but it’s sleeker. Sexier.

When his eyes catch me, they soften, and his attention lingers on the rainbow painted across my shirt, along with the words written underneath it.

“I love that shirt,” he says as I slip into the passenger seat. “Much better than the one you wore yesterday at training.” I almost snort at the reminder.

For our training session yesterday, I wore a shirt that said, “Eyes off my tits” on the front and “Eyes off my ass” on my lower back.

“You mean the shirt you completely ignored while doing both of the things it told you not to do?” I ask, raising both brows in challenge. Santi gives me a cocky smile.

“You’ve got a body to die for, Cata. I try to keep my eyes off you, but they always drift back anyway,” he says, making my heart tumble all over itself.

“Shut up, Santi,” I say, my cheeks heating. Turning my head away, I break eye contact and focus on slowing my nervous heartbeat.

“Sure, but then you’re in charge of the music because I can’t sit in silence.”

He told me it’s because he starts overthinking in silence, so he’d rather distract his brain.

It’s a habit he’s had since he was diagnosed with depression as a kid.

From what he’s told me, he’s found coping mechanisms so his symptoms have become more manageable over time—we may hate each other, but I do care about his mental well-being.

“What do you want to listen to?” I ask as I pick up his phone, studying the picture of his parents that he made his background.

My chest warms at the sight.

“Whatever you want.”

I’ll use any excuse not to talk to Santi before I risk feeling things I shouldn’t.

Things I’ve been suppressing since we were kids.