Page 14 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

It’s our first Grand Slam tournament of the season.

The Australian Open is most often held during the second week of January until the end of the month. Twenty days of tournament. Mine starts a day before Cata’s, so she and I are currently playing rallies to warm me up for my match later.

The first match she will be in my box as my girlfriend.

Fake girlfriend.

I’ve got to remember that.

Today, Catalina is wearing a dark blue tennis skirt in a dark blue as well as a matching shirt with the words, “Consistency is key” written across her chest. An obvious jab at my inconsistent way of playing, but I haven’t done more than grin at it.

My favorite shirt so far has been the one she wore when we were practicing three days ago.

“Santiago Castillo’s Best Quality: Having Catalina Sanchez as a Hitting Partner.”

There was nothing else written on it, and I was laughing the whole time.

“Focus, Santi. You don’t want to be kicked out of the tournament during the first match, do you?” she asks after I’ve missed another ball by hitting it too wide. It went in the doubles alley instead of staying within the singles lines.

She storms toward the net, a scolding look taking over her face. I stay at the baseline, keeping my distance from her. It’s what I’ve been doing since New Year’s. It’s what I need to do while she’s still mad at me.

Otherwise, I’ll end up begging to touch her, and that isn’t a good look if Cata says no. If she doesn’t want me to.

“You make me nervous,” I reply, staring directly into her blue eyes from across the court. She leans a little against the net as she crosses her arms over her magnificent chest.

“What part of me makes you nervous, Santi? My tennis skills or my tits?” she challenges, clearly not having my ogling. I drag my gaze back to her face, feeling my features turning into a frown.

“All of you makes me nervous, Cata. I feel like you’re aiming for me with every hit, trying to hit me in the face or balls.”

This makes her crack a smile as she slowly backs away.

“I am.”

It’s her only reply before she serves the ball, an underhand serve she places perfectly in front of me.

I hit it back to her, doing my best to listen to her feedback in the same way she listens to mine.

I have this habit of being stubborn when it comes to my tennis.

It’s not a very flattering personality trait, thinking I know my tennis best and there is nothing I need to improve on because I am winning matches and I’m number one in the world.

I listen to Papá, but only because he’s my coach and he’s been in the world of tennis a lot longer than I have. He knows things I’ll never learn without his help.

But Cata?

I don’t have to take her criticisms under consideration. She’s my hitting partner, not my trainer. We’re stuck together because we’ve been forced to be this way.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t admire her tennis and want her to teach me, too.

I just have a harder time with it.

“Santi, stop aiming for the fucking line. If you aim for the line every time, you’re going to have your ball go straight back into the doubles alley,” Cata calls out from the other side of the court, waving her hands around in frustration.

“But if I don’t take risks, I won’t make points.”

I won’t entertain.

I’ll disappoint my fans.

I’ll disappoint everyone attending the match.

Cata studies me for a second before making her way back to the net.

This time, she doesn’t stop there. She jumps over it, more gracefully than anyone has a right to, and storms toward me.

Part of me thinks about running away as she stalks toward me like a predator, but another is so mesmerized by her , all I manage to do is observe every little movement of hers.

The way her long, brown hair sways with every step she takes.

The way her clothes shift against her skin. The way her eyes burn with irritation.

“What is it with you?” she asks, poking my left shoulder.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply, attempting to take a step away from her but my legs aren’t moving. One look at her, one inhale of her fresh and sweet scent, and I’m cemented in place, unable to escape Cata’s pull on me.

Her blue eyes study my face, as if she could find the answer to her question written in my features.

And perhaps she does, because what she says next is so accurate, it sends a chill down my spine.

“You’re scared.”

I try to play it off with a pfffft sound that I drag out, but she pokes me again to bring my attention back to her face.

“You are. You’re scared of failure. You’re scared of not being the golden boy of tennis anymore. You’re scared you won’t be good enough.”

This finally breaks her curse of enchantment—it has to be a curse because if I had it my way, I would not be attracted to her. I stumble backward ever so slightly, attempting to swallow the panic rising in my chest.

“You don’t know me. Don’t pretend you do,” I croak out, but it’s useless. Tears shoot into my eyes at the very thought of being exactly what she claimed I was scared of becoming.

A failure.

For the first time in years, Cata’s eyes soften in a way that gives me hope for our future.

“Santi, you don’t have to be perfect. I know everyone expects it of you, even your own parents, but being the golden boy is a ridiculous concept.

You should be whoever you’d like to be. Play however you want to play.

If that means taking risks, fine. But if taking risks puts more pressure on you, there’s no shame in playing it safe.

” Instead of poking me, Cata places her hand on my left pec, patting it gently once.

The gesture is so sweet, it has my stomach in such knots, I close the distance between us to place my forehead against hers.

I could lash out. I could tell her I’m number one and she’s number two, so what the hell would she know, but I don’t want to.

It would be bullshit, and I want her comfort.

I want her touch. I want her to calm me because, despite pretending I’m so put together, I’m actually terrified of getting kicked out in the first round.

I’d never live down the shame the media would put on me.

Santiago Castillo doesn’t even make it through the first round of the first major tournament of the season .

“Santi, there is no one watching us. You can stop with the act,” she says, but I don’t back away.

“Someone is always watching,” is my lame excuse. “Can I put my hands on your hips, mariquita ? Can I touch you?” Her hand hasn’t fallen from my chest, and I want to place mine on her throat to feel her quick heartbeat beneath my fingertips.

“No, Santi, you can’t. You need to stop touching me when people aren’t watching,” she says and moves away, my forehead no longer touching hers, her hand nowhere near me anymore.

“Why?” Defeat takes over my voice, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t comment on it.

“Because I can’t do this. Not again,” Cata says, lifting her hands as she backs further away. She shakes her head and sprints toward her bag, placing her racket inside.

I don’t try to stop her, and she doesn’t look back to see if I am. This confusing woman is not running to be chased, she’s running to be left alone and figure out her feelings, and I will not pressure her to do so on the spot.

Hell, I haven’t even figured mine out entirely.

This constant need to touch her and see her and… I shudder as the list continues on and on in my thoughts.

There is no point looking at any of those things too closely.

What Catalina and I have isn’t real.

We’re playing the happy couple for the world, but once the season is over and my deal with Papá is done, that’s it.

She’ll never want to see me again, and there is no way I can change her mind unless she allows me to.

Unless she offers me the piece of her that used to belong to me before I fucked everything up.

Pre-match jitters are a pain in the ass.

Once I’ve warmed up and the match starts, I’m fine. Beforehand? It feels like my organs are twisting to make knots.

When I was diagnosed with depression, I was also diagnosed with mild anxiety.

And while I’ve found coping methods for my depression, it’s not that easy with my anxiety.

It has a habit of only showing up before matches, so I haven’t figured out how to stop my heart from racing, my hands from tingling, or my breathing from turning shallow.

Music helps. Moving around helps. Doing breathing exercises helps.

But it’s still always there, always bothering me in one way or another.

This is only the first round, and I’ve been matched up with a player who doesn’t have a high ranking. He qualified to be in the Australian Open, which means he has a lot less experience.

That also means if I lose, it’ll look even worse on me.

Stop thinking like that, Santiago , I scold myself, something I have to do a lot before the match begins to keep my anxiety from sending me into a full-blown attack.

My opponent, Harry Jackson, is announced first. Then, my name is called, and I step out of the little area where we were told to wait.

With my tennis bag slung over my shoulder, I wave to the crowd, the entire stadium packed with fans.

They are screaming for me, and I am smiling as brightly as I can, soaking in their enthusiasm.

They’ll be here cheering me on, fueling me.

I take a deep breath that finally settles some of my nerves, but what has my anxiety levels dropping all the way is seeing Catalina with sunglasses pushed up the bridge of her nose as she sits in my box. She’s scowling, looking ready to rip someone’s head off, and I can’t help but grin.

She really is my little rain cloud.

The pre-match rituals are as they always are. Flip a coin to find out who will start serving, shake hands, take some pictures, do a bunch of sportsmanship things like saying “good game,” and then warm up.

I win the coin flip, which means I get to start serving. Harry chooses a side of the court, which is fine by me. There is no side that has more sun to blind us at the moment.

The warm-up calms me even more. We’re playing on a hard court, meaning the ball bounces higher and faster than on others.

It’s always a challenge to figure out how to adjust your hits to match the conditions you’re playing on, but after all my training sessions with Papá and Catalina, I feel confident.

I feel ready.

Before we start, I take one sip of water and wink at Cata. She remains in the same position, with her trained arms crossed in front of her chest, sunglasses covering her eyes, and a scowl on her lips.

She’s so divine, it hurts to look at her.

But what’s a little pain for a bit longer when my reward is looking at Catalina Sanchez as she plays my girlfriend.