Page 15 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

Watching Santiago play tennis is, for lack of a better word, a pleasure.

The way that man moves is glorious.

He’s quick on his feet, powerful in his shots, and he really is entertaining to watch. When he misses a point in a long rally, he laughs at himself. When he wins a good point, he riles up the crowd until they’re screaming his name.

For some reason, he keeps looking my way as well.

In the first set, I didn’t move. He played so well, he won it six games to two. But the second set has me on the edge of my seat.

He’s currently down four games to two, and Harry looks determined to take this one from him. Santi has been making so many unforced errors this set, I can tell he’s out of the game a little.

Which means we have to bring him back into it.

“Santiago, get your head out of your ass and back in the game,” I say in Spanish as soon as he steps under his box to wipe sweat off his brow with his towel. Carlos chuckles beside me, for the first time today, looking less stoic.

“I’m trying. I lost my rhythm,” he replies in our mother tongue, looking all shades of overwhelmed. He’s usually more confident than this, has a better handle on his emotions. I’m the one who gets nervous when I’m down a few points.

Not him.

“If it’s because I’m sitting here, making you nervous, then I’m leaving.” It better not be. We’re both professionals. Santi should be able to separate his personal life from the match.

“If you go anywhere, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to your seat, mariquita ,” he says, throwing his towel back to where it was resting before, taking his racket.

“Get his service game,” I call out before he walks back to the baseline.

He needs a break, to win Harry’s service game, and he needs it desperately to get his confidence back.

I’m at the edge of my seat again, my leg bouncing up and down as I watch Santi squat, positioning himself to return Harry’s serve. He’s standing farther behind the baseline for the first serve, but when his opponent goes too wide, Santiago moves up, anticipating the second serve being slower.

Santiago returns it beautifully, placing it right in the corner where Harry can’t get the ball.

“ Vamos !” I call out and clap, just like the rest of the fans. Santi throws me a small smile, clearly enjoying how invested I am.

Santiago wins the second point as well, making it love-thirty for him. I momentarily get distracted by his thick, trained thighs as the muscles in his legs flex. Then, I get distracted by his round ass again before finally shaking my head and refocusing on the match.

This is why I don’t watch Santi play anymore.

He looks mouth-wateringly good.

Especially in that dark blue outfit his sponsor, New Light, put him in.

No sleeves for his shirt, naturally, because it shows off his massive arms.

I think Santi may be allergic to sleeves.

“How’s he doing?” Charlie asks as they join me in Santi’s box, handing me a bottle of water. I told them I forgot one earlier, and they nearly ripped my head off over the phone.

A day before your first match is not the time to be dehydrated , they scolded me.

“Better now that Catalina yelled at him to get his head out of his ass,” Carlos chimes in, but then we all fall silent when they start playing the next point.

Santiago’s return is slower, positioned right at Harry’s feet, so his opponent hits it back to him, taking control of the rally.

My breath catches in my throat as I watch them hit the ball back and forth.

Santi attacks the ball and approaches the net, volleying it in a way that the ball goes deep into the court.

Harry barely catches it, hitting it high so that Santiago overhead smashes it, winning himself the point.

Love-forty.

He has three break points.

Good.

There is a bar on the edge of the balcony of the box where I’m sitting with Carlos, his mother Alana, and the rest of Santi’s team, and I grab hold of it. It steadies me a little.

“Come on, Santiago,” I mumble as I watch him get into position once more.

Harry places his serve in the left corner of the service box, and Santiago barely manages to return it.

It goes short, so Harry attacks it, sending it to the other side of the court.

I’m watching my fake boyfriend run for his life, somehow getting to the ball.

He hits it back, but Harry is at the net, which means he’s quick about positioning the ball on the other side of the court again.

Santi already anticipated that though, and gets to the ball once more. This time, he sends it straight down the court, away from Harry. It lands on the singles line, earning him the point and getting him that break he desperately needed.

I’m out of my seat, cheering and clapping for him as pride consumes me.

I blame my love for tennis for this visceral reaction.

Santiago won his match in three sets yesterday. After he got the break, he took every game in the second set, and then he won the third six games to one. It was impressive, to say the least.

Today is my turn.

I’m playing against Maria Timmons, number twenty-seven in the world in the women’s singles ranking. I’ve played her several times already in the past.

I’ve won every match so far.

Charlie told me Maria has been struggling on the hard court from what they saw when they were sneakily watching her train this morning.

I almost burst out laughing at my coach’s face when they were telling me how they put on a cap and jacket to hide.

I assured them I wasn’t too worried about Maria.

I’m worried about my biggest rival—besides Santi.

Layla Adel is number one in the world, and she’s an incredible tennis player.

She’s also one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, but I still want to take that number one spot for myself.

I’m going to take it this season.

My back bothers me a little as I warm up with Maria, getting ready for my first match.

Usually, I would have started with the Brisbane International tennis tournament, but Charlie and I agreed that with everything happening with my reputation, and Santiago becoming my hitting partner and fake boyfriend, it would be best to skip it.

It isn’t required for tennis players to partake in every single tournament.

There are specific ones we have to do—like all of the Grand Slams, eight specific tournaments of the ATP or WTA, and so on—and with everything going on in my life, I have decided to focus on the required tournaments for this season.

And fuck, it’s a busy season.

I have sixteen tournaments lined up, while Santi has eighteen because, of course, he does.

Overachiever .

The coin toss determines Maria will start serving, so after we’ve warmed up, I take one last sip of water, wipe the sweat off my forehead with my towel, and smooth a hand down the front of my dress.

Vanessa outdid herself with this design.

Unlike so many other tennis dresses, the shorts underneath are actually much longer and have pockets to slip my second ball into when I serve.

It’s just the right amount of tight to keep everything in place while also being airy enough to let me move with ease.

This dress wasn’t designed to simply look good, which of course it does as well. It was made for comfort and practicality.

Another reason to love Spin and Ness.

My eyes drift to my box where Charlie, Santiago, and the rest of my team are sitting.

Usually, my family would sit beside my physio, agent, Charlie, and now Santi, I guess, but Hernanda and Samuel have school, and Ori is too busy with work to join.

Dad has to take care of them, so there is no way he could be here either.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it’s hard not to miss them.

It’s hard not to miss my mother every single time I think about her not being here. She never got to see me participate in these tournaments. She never got to see me play on the courts that she won her grand slam titles on. She never got to see me make a name for myself.

Santiago throws me a smile I can only describe as soft and gentle, as if he can sense my sadness and is trying to comfort me with that expression alone. I give him a tight nod, swallowing down every little piece of my hurt to focus on winning this match.

Returning is one of my stronger areas. I often preferred it to serving because there was always something that felt off during my serve. My back would ache for a split second after I hit the ball, but a split second is a long time when I have to prepare for my opponent to return the ball to me.

It doesn’t happen as much anymore.

My serve has been feeling a lot better since Santi’s tips, and, as much as I still hate him, I’m so grateful I don’t have to dread my serve as much anymore.

That doesn’t mean I’m not still a fantastic returner.

Maria’s serve isn’t necessarily fast, but she places it in the corners of the serving box, making it more difficult for me to recover quickly.

Her first one goes into the net, so I move up the court, getting closer to the baseline.

My eyes are trained on her until the moment the ball flies toward me.

I jump a little for my split step, positioning myself to attack the ball slightly more than I would be able to on a first serve.

I send it down the line, away from where Maria is, earning me the first point of the match. Without celebrating, I move on to the second, walking toward the other side of the court to receive the serve.

The first set flies by, and I win it six games to three.

Maria is getting frustrated with me continuing to take service games from her, and she’s started groaning in frustration when she misses a ball.

It’s not uncommon for tennis players to be very vocal during a match.

Men and women have been grunting and screaming for decades, but unless I use a lot of force or am very tired, not a sound comes from me.

Not even when I win a particularly good point.

I think it irritates my opponents even more, and it’s definitely one of the reasons the crowds never know what to do with me.

They love it when Santiago screams “ VAMOS !” from the top of his lungs.

They love it when he places a finger to his ear and waves his other hand around to get the crowd to scream louder for him.

I’m more stoic. Controlled. Unwilling to give them any reason to criticize me or doubt my sportswomanship.

“More footwork, Lina,” Charlie says as I place my towel in its designated spot at the back of the court after the break between sets is called to an end.

“You’re not getting to enough balls. You’re watching after them instead of running, and I need you to try a little harder, okay?

” they go on, and I throw them a look I hope reveals what I think of their instructions.

“You need to pay closer attention, Charlie. I’m on every ball,” I complain, the exhaustion making me a bit grumpy.

Technically, it’s not forbidden anymore to listen to your coaches when you’re on the side of the court where they are, but there is a time limit until we have to start playing again, and mine is running out. I don’t look at Charlie or Santi as I twist my racket and prepare for Maria to serve again.

Her serve has been getting worse and worse with every game that she gets more frustrated, and I use that opportunity to attack her second serve more, running to the net to win my point there.

It’s what I do in the first point of the set, sprinting to the net to volley the ball back.

She goes cross-court, and I backhand volley the ball, making my way to the center line.

Maria goes down the line, but I forehand volley it, a short hit that lands right in the corner of the service box.

She doesn’t manage to get it.

“Come on!” Maria screams, raising her racket as if to smash it on the ground, but she stops herself a second before she makes contact.

I simply move on to the next point.

My eyes catch sight of Santiago’s smug smile as I grab my towel.

“Stop that,” I call out in Spanish, not looking at him.

“Can’t. The way you play, Cata… It’s fucking magnificent.”

The compliment has the corners of my mouth curling, but I hide the expression by wiping my face until it’s gone.

The rest of the match is easy. Because Maria is so rattled, she doesn’t even try to go for my balls anymore when I hit drop shots or go wide in the corners. She lets it happen, almost like she’s already given up.

Which is a damn shame because when I win, I don’t feel accomplished.

It’s easy to win against someone who gives up.

It’s infinitely harder to win against someone who will throw everything they have at you, even when they’re losing.