Page 18 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

Catalina hugged me.

For several minutes.

I smile every time I think about it.

Yes, she touched me before. She couldn’t stop touching my body in the park, but there is a difference between touching someone out of desire and touching them because you’re so overcome by emotion, the only thing you can do is hold onto them.

To let them hold you in return and steady you while you work through the truckload of emotions hitting your chest.

That’s what that hug was yesterday, and fuck, I know it was just a hug , but it was one from Catalina. They’re as rare as seeing a shooting star in the night sky, and they feel as good as a warm bath after a physically exhausting day.

“Semi-finals, Santiago. I’m going to need you to stop thinking about Catalina long enough to win this match,” Papá says, dragging me out of my thoughts.

“I’m not thinking about her,” I lie, still stretching to warm up.

“And I don’t think about your mother twenty-three hours a day. We can lie to each other, but it won’t get us anywhere,” he replies, making me grin. God, that man is so wrapped around Mamá’s finger. It’s adorable.

“You think about her in your sleep?” I challenge, but he crosses his muscular arms over his chest and smirks at me.

“Naturally. She is the star of all my dreams. Isn’t Cata the star of yours?” I throw my towel at his head, but he catches it with a chuckle.

Manuela appears in my warm-up room, the dark circles underneath her eyes making my heart drop. She told me she was going to be here before my match, but she sounded okay over the phone. She didn’t sound like she looks.

Devastated.

“Manu, que pasó? ” I ask, standing up and taking three quick strides toward her. My hands find her arms, and she lets me hold onto her as she tells me something that shatters my heart for her.

“She broke up with me,” she says, tears filling her already reddened eyes. Manu must have been crying a lot since it happened, and I feel even worse for not having been there for her.

“I’m so sorry,” I say and pull her into a hug. She lets it happen for several seconds before stepping back and letting out a breath.

“It doesn’t matter now. Go win your match. We can talk after.” I’m not happy with that at all, but Papá pulls Manu into a bear hug, offering her comfort. She starts sobbing into his chest, and I realize she doesn’t need me.

My sister needs her parents.

I shove all of that aside, no matter how much I don’t want to.

There is a match I have to win. Cata will be watching, too, which means I have to be even more impressive. We already practiced early this morning, when she wore a shirt that read, “Women should rule the world.”

She seemed very content with my consistency. In turn, I was impressed with the drop shots, volleys, and overhead smashes she was hitting my way.

Her listening to my feedback and adjusting her game to take more risks, try out more things, is hopefully going to help her win her first Grand Slam this week.

She’s so close. Yet again, she’s only two matches from winning a title, and I want that for her.

I want her to know what it feels like to soak in the glory of winning a tournament like this.

Plus, it would help her immensely in getting closer to overtaking Layla as the number one female tennis player in the world.

My competition of the day is Winston Finnick.

He’s number four in the world, and I’m a little more nervous this time than I was last time.

My anxiety has my hands shaking and my heart racing, but I take several deep breaths, holding them for a few seconds, before releasing them again.

The sight of Cata eases the feeling of panic even more, and I wish I knew why all it takes to settle me is that grumpy look on her face.

She’s locked down her feelings once more, even after how much we bonded yesterday, but I don’t mind.

I know what happened between us.

She knows.

Nothing can take that away from us.

My thoughts are interrupted by the umpire urging me to meet Winston at the net so we can flip the coin, like it’s done before every match.

We take pictures, we shake hands with the umpire, and then it’s time to warm up.

I’m allowed to start serving once more, which is a nice change from the three-in-a-row matches I was not allowed to begin.

“Remember, his backhand is his strongest shot. Go for his forehand,” Cata says as I drop my towel in its proper place. I nod but don’t look at her again because I’m trying to focus.

We’re in the Rod Laver Arena, which is the main court during this tournament. As the number one player, they always put me on the main one. It’s how it’s done in tennis.

I notice several people staring intensely at my arms, which are covered by nothing. There is a reason the designer of New Light never puts sleeves on my shirts. Well, except during Wimbledon, but only because they have certain rules there that need to be abided.

The umpire says what she needs to and then we’re finally allowed to start the game.

My nerves settle even more as I position myself at the baseline, near the center of it.

The toe of my shoe points to the outer pole of the net, my left hand holding the ball to serve and my right holding my racket in the proper grip.

I take one more deep breath as I bounce the ball, drowning out the rest of the world.

People who don’t play tennis wouldn’t understand how much this simple bouncing motion helps center a player. How it prepares them for the rally that could win them or cost them a point.

For me, it’s vital.

As a fast server, I welcome the opportunity to set the tone of my match. And today, I set it by serving an ace right down the center line at two hundred and twenty kilometers per hour—which is fucking fast—and leaving Winston standing in the same spot, frustration already seeping in.

No part of me is planning to take it easy on him. That is not who tennis players are. Any athlete, really. We come to win, and we will fight with everything we’ve got.

The first game goes to me, and it takes mere minutes.

The second game also goes to me, which is not good for him but fantastic for me.

The third game is mine as well. I don’t celebrate the shots he doesn’t get in, only the ones I place well in the corners or the drop shots I manage to surprise him with, so he doesn’t reach them in time.

The first set flies by, and he only manages to win two of his service games.

We sit down for the set break, and I take a sip of my electrolytes, water, and even bite off a piece of my banana to keep up my energy.

While I’m playing well so far, I have to ensure I continue to do so until I have secured three sets.

The afternoon sun is blinding on one side of the court now, the one I’m occupying at the moment.

Catalina, Papá, Mamá, Manu, and the rest of my team are on the opposite side, and I have to squint my eyes a little in order to see them.

Catalina is wearing her sunglasses, like always, and Papá is talking to her about something that makes her nod over and over.

Manu has her expression shut down, and I do my best to breathe past the worry in my chest.

Winston pulls my attention to him as he positions himself across the court from me, and I get ready to serve again.

I win the first game of the second set without much of a threat from him.

But when we get to his service game, he steps it up so much, I’m struggling to get to his balls.

He’s in full control of most rallies, and I have no idea what the fuck happened to make him come back so strong after the set break.

“ Joder ,” I mumble to myself after he wins his game in four points, which means I made no points.

I wipe my face with my towel, then my hands.

My eyes drift to Cata without meaning to, and I notice she’s lifted her sunglasses to let me see the determination in her blue eyes.

She shifts them to where Winston is wiping his face, too.

I love that my little rain cloud glares at him like she wants me to rip his head off, and I love it even more when I remember that she used to look at me that way, but now her expression softens when she glances my way once more.

The message is clear, no words needing to be spoken.

Determination sets in stronger than ever before.

My next service game is another easy win because he’s still struggling to get my fast and well-placed serve, so I focus on his service game.

I want to steal it.

Winston gets ready to serve, his body turned the other way than mine would be because he’s left-handed.

He usually places the ball wide in the service box, so I stand a bit nearer to the edge of the court, anticipating where he’s going to go.

If he were me, he’d go down the center line, but he isn’t.

He goes wide, as I expected, and I send the ball straight down the court.

Winston somehow makes it to it, but I’m already running to the net to volley it to the other side of the court.

With a beautifully placed backhand volley, I win the point.

The crowd roars my name, and I smirk to myself as I take it all in.

They love me. I’m their golden boy. They want me to win, so I’m going to win for them.

I’m going to give them the final they’re hoping for, now that my biggest rival and number two player in the world RenjunChoi got kicked out in the quarter final.

Playing against him is a challenge because he’s basically a wall, every shot gets back to you if you don’t switch things up.

Winston places the serve near the center line this time, but since it’s his second serve, it comes slower, and I have enough time to react.

I return the ball, and it lands right in front of him.

He takes control of the rally, making me run left to right to left, then forward toward the net.

I’m sprinting to get every ball, and when one of his shots hits the net but drops down my side close to the front, I practically stumble to get it.

I don’t know how the fuck it lands on the opposite side of him, making it impossible for him to catch it, but my heart almost explodes from happiness.

“ Vamos !” I scream, hearing Catalina yell the same word. I lift my hand and rile up the crowd, my eyes finding my fake girlfriend. She’s standing and clapping, punching the air with her fist proudly.

It’s in that moment when I realize I’ve always loved celebrating with my team, but I was missing her up there all along.

I was missing my ex-doubles partner and rival, turned enemy, turned fake girlfriend, sending more victory through my veins, even if it’s just for one point.

Granted, it was a difficult, nearly impossible point to get, but it’s just a point.

I have yet to win the match.

For the last time today, I serve my ball fast and wide, an ace that wins me the match and sends me into the finals.

A victorious sound leaves my lips, and I face my team directly as I let it out.

Cata is standing again, clapping and nodding because she’s still so proud of me, and Papá, Mamá, and Manu mimic her stance.

The adrenaline has my heart racing as I walk toward my bag. I take my time removing my shirt and putting on the hoodie New Light made me. I add the watch from my other sponsor and then drink some more water.

After every match, except the final, the person who lost leaves the court while the person who won stays to get interviewed.

Today, I’m getting interviewed by tennis legend Nicholas Gonzales.

He’s got a warm smile on his face, his brown eyes sparkling with the kind of pride I wouldn’t have expected him to feel for me.

I’ve only ever met this man twice, but perhaps he’s proud of me because I play for Spain, just like he did.

“Well done, Santiago. What a match you played,” he starts, and I smile at him as I stand behind the microphone they put on the court for me. It’s in a stand, so I don’t even have to hold it. I can simply talk into it, which helps with all of my pent-up nervous energy.

“Thank you,” I reply, my attention drifting behind him where Cata is sitting, watching me.

“Honestly, the crowd is amazing, and having my girlfriend here to support me for the first tournament has spurred me on even more,” I say, and the people go wild in their seats, whistling and screaming.

My cheeks heat a little, but Cata just covers her eyes, which have widened ever so slightly, with her sunglasses and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

I didn’t have to do that. After our date yesterday, pictures of us have circulated everywhere.

Ever since the beginning of the tournament, people in the tennis world have not stopped discussing our relationship.

How we sit in each other’s boxes. How I look at her. How we seem perfect for one another.

So, I didn’t have to lay it on so thick, but it isn’t a lie.

I love having her here.

And I don’t have to fake a thing when I tell the world that.