Page 19 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

“We wish we could be there,” Ori says, and I offer her, Hernanda, and Samuel a sad smile. They’re all video calling me before the final game of the Australian Open. A couple of days ago, I won my semi-final match and made it into the final.

To play against Layla.

My hands have been shaking all day, but I try to ignore them as much as I can, especially in front of my siblings.

Hernanda and Samuel expect me to always stay put together.

I’m their older sister who has been like a parent figure for them most of their life.

I cannot fall apart from nerves and self-doubts.

They wouldn’t know what to do, especially because they’re still so young.

I cannot burden them with any of my problems.

“I wish you were here, too, but hey, at least Hernanda didn’t have to miss the golf tournament where she won another trophy,” I say with the biggest grin on my face.

Hernanda’s pale skin turns a dark pink shade around the apples of her cheeks as she blushes.

Her dark brown eyes sparkle with pride she’s trying to hide.

“It was nothing,” she mumbles, moving out of the frame so the attention is no longer on her. She’s the shyest out of all of us Sanchez’s, even with her family.

“How about me winning the Science Fair trophy?” Samuel chimes in, but he doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

His whole face lights up with it, and I welcome his happy expression.

My little brother is the most confident of us all.

He’s smarter than anyone his age has a right to be, and he’s also extremely popular with all of his classmates.

“You did? Congratulations, Sam, I am so proud,” I say, tears shooting into my eyes. I keep stretching to warm up, taking several deep breaths to get rid of the emotion weighing heavily on my chest.

“Thank you! And thank you for my new wheelchair. My last one kept stalling randomly,” he explains, but I already knew that.

Ori had spoken to me about his need for a new wheelchair.

He has spina bifida, which caused him to be born without the ability to walk.

Before I became a professional tennis player who earned a lot of money, I vowed I would earn enough to buy my brother a wheelchair that worked better than what he had to struggle with before.

I bought him one a while ago, a good one, but a wheelchair can only last so long until there are some issues with it.

And even if they can be fixed, I have the means to continue to buy my brother the top-of-the-line ones for his comfort.

“Anything for you, Sami,” I reply, and he throws me a kiss before putting his hands on the sides of his wheelchair and rolling out of the frame, leaving Ori and me alone.

“I know you’re very nervous. I know this feels like an impossible task, but no matter what happens today, I am so proud of you. Mamá would be so proud of you, hermanita . You have accomplished so much in your twenty-four years. You will achieve so much more.”

I appreciate what she’s trying to do, but it’s not helping.

Not today.

“I have achieved nothing that Mamá had achieved at my age. I have not won a title. I have not been number one at any point. If I don’t win today, I have a horrible feeling hopelessness is going to take over, and I won’t be able to find a way out.”

Layla has taken the first set.

Nothing I’m doing is working. It’s as if she’s prepared for any type of strategy I attempt to use to get a point. She is in control of every single rally. I hardly got any points in the first set. The crowd is mostly silent because they are so shocked at how horribly I am playing.

Okay, maybe that isn’t why they’re not cheering as much.

Perhaps they’re so quiet because they came for an epic match, but all I’ve given them so far is disappointment.

My face falls as I think about that, but my heart is racing too quickly for me to try to fight for a neutral expression to take over again.

When I’m losing, I get incredibly nervous.

Panic always wraps itself around me like vines around trees.

Tears sometimes fill my eyes too, like right now. The possibility of more failure, another Grand Slam lost, has my pain pooling in my eyes. I grab my towel and cover my face, taking deep breaths to fight back the urge to cry.

I used to do that as a child. When I was playing matches and was losing, I’d throw tantrums. I’d scream. I’d be so afraid of failing, I’d run off the court.

I’m not a child anymore, so I don’t run. I don’t scream. I certainly don’t throw tantrums, but I can’t help the way my body responds when I feel cornered. When nothing I do is working against Layla.

“ Inhala y exhala , Cata,” I tell myself, taking one deep breath and then releasing it again.

Things are far from over, and I won’t give up yet.

Once my tears are under control, I lower my towel again, grabbing my electrolytes. I take a big swig, then another sip of my water, still avoiding eye contact with anyone in my box. Santiago has been standing since the set break started, trying to get my attention.

I’ve been ignoring him.

I know what he’ll tell me.

Take risks, Catalina.

Get out of your comfort zone and try something new.

You won’t win if you don’t change things up.

And while he would be right about all of it, I have tried other things. I have taken risks, but Layla is too strong a tennis player.

It’s my turn to serve when the second set starts, and I hate that I have to put my towel where Santi, Charlie, and the rest of my team are sitting.

“ Carino , get out of your head. You won’t win if you keep overthinking everything. You have to feel the game.” Santiago’s words are nothing more than background noise I drown out.

Feeling the game is a bullshit concept I can’t do anything with. I need a strategy that works. I need to find a rhythm for myself that knocks Layla off balance.

I need, I need, I need.

The ball kid on my side of the court throws me several balls, and I inspect three of them before handing one back, sliding another into the pocket of the shorts that are under my dress, and bouncing the last one up and down. I take a few deep breaths, doing my best to focus on the game.

She will need two sets to win, and I won’t make this easy on her.

Mamá used to tell me five words to think about when I was losing. Five words that would give me back balance and help me win the game, even if it seemed hopeless.

Breathe.

Analyze.

Adjust.

Focus.

Win.

It’s almost as if she was giving me steps to follow. Breathe to slow my nervous heart. Analyze the game. Adjust according to my analysis. Focus on going through with my new plan. And win.

Simple enough when one looks at it from such a two-dimensional view.

Things are never so easy, though.

“ Vamos, mariquita ,” Santi calls out before the whole crowd in the Rod Laver Arena goes silent as I prepare to serve.

My first serve goes too far, which doesn’t help with my whole “recentering” thing because it only makes me feel even less confident. My hands start shaking as I bounce the ball to get ready for my second serve.

It goes out, too.

A double fault is not fucking great at this point in the game. I swallow another wave of tears as I wipe my face with my towel. Love-fifteen.

What a way to start the set.

“Come on, Catalina,” I mumble to myself as I place the towel down again, letting one of the ball kids hand me three more balls. I repeat the same process as earlier, only this time, I don’t care which ball I choose. I pretend like I do for the crowd, but I’m not actually looking.

I don’t know how not to get rattled. It’s always been like this.

Sometimes I wonder how I even got the second-place spot in the world rankings, considering how horribly I react once I’m under pressure.

Tennis players are taught to deal with these feelings, to ignore the score and go one point at a time.

Seems like I didn’t get the fucking memo.

The second point of the game goes to Layla too, making it love-thirty.

More nerves continue to make my hands shake, and I barely keep my whole body from trembling.

“Thank you,” I hear the umpire say, and I realize the crowd has started chanting.

For… me.

They keep going, even as the umpire repeatedly tells them to quiet down, and I don’t miss that Santiago is the one screaming the loudest. Spurring me on. Encouraging me. Showing me he believes in me.

Crowds do this when their favorite players are losing, to try and build them up and give them new energy.

A new wave of emotion hits my chest at the realization of how many people support me, want me to win.

I thought most of the people here are Layla’s fans, and while they are, the rest that are mine are using their voice to the fullest extent.

There are rows upon rows screaming my name, urging me on in this tennis battle that I’m losing at the moment.

But when I serve again, and though it’s a fantastic serve, Layla’s return is too good for me to catch.

The next point, a break point for her, I lose, too.

She takes my first service game of the set, and all she has to do is bring home her service games until she reaches six games.

Which she does.

Layla wins the match in two sets, and I leave all of my fans, my family, my team, everyone disappointed once more as the Grand Slam title slips through my fingers and right into my biggest rival’s hands.

I fucked up.

This is entirely my fault.

And I want to scream at the top of my lungs because Mamá isn’t even here to hold me and tell me everything will be alright, that I’ll get another chance.

Tears fall and I don’t stop them this time.

I’m in too much pain to do so.