Page 2 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

“Santiago Castillo? Are you kidding me?” I ask, but my manager and coach, Charlie, just grins at me.

They know about my history with the men’s number one tennis player.

“Why would you do this to me?” Charlie flat-out laughs.

They raise one of their trained arms to correct my position, their slender but muscular frame tall enough to make them have to bend down to help me.

“Hey, you’re the one whose scandal went international. ‘Women’s tennis number two in the world caught enjoying herself with two men in a hot tub,’” they recite the title of a news outlet’s headline, and I frown in response.

“I was not enjoying myself with two men. I wouldn’t do that in public, only in the privacy of my own bedroom,” I reply, curling the weights in my hands until my muscles burn.

Charlie smiles their devastating smile at me, and I let out a groan in response.

“How does my sitting in a hot tub with two strangers end up with me having to fake a relationship and become hitting partners with the man I hate the most in the world?” I ask, dropping the weights on the ground and taking several deep breaths.

“Well, image is everything, and the world seeing you date the golden boy of tennis? Becoming each other’s hitting partners for an entire season while you sit in each other’s boxes and watch one another win Grand Slams?

It’s every manager’s wet dream,” they say with that wonderful English accent, but all I can do is frown.

Sweat drips down the side of my face, so I wipe it away and let my head drop.

“I’d rather have someone run me over several times, put me back together, and then saw me in half than spend any alone time with Santiago Castillo. He’s the embodiment of my worst nightmare,” I say, picking up the weights again to go through my last set.

“Well, for the next few months, you’re going to have to pretend to be in love with him,” Charlie goes on, hovering their hands over my elbows to spot me.

I make a hurling noise, bringing a grin to their lips.

“Don’t be dramatic. You could do a lot worse than Santiago.

He’s incredibly hot.” No point arguing that, but his looks don’t make him any less exhausting to be around.

“Why do people care so much about my private life? Why does it matter how many people I sleep with?” I ask, my voice strained now because my muscles are protesting the curling motion.

“I don’t even sleep with that many! I was dating my ex-girlfriend for two years before we ended things, and since then I haven’t been with anyone because of something called trust issues.

Do you think they’ve ever heard of that? ” Charlie snorts.

“You’re a tennis player. Most of them get married young and start a family.

You barely ever hear any of them having the kind of sex lives Santiago and, allegedly, you have.

” I cock a confused eyebrow. “Wild,” Charlie adds to clarify.

“Not to mention, you’re a woman, making it even more scandalous.

A man would have more easily gotten away with it.

Santiago did for years and it only caught up to him now.

” I grunt in agreement, trying to breathe through the strain of the exercise.

“I think people need to start worrying about important things in the world instead of how many people I take to bed.” My coach takes the weights from me after my last rep, and I sink onto the bench behind me with an exhausted, “Ouch.”

“That’s not going to happen any time soon, so you have to play house with the man whose ass has made more front pages than I can remember,” Charlie swoons, forcing a chuckle out of me.

Charlie is only four years older than Santiago and me, something I’ve often found great comfort in because they understand me and my needs better than a coach and manager twenty years my senior would.

It has also allowed us to build a friendship like no other, and I can’t imagine my life without them anymore, even if we’ve only been working together for the last four years.

It’s hard not to get attached to Charlie.

They’re warm, kind, funny beyond measure, caring, intelligent, and they’re not afraid to give me a metaphorical kick in the butt when I deserve it.

“His ass might be the greatest I’ve ever seen, but it doesn’t change that he’s Satan incarnate,” I reply right as I move over to the bench press, getting ready to start my sets there.

“No, but it will make for a phenomenal view when you’re training with him and sitting in his box, watching him play.

” I can’t help it. I burst into laughter, which soon turns into a frustrated crying sound as I cover my face.

“There are worse things in the world of tennis that could have happened to you,” Charlie argues when I continue to pretend-cry into my sweaty arms.

“Are there?” I lift them to stare into their deep brown eyes.

“Yes.”

The look on their face reminds me that there is, in fact, something much worse. And it happened to them.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out when I realize my mistake.

“For what, Lina? It’s not your fault that they made me leave. It’s their fault for still not respecting a person’s pronouns, and I wasn’t going to be misgendered at every turn. Plus, I enjoy being your coach far more than fighting for any title,” they say, but I know it’s not entirely the truth.

I know they miss the matches, the tournaments, the glory. I know because I would too, and they’ve pretty much called me every imaginable thing a pansexual person can be called, especially while I was dating a woman.

When you’re in love with a sport, you do your best to make it better because it’s not the craft itself that is the problem.

It’s the people. So you do your best to make them more open-minded.

You fight for a change while you fight for the titles you always hoped you’d get.

It’s what Valentina Romana did in Formula One when she became the first female driver.

It’s what countless other female, trans, non-binary, and more athletes have done and are doing.

“You don’t need any titles or specific rankings for everyone to know you’re one of the best fucking players the world has ever seen,” I remind them, and the smirk covering their face is so instant, I grin.

“Maybe not, but maybe if I had both, my parents wouldn’t be such pains in the ass.” That makes me laugh.

“Yeah, they still would be,” I reply, and Charlie gives me an agreeing nod. Their parents love them, but they still wanted more for them than a career as my coach, not something I blame them for, no matter how grateful I am that Charlie chose me. That they continue to choose me no matter what.

We fall silent for a moment while I continue training, gritting my teeth as I push through the workout. But there is something I need to say out loud, no matter how often Charlie’s already had to hear me say it.

“I want to be the women’s world number one by the end of this season,” I say once we’re finished for the day.

My eyes are glued to my shaking hands, tired from the three-hour workout—playing tennis, endurance training, and weight-lifting. Even Charlie’s warm brown skin is glistening with sweat because of how tired they are from the day, their short, dark brown curls messier than they were when we started.

“You will be. You worked your ass off and it’s going to get you to the top, Lina. I know it will,” Charlie replies, taking my hands in both of theirs and flashing me an encouraging smile.

“I want to follow in Mamá’s footsteps,” I admit in a whisper because saying it out loud, putting that expectation out there, is terrifying. It’s my dream, but it’s also pressure beyond anything I’ve ever felt.

“Your mother currently holds the title for the most Grand Slams ever won, most matches ever won, and longest reigning number one in the world. If there is anyone capable of living up to her accomplishments, it’s you.

” Charlie gives my cheek a small nudge with their index finger, and I can’t help but smile in return.

“I think she’d have ripped the reporters a new one for writing that article about me and tainting my whole image,” I say with a small shake of my head.

My fingers slide upward to the tennis ball charm she gave me when I won a big tournament at my school. It was the last gift she gave me before she passed away.

“Oh, a hundred percent. I’m surprised you didn’t do it yourself,” Charlie says as they hold out their hands to help me off the ground.

“I would have, but you warned me you’d fill my bed with bugs if I did.” Charlie merely chuckles.

“I didn’t think that would stop you.”

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have, but I know better than to add gasoline when my career is the thing on fire.

I didn’t want to be kicked out of the WTA, especially not when I’m one of the youngest players ever to be number two, fighting for number one.

Nothing will stop me from becoming who I’ve always dreamt I’d be.

It’s just another thing that irritates me about Santiago.

He’s number one in the men’s ranking.

That jerk.

He’s also already won three Grand Slams while I have won… none. Not a single one. I’ve won most of the other small ones like the Monaco Open, Cincinnati Open, and more, which has pushed me into the number two spot. But winning one of the big tournaments is something I have yet to accomplish.

I’ve come second twice, but I’m hungry for the win.

It’ll happen this season, I’m sure of it. Even if Santi will be sitting in my box while it happens.

“You’re thinking about Santiago, aren’t you?” Charlie asks, and I cock my brow at them.

“Why the hell would you think that?” I ask as I grab my towel and water bottle from the ground, a sea turtle painted on the side of the bottle I take with me everywhere.

“Your cheeks are all flushed in the way they always are when you think about him,” they reply, making my eyes go wide.

“That’s disgusting,” I blurt out, raising my hands to my cheeks to feel how hot they are. Charlie snickers at my behavior before nudging me with their shoulder. “They don’t actually, do they?” I ask, but Charlie walks away, adding a skip to their step.

I run to catch up to them, jumping onto their back, but Charlie was expecting me, so their hands lift to catch my legs and secure me against their upper body.

“This season is going to be fun,” they say.