Page 21 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

Two regrets gnaw at me today.

One, I could have played better yesterday and won my first title.

Two, I almost kissed Santiago, and if Charlie hadn’t walked in, I would have.

It wasn’t because I was sad either. It wasn’t because he was the only one who was there and comforting me.

It was because he’s been doing everything in his power to allow us to grow closer, and no matter how much I’m fighting it, fighting this draw he has on me, it’s impossible.

Santi has always been irresistible to me because of his smile, the way physical touch is his love language, and the way he cares for people.

His good looks and charisma are the cherries on top, and with his maximum effort put into getting me to like him, I have found myself inching closer and closer, blurring the line I drew between us after what happened years ago.

But it can’t happen again. When this season is over, Santi and I will go our separate ways. We will “break up” for the whole world to witness, and then we will never see each other again.

It’s what I told him I wanted only a few weeks ago.

So why does the thought of not constantly being around him make me feel so… sad?

“He’s got this. You don’t have to look so scared,” Carlos says, dragging me out of my thoughts. I look up at Santi’s dad, a man who looks identical to him, from his dark brown hair to his tan skin and amber eyes.

“I know he does. I’m not worried,” I reply.

I’m not worried Santi will lose today. I’m worried about the feelings I’m developing for him again. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve felt something for Santiago Javier Castillo.

In a way, I wish it was because then I wouldn’t have the regret from last time reminding me what a horrible decision it is to feel anything but contempt for the man with the tree trunks as thighs and the sunshine smile.

Charlie settles down in the seat beside me, placing a comforting arm around my shoulders as we watch Santi warm up for his match with his rival of the day, world number four, Blake Houser.

Normally, this box is for Santi’s team and friends.

It isn’t for Charlie, but he allows them to be here, with me, every single match.

He knows that their company brings me a lot of comfort, and the jerk seems to be obsessed with my happiness these days.

“How are you feeling?” Charlie asks for the third time today, and I lean into their embrace.

“Like ass. But I have to put on a show. For Santi. For our fake relationship.” And if I’m being honest, being here distracts me from my failure and all the dark thoughts it comes with.

Wondering if I’ll ever be good enough to win a title.

Wondering if I’ll ever be good enough to become number one.

Wondering if I’ve wasted my life in a sport that I will never be as good at as my mother.

Wondering if she’d be disappointed in me if she could see how often I’ve failed at something she excelled at.

“Fuck the pretense, Catalina. If you’re not feeling up for it, we will leave.”

There are no words for how much I love Charlie.

They are my best friend, without a shadow of doubt, and they’re always in my corner when I need them.

It shouldn’t be possible to be so close to someone who manages my career and kicks my ass in training more often than not, but somehow, we make it work.

“That’s not very managery of you,” I say with a small smile, and they squeeze my shoulder.

“Your mental health will always come first.”

Their lips find the side of my head before they let go of me entirely, clapping along with the rest of the people present here in the Rod Laver Arena for the final match of the Australian Open.

I clap too, watching Santiago and Blake get ready to start their first set.

My fake boyfriend has this habit of looking at me before, during, and after his matches, and he does the same now. His eyes meet mine, and I give him a single nod, my scowl firmly set in place even as he smiles at me.

The first half hour of the match is uneventful.

Blake started serving, and there have been no break points for either of them.

It’s three games to three, both of them so evenly matched that not even I have any clue how Santi could adjust his game to be more aggressive and fight for a break point.

He already plays a lot more aggressively than most, but Blake has been in the world of tennis for a lot longer than Santi.

He’s more experienced, and he has this way of anticipating what Santi is about to do before he even raises his racket.

“He needs to approach the net more,” I tell Carlos after three more games, the score now five games to four for Blake.

“It’s risky. Blake is too good at placing his shots wherever he needs them to go with consistency,” he replies, our voices quiet as we wait for both players to finish their water breaks.

They only have ninety seconds between games, two minutes between sets, but those can feel like an eternity for me.

I don’t like sitting still at any point in my matches.

I know it’s important, Charlie always tells me it is, but I have this irrational fear that if I sit down during a match I’m doing well in, I’ll lose my rhythm.

“Yeah, but if he keeps going like this, I can assure you, they’ll be fighting out every set in tiebreaks, and Santi isn’t the best at those.”

As if he heard my words, Santi looks up at me, smiling in amusement.

Since he’s already looking at me, I lean forward in my seat, placing my hands on the railing in front of me like I did last time.

I mouth the words, “Approach the net more,” in Spanish for him, and he tilts his head, confused.

I mouth them again, and this time, his eyes widen in understanding.

His eyes drift to the net as he seems to consider my words, then he slowly starts nodding repeatedly.

“I hope it won’t come back to bite him in the ass,” Carlos says, but I shake my head.

“No, Santi is fantastic at the net. He has to start approaching it,” I say, hearing Carlos chuckle beside me. “What?”

“You two were so set on being against this relationship, against becoming hitting partners, but both of you are absolutely amazing at it. Down to pretending you care even when no one is watching.”

My lips seal shut, but if I didn’t respect him so much, I would shoot Carlos a disgusted look. Unfortunately, I think he’s a great coach, a good father, a kind human being, and an amazing tennis player.

Plus, he’s not wrong.

I care. No one is watching me right now, they’re too busy focusing on the match, and yet, I care so much I try to find ways to help Santi win.

I could blame my love for tennis, but if that were the case, I might as well give Blake tips on how to beat Santi.

Except only thinking about that makes me sick to my stomach.

Santiago moves to the baseline on his side of the court, waiting for the ball kid to hand him three balls. He inspects them carefully before giving the ball back, sliding one of them into his pockets and bouncing the other on the court.

“ Vamos , Santi.” I clap after the words have left my mouth, encouraging him.

His eyes are trained on the ball, but he smiles like he’s very happy I’m so invested. He should only be focusing on his match, but this man apparently has time to be distracted by me anyway.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Santi is obsessed with me.

His first serve of the game is aggressive, sending Blake to the side far enough, that Santi has a chance to run to the net and volley his return to the other side of the court.

A bright smile covers his face as he spins to point his racket my way.

He uses his left hand and the face of the racket to clap, clearly applauding my advice.

I blush instantly, sliding down in my seat to avoid the way several hundreds of eyes move in my direction.

It’s pointless, but trying makes me feel a bit better.

The second point he wins is an ace. The third one is an unforced error from Blake, and the fourth is a forehand winner from Santi, a powerful shot that has me standing up and clapping.

It’s now five games to five.

“Get that break, Santi,” Carlos calls out from beside me as his son wipes his face with his towel. He doesn’t look at his father, but he nods, acknowledging the words.

Blake is still composed despite how badly he lost the previous game, but he’s not known for being quick to anger on the tennis court.

I think in his entire fifteen-year career as a professional tennis player, he’s slammed his racket against the ground once.

Even Santi has done so more frequently out of frustration, but he has never broken a racket.

In general, it’s against the rules to break your rackets or be so angry you behave unsportsmanly. You either get warnings or, if it happens often enough, you get disqualified. Tennis is very strict when it comes to respecting your equipment, opponent, and all the people who make a match happen.

It’s unlike many other sports.

Santiago battles for every point in this next game.

He approaches the net twice, winning one more point and losing another to a mistake he makes.

All in all, I think approaching the net more is helping him in the way I hoped it would, and he even starts becoming more creative.

More like his usual playing. He switches between forehand and backhand winners, dropshots, and volleys.

He’s doing so well, minutes later, he finally has a break point. The first of the match.

I hold my breath as Blake positions himself at the baseline, bouncing his ball as he prepares to serve. His first one goes too long, and his second one is slow enough for Santi to hit it hard and place it in the corner, another forehand winner.

“Let’s go!” I call out as the crowd cheers, roaring in the way they tend to do for their favorite players.

Santi points at me again, then places his index finger on his temple. I throw him a kiss because everyone is watching us, and it feels like the girlfriend thing to do. He blushes so violently, I can’t help feeling one creep up my neck too.

Carlos chuckles, but this time, I nudge him in the side, trying not to feel as embarrassed as I do. Not because I’m embarrassed Santi and I had a moment. We’ve been having those for weeks. I’m embarrassed that it felt real and the whole world watched.

Santiago brings his service game home, securing him the first set of the game.

One out of three.

The way he’s playing right now, there is nothing standing in his way of winning this title.