Page 22 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

It’s two sets to two.

It all comes down to this last set, and I’m fucking exhausted. I started off so well, winning the first set, but then everything went downhill for the following two sets. Blake has been so consistent and crafty, not even I could reach his shots for those two sets. I doubt anyone could have.

In the fourth set, I finally managed to get my act together, and I won it six games to four, so it’s all going to come down to this set.

Whether I have it in me to win or if I’m going to be too distracted and out of it to do so.

Which is fucking ridiculous because I want this.

I want this so much, it feels like I won’t be able to breathe properly until I have that win.

But seeing Catalina, one of the most amazing tennis players and the person who deserves to win her first title, lose another chance yesterday showed me that no matter how deserving you are, it all comes down to you.

I get to start serving in this set, which is a huge advantage. It offers me a confidence boost by being the one to lead the set if I manage to bring my service game through and not lose it to Blake.

He looks more and more tired with every game, and I’m hoping my stamina will get me this win. We’ve been playing for three and a half hours, and that’s a long fucking time in tennis matches. Three and a half hours, and we still have a set left.

My body is exhausted, but there’s no letting up yet.

I have to win this.

Because every time I look at Cata, I realize she needs me to win this for both of us.

My first service game of the set is a battle. We go from deuce—forty all—to advantage me to back to deuce. It terrifies me when he’s the one who has the advantage, but I manage to bring us back to deuce.

Sweat drips down the side of my face, down my back, and arms. It’s so hot, and I’m so exhausted, all I can do is wipe the sweat off my brow with the wrist sweatband I wear on my left arm.

I serve again, the score still deuce. It’s a well-placed shot down the center line, but Blake returns it as if it’s the easiest shot I’ve played all match long.

He aims for my backhand, so I hit the ball back to him, going for his backhand.

It’s not his strongest shot, so I do my best to keep this cross-court thing going, from my backhand to his.

He goes down the line, and I get to the ball, but it’s a reaching sort of shot. My eyes catch him running to the net at the same time, so I do exactly what he did, placing my shot down the line. He doesn’t reach it.

Advantage me.

I take a deep breath, not letting a sense of victory course through me yet.

It’s only when I serve again, another ace, and secure my service game, that I scream victoriously because, fuck, this was too close. It shouldn’t have been so close. If I want to win, I have to be in control of my service games and take his from him at the same time.

After another brief water break, we switch sides of the court again, and I’m finally back on Catalina’s side.

I mean, on my team’s side.

But my eyes do tend to drift to her more. I blame her shirt, which says, “Team Santiago” today, and I’ve never been so happy. Especially, because of the little ladybug resting on the O of my name.

“I know you’re tired, Santi, but you’re so close. You can do it,” Catalina calls to me as I place my towel down, clapping a little for encouragement.

“With my beautiful girl cheering for me, how could I lose?” The words slip free, but I wish I could catch them mid-air and throw them back in my mouth because what the fuck was that?

“Shut up, Santi,” she mumbles, leaning back in her chair. I notice a smile slipping onto her lips, but she covers her mouth to keep me from seeing it.

And suddenly, I don’t regret the words at all.

Not when my little rain cloud seems so positively impacted by them and any smile from her is a reward in itself.

Blake takes a long time to serve. There is a time limit between points, and he already got a time violation earlier, but this is all part of his strategy.

He’s trying to derail me, make me wait long enough to unsteady me and take me out of the game mentally.

He’s trying to irritate me so I make mistakes more easily.

It does irritate me, but he’s risking another time violation, which works in my favor.

“Time violation number two. Love-fifteen,” the umpire says, and the crowd cheers because they were also getting irritated with it.

Blake shakes his head and calls out something to the umpire, but she simply shakes her head, unimpressed with his arguments.

It’s an easy point handed to me, a major mistake on his part. If I can get three more points now, I will be able to snatch his service game, and then all I’ll have left is winning all of mine to win the match.

I can do this.

I make a mistake, an unforced error, on the next point, and I curse myself out for being such an idiot.

“ Enfocate , Santi!” I hear Papá call out to me. I turn to him and frown.

“ Ya sé ,” I mumble to myself, squatting a little again as I get in position to return the serve.

It’s a tedious battle, much like the first service game of the set, but when it’s advantage me, I take a deep breath, waiting for him to serve.

I hear Cata’s words ring in my ears when Blake misses his first serve.

I step forward, toward the baseline, and attack his second, slower serve.

My legs bring me to the net, jumping for my split step as I get ready to volley, but Blake lobs me, sending the ball flying too high for me to reach.

A gasp escapes me as I run back toward the baseline, but the only way I get the ball is by going between the legs.

A tweener I place right in the corner of the left side of his court side, opposite of where he’s standing.

“ Vamos !” I scream, taking his service game for myself.

The crowd goes back to cheering my name because they know how much this break point means to me. To the potential ending of this game.

I take my next service game easily, and to everyone’s surprise, Blake’s next service game goes to me as well. It’s four games to zero. I only need two more for another title.

Two more.

My next service game is another battle that has sweat dripping down my back and arms. I blow on my fingers where they grip my racket, because my hands are sweating too.

The heat is weighing heavily on me, but I’m so close.

I’m almost there. I serve over and over, winning a point, then losing another.

Our rallies have shortened significantly from what they used to be, but that’s mostly because we’re both exhausted.

We’ve been playing for over four hours.

I finally win my service game, which leaves his.

But I lose his game, dragging out the match even more.

My limbs hurt so badly, not even the adrenaline rush of playing is helping the way I feel. Taking a sip of my electrolytes, I draw on the very last strings of my strength, rolling out my neck and shoulders.

It’s five games to one.

All I have to do is win my service game to win the match, and I’ve been saving some of my energy in my serve for this very point in the match.

I ace my first serve.

I ace my second.

My third is a short rally because Blake hardly gets to my ball, and I run to the net to volley it to the opposite side of the court from him.

Forty-love.

I need one more point.

It’s me who risks a time violation now, but I need the extra seconds to prepare myself for this serve. I’ve been sending all of my other ones wide in the last three points, and I attempt the same now, but it goes out.

Fuck.

There are two ways I can play this now. I could risk it and serve my second serve at the same speed I did my first, surprising Blake. Or I could play it safe and hit it slower, as one usually would.

But I’ve never been one to play it safe, especially not when I have such a lead.

This time, I aim for the center line, and with the speed of it and the placement, Blake is too surprised to reach it.

I win with a fucking ace.

Dropping to my knees, a sound of victory, utter exhaustion, and relief bursts out of me, echoing through the arena before the rest of the people explode into cheers. My gaze flies across the court, right back to Catalina, where she is punching the air with her fist, screaming for me.

I don’t hesitate. I run to the net, jumping over it and briefly shaking Blake’s hand—we have to do this before we do anything else for sportsmanship—before moving to the umpire as well.

I drop my racket, only half paying attention while throwing my wrist sweatbands and the balls I had in my pocket to the crowd because I’m fixated on getting to my team.

To Catalina.

It takes me too long. I’m climbing over seats, a new burst of adrenaline giving me energy I didn’t have before. Security tries to keep the people away from me, but I’m too fast for the crowd anyway.

I need to get to her.

A sigh of relief escapes me as I reach my box, and arms immediately wrap around me from my physio and doctor, then follow Mamá’s and Papá’s.

I hug them back, even though my goal is still to reach Cata.

I squeeze my parents once more, then Manu, before finally stepping back and moving around them to step in front of her.

I expect it to be awkward, for us to stand together and stare at each other, but Catalina surprises me as she flings her arms around me, hugging me.

“I’m so sweaty,” I say, tears stinging my eyes because Cata is hugging me again right after I’ve won a grand slam, and there is hardly anything sweeter.

“I don’t care,” she replies, her fingers sliding onto the top of my nape to grip the hair there. “I’m so proud of you.”

“So proud you could finally kiss me?” I ask, making her snort into my ear. She tries to step back, but I’m not ready yet. I hold onto the back of her shirt, then push her closer by the small of her back. Her chest flush against mine.

“Santi,” Catalina says, and I realize she probably wants me to back away, so I attempt to step away when she suddenly reaches for my wrist, pulling me back toward her. “Fuck it,” she mumbles right before stealing my breath.

Cata’s hands find my cheeks, pulling my face down to hers and then she’s kissing me.

Catalina is kissing me.

Oh my God, my Catalina is kissing me .

Her mouth finds mine and the crowd explodes into even more cheers, but they slowly fade away in my head as I taste my fake girlfriend for the first time.

Well, as much as I can taste her with only her lips on mine.

I push my tongue a little against her lips, looking for permission, and if I had the strength to pull away, I’d beg for it.

But I don’t have to because Cata’s lips part as soon as she feels my tongue. It’s a slow kiss, the kind I hope gives her as many butterflies as it gives me. My hands move to her back, holding her as I kiss her longer, deeper.

This is the kind of kiss that sends someone to another dimension.

The kind of kiss you dream about but never think you will actually have.

This kiss is life-altering, and I know if I let this go on for another second, I will become addicted to Catalina Sanchez.

Who am I kidding?

I’m already addicted to her.

Catalina’s hands drop to my abs as I gently explore her mouth before she pulls back and buries her face in my chest.

The crowd is waiting for me, but this kiss couldn’t have been longer than fifteen seconds. I know because it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t nearly enough.

“Go, Santi,” she urges and pushes me softly toward the steps to go back down to the court.

Happiness has taken over every part of me, so I kiss her cheek before practically skipping all the way back to the court.

Winning the Australian Open and Catalina finally kissing me?

I don’t think I’m going to stop smiling any time soon.