Page 3 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

Today is reunion day.

Whoop-de fucking-do.

Papá is in the passenger seat while I’m driving us to the tennis court that he and Charlie, Catalina’s manager and coach, agreed to meet us at. He’s grinning like he’s never been happier, and I feel like punching him in the arm.

“Having a great time, are we?” I ask him, and he turns to smile at me.

“If you're asking me if I'm enjoying the irony of Catalina being the one who is perfect for this ruse when you two have disliked each other since childhood, then yes. I'm having a phenomenal time,” he replies.

I roll my eyes and focus on the road ahead of us to ignore the fluttering of my heart.

“You know, you have another child you could focus all this energy on,” I point out, but he gives me an unaffected shrug.

“Manuela’s reputation is flawless. She and her doubles partner of five years are playing well, and she’s making her way to the number one spot in the women’s doubles players ranking.

I’m very happy with her,” he explains, although he doesn’t have to.

I know my sister is perfect. She does everything right.

“So, the only headache-inducing child I have will receive all of my attention, especially so I can make sure he behaves around Catalina.”

Ever since Papá told me she'd be my “girlfriend” and hitting partner this season, I started digging to find out why Catalina would have ever agreed to this. She despises me, can't stand even being close to me for longer than a minute, and the feeling is mutual.

Turns out, she was caught “having a fling with two men in a hot tub.” I almost burst into laughter when I read the article because what the fuck ?

These media empires have nothing better to do than spin stories out of nothing, and anyone with a little common sense would have seen they were strangers.

Catalina was on the far end of the tub, on her phone, and her body closed off from them.

At one point, I knew her better than most people. I watched the look of desire in her eyes when she wanted someone, wanted me even when she hated me, and the men in that hot tub were far from being on the receiving end of her lust.

“One season,” I remind myself, my hand gripping the steering wheel a little too hard.

“Unless, of course, you enjoy yourself,” Papá replies, causing me to snort.

Yeah, right, like that’s ever going to happen when I’m “dating” mi enemiga .

The rest of the drive passes in complete silence.

Minutes later, we’re walking onto the indoor tennis courts, and I’m trying my best not to suck in a sharp breath at the sight of her.

Catalina is half-English, half-Spanish, and all gorgeous. She has a pale skin tone, blue eyes, and long, straight brown hair. Her face and curves are a distraction, her thighs all thick with muscle. I can’t tear my eyes from the scowl on her lips, the dip of her hips, and the curve of her neck.

It’s infuriating to be attracted to someone you can’t stand being in a room with, but strangely exhilarating at the same time.

Catalina glares at me, her full, heart-shaped lips turning down as she watches me approach.

“I’ve changed my mind. You can quit as my coach. Nothing is worth this.”

Papá merely chuckles as he struts toward my new hitting partner. He bends down to give her a hug, and she smiles up at him in a way she’s never looked at me, ever.

“Alright, Santi, you can do this. It’s just one season.”

My pep-talk doesn’t help me at all.

“Hola, cabrón ,” she greets me.

She’s called me that for as long as I can remember.

“Hola, mariquita ,” I reply, standing in front of her with an easy smile and trying to ignore the summery scent coming off her because it’s intoxicating.

It always has been.

“I hope you’re able to keep up with me. I’m not going to take it easy on you,” she says, throwing her large, oval tennis bag over her shoulder and moving toward the court. Catalina doesn’t wait for me to follow, she simply expects it, and something about that already pisses me off.

Deep breaths.

One season.

“Nice to see you again, Charlie,” I mumble as I pass by them, actually meaning the words because Charlie is really cool.

I met them three years ago at a party where they were chugging down beer while doing a handstand.

They told me after they had a headache for weeks to come, but that it was worth it.

“Nice to see you too, handsome,” they reply with a small grin. “Happy to be here?” they add as we follow Catalina to the first court.

“Fucking ecstatic,” I say and drop my bag next to Cata’s black one.

She’s already stretching, trying to warm up while I get hypnotized by her. Her arms lift over her head, showing off the toned muscles there before bending over to touch her toes.

Holy hell.

I quickly look away because nope. I’m not doing this. I’m not admiring her for a second longer. She’s irritating, no matter how breathtaking I’ve always found her, every part of her.

Especially the scowl she directs at me all the time.

“Are you going to stand around all day or warm up, too?” Catalina asks without even turning around.

“Don’t you think we should go over the rules of our agreement before starting our training?” I ask, rolling my shoulders to wake up my rotator cuffs. Then, I move on to my hips, arms, and knees, waiting for a response from la reina as she takes her sweet time.

“I thought this was supposed to be for us to bond. You know, play some tennis, have a friendly competition, that kind of shit,” she says as she faces me again, seemingly done with her stretches.

“Do you honestly think we’d ever be able to bond or have a friendly competition?” I ask and cross my arms in front of my chest. Her eyes drift to my forearms, so I flex them a little more for her with a grin. She rolls her eyes but blushes as her gaze drifts to something behind me.

“How about this: if I win, I get to make seventy-five percent of the rules. If you win, you get to make twenty-five percent. Deal?” I frown at her as soon as the words have left her captivating mouth.

“Seriously?” A smirk curls the right side of her lips.

“Caught that, didn’t you? Huh. Sometimes I forget you’re not as stupid as you look.” Charlie bursts into laughter before slapping a hand over their mouth to stop themself.

“Winner makes a hundred percent of the rules, deal?” I offer, extending my hand for her to shake, a mirror image of Papá’s and my agreement a few days ago.

“You’re going down, cabrón ,” she says, ignoring my hand and taking her racket instead.

I can’t help but chuckle a little.

We’ve played against each other more times than I could count. In tennis, people often think men and women shouldn’t play against each other in matches for money because it would be unfair.

It just shows that those people haven’t seen Catalina play yet.

She’s quick, like me, and her serve is faster than most men I’ve played against. Yes, my forehand and backhand are physically stronger than hers in the sense of speed, but it’s also about placement in tennis, and Catalina is fantastic at it.

Irritatingly so. Not even I, who runs like my life depends on it during games, can get to her goddamn balls when she’s in control of the rally.

We warm up in silence, like two players would during a tournament. We move from forehands and backhands to volleys at the net, then overheads. Serves are the last thing we warm up before it’s time to decide who gets to start serving.

I’m ready to beat her in this friendly competition when, all of a sudden, Papá decides to interrupt us.

“Did you really think I’d let you off this easily today?” he says, causing my body to freeze in place.

Oh no.

“Charlie and I will be partners, versing you and Catalina. If we win, we make the rules. If you win, we’ll let you make the rules. Don’t bother agreeing or disagreeing. This is the way things will go,” he explains, and I feel anger settling deep inside my chest.

And here I thought Papá and Charlie were warming up to play on the other court. I should have known things would never be so simple with my father.

“Fine,” Cata says and struts over to where I’m standing. Breathing becomes more difficult when she lets her hair down for a minute to secure it in a ponytail instead of the bun she had it in before.

“Do you want the forehand or backhand side?” she asks when she’s in front of me, those blue eyes sparkling with shades of brown near the pupil.

“Your backhand is unreliable, so I’ll take that side,” I say, and she directs the meanest glare my way. I love riling her up too much to keep stabs like those to myself.

“When’s the last time you watched me play?” she challenges.

The last game you played before the season ended. You were down by five games in the first set and managed to win it anyway. You were also wearing a purple dress that seemed to have been made for you in every way possible.

“I don’t know. A few years ago?” I lie.

“Exactly. You have no idea how much my backhand has improved.” She’s right, it definitely has. It’s not her strongest shot, not like her forehand is, but it’s annoyingly good.

“If you say so, mariquita ,” I reply with a bored shrug of my shoulders, making her face turn red with anger.

A smile crosses my face before I can stop it.

Naturally, it only irritates her more.

“Fuck you,” she mumbles in Spanish as we get into our positions on the court, Cata squatting a little to get into position and ultimately showing off her ass.

Fuck me, indeed.