Page 32 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

Sage is recovering well, even if she's very impatient about her healing journey. Things are not moving quickly enough for her, and I can't blame her. I'd probably be the same.

Between training, our matches, and Cata refusing to leave Sages' side, we haven't had a chance to do anything more than stare longingly at one another, which is fine with me for now.

I have waited a long time to get a chance with Catalina.

I can wait a little longer while she takes care of our friend.

Plus, I like spending time with Sage, especially when she scowls at all the nurses for giving her hospital food which she absolutely hates. Ness has been sneaking in other food for her, and I'm convinced it's the only reason she hasn't ripped anyone's head off.

Today, Catalina and I are playing in the finals of the Indian Wells Open .

We made it here by pretty much bulldozing through all of our opponents, never needing more than two sets to defeat them.

I don’t want today to be different, but we’re playing against Noah Volic and Bernadette Jowls, and they’re the best doubles players in the game right now. Well, before Cata and I started, that is, and I don’t care if it makes me sound full of myself—us, I guess—because we are that good.

We’re warming up, Cata rallying with Bernadette, and Noah and I doing the same. They’re both incredibly strong players, but before the match, Cata and I spent an hour studying their game.

“Noah’s forehand isn’t all there today. He’s making a lot of mistakes,” I tell Cata as soon as she approaches me after the warm-up. Noah and Bernadette are getting ready to start serving for this match.

“I suggest we aim our balls his way. He’s a bit less consistent than she is in general. He tries shots that always go too far or in the net,” she says, and I smile at her because watching her strategize and analyze is one of my favorite things about playing doubles with her.

“Yeah, he hits the balls really flat,” I agree, taking a step closer to her to make sure no one can hear our words. Bernadette and Noah are huddled together, Noah covering his mouth with a ball as he speaks to his partner, a common tactic in doubles.

“We can do this,” she says, encouraging us, and I lift her hand to my mouth to place a kiss to the back of it.

“We got this,” I echo, watching a shy smile curl up the corners of her lips. She’s blushing because the crowd always whistles, screams, or cheers for us when we show any kind of affection, but I think she’s getting used to it.

Or maybe she’s simply getting more comfortable with me so that she doesn’t mind the attention being on her because she knows it’s divided between us, and I will always have her back.

The first game is uneventful. Bernadette and Noah manage to bring it home somewhat easily because Noah’s serve is flawless and incredibly fast. There is barely any fighting at all because even when Cata and I are on the ball, we don’t manage to hit it well enough to take control of the rally.

The second game goes to us just as easily.

I started serving, as I’ve done in every match, to give Cata more time to warm up and get ready to serve.

If she knew that’s what I was doing, she’d probably gut me like a fish, so I simply say I prefer serving first. It’s not entirely a lie, even if it’s not the full truth either.

I’m worried about her, and I want her to get better as soon as possible so she can finally win her first Grand Slam.

She deserves it.

It’s long overdue.

Bernadette serves next, and Cata and I are struggling to find ways to outplay them as well as outsmart them. They’re both playing well at the moment, their shots are consistent and well-placed, but there has to be a way to take a service game from them.

“Santi,” Cata says after we lose another point. I move toward her, lowering my head so she can whisper in my ear. “Go far left, then I’ll go down the middle,” she says, and I give her an agreeing nod. She offers me one last firm, determined look before moving to the net.

It’s my turn to return the serve, which is why Cata told me to go left.

To my benefit, Bernadette serves in the right corner of the box, and I easily hit the ball cross-court where my doubles partner told me to go.

Bernadette manages to get the ball, but Catalina moves toward the center line and puts it away, straight down the middle of the court, where Noah can’t reach it while Bernadette recovers.

“ Vamos, carino! ” I call out, a bright smile taking over my face when she turns to me to show off her smug expression. She has every right to wear it after such a beautiful point.

“You see, you have to listen to me,” she says, wiggling her brows at me.

“Tell me what to do, and I’ll obey without question,” I reply as she comes closer, and she whispers another plan into my ear.

A minute later, we get another point, making it thirty all for the score.

“You’re unstoppable,” I say, high-fiving her when she walks back toward me. “What’s next?”

It's one set to one.

Cata and I won the first set, but Bernadette and Noah destroyed us in the second one.

Now it’s five games to four.

We have had one break this set, taking a service game from Noah, and Cata and I are exhausted. The last few rallies have been a minimum of twenty shots, which is a lot. It’s her turn to serve now, and I step toward her, concern slipping into my throat. I barely swallow past it to speak.

“How is your back?” I ask, placing a hand on it as if I could feel the answer there for myself.

“It’s fine. Tired,” she admits as she raises her hand to the bicep of the arm that’s around her, so my fingers can trail over her back.

“We’re almost there. All we have to do is get your game,” I say while she wipes her face with her towel.

“You say it as if it’s so simple. We’ve been struggling to get mine through the whole match,” she replies with a tired laugh, her shoulders dropping as she takes a deep breath.

“But you’re right. We can do it. This is our match,” she whispers, her determination one of my favorite sights in the world.

“Yes, we can. One more game, and we’ll finally have a few days off to go on a date,” I say, a sense of giddiness spreading through me at the very thought.

“Is that all you think about?” she asks, shaking her head at me.

“Not all, but like ninety-five percent of my thoughts are occupied by you.” The words roll off my tongue more easily than I ever thought possible, but at this point, I can’t remember a time I wasn’t wrapped around her finger.

I can’t even remember why I ever chose to fuck around instead of asking her to be in a real relationship with me.

“Santi, are you obsessed with me?” she asks, starting to walk back to the baseline while I follow behind her like a lost puppy.

“Undeniably.”

I only see the back of her head, her braided hair as it moves from side to side, but I know she’s smiling at my response. Despite not thinking we could ever make this work, I think Cata may be falling for me, too, even if it’s only a little.

Fuck, I hope it’s a lot.

“Okay, focus on the game, Santi. We can keep talking about this later,” she says, taking the balls the ball person hands her and inspecting them.

“Promise?” My smirk has a blush settling on her cheeks, but she doesn’t respond to my question. Instead, she locks in and goes straight back to talking strategy with me.

“I’m going to try and speed up my serve,” she says, and I open my mouth to argue, to remind her she’s been slowing it down—if only slightly—for a reason. “They won’t expect it.” Hard to argue with a good point, even one I don’t like.

“As soon as you feel the tiniest pulling or pain, you slow down again,” I say, pointing a warning finger at her. She pokes me in the stomach with the head of her racket, making me drop the finger.

“You know I’m a grown woman, right?” she asks, furrowing her brows at me, but I just shrug because yes, she is, but I’m also never going to stop worrying about her.

Not since I saw what happened when she overused her back.

Cata takes my arm and leads me to the baseline, and I realize our opponents are doing the same.

No more time to flirt.

“Trust me,” is the last thing Cata says before urging me to go to the net.

We’re both so tired, but I think she’s even more so because her left hand trembles a little as she wraps her hands around the tennis ball and prepares to serve. Then I look at her face and realize it’s not exhaustion at all.

She’s nervous.

As a matter of fact, I’d even say she’s anxious about losing this, and I don’t blame her.

Losing when you have a fundamental fear of failure is one of the most triggering things for my mental health.

I can only assume the same applies to her.

Knowing Cata, I’d even go as far as assuming it’s a combination of things, and she’s scared serving faster, using more strength, is going to do something to her back again.

If only she’d listen to me and keep slowing it down.

We don’t need her to risk anything. We will win either way, but Cata is determined, and there is no stopping her now.

Worst of all, I’m pretty sure she’d risk injury if it meant proving to herself and the world that she’s good enough for this sport.

“ Carino, take a deep breath,” I say in Spanish, and she does as told as I position myself at the net.

She takes another fifteen seconds or so until her racket connects with the ball, followed by a grunt.

My eyes catch sight of the ball as it goes straight down the center line.

It’s fast, precise, and absolutely perfect.

Noah, so surprised at the sheer speed, doesn’t manage to get to it, turning the serve into an ace.

I shift to Cata and start clapping along with the rest of the stadium.

Her nerves seem to settle a little now that she got her first ace of the set in, and I couldn’t be prouder when I notice her confidence as she positions herself to serve again.

The next shot isn’t an ace because Bernadette manages to touch the ball with her racket, but it goes flying into the crowd.

Thirty-love.

“One more, baby. Give me one more of those beautiful serves.”

She gives me one more, another ace, making it forty-love.

The game is ours in the next rally.

The match is ours.

I hear her racket drop right before I spin around to see Catalina covering her face, her shoulders shaking as she cries into them.

I waste no time running to her, and as if she senses me, she drops her hands to lift her arms so I can wrap mine around her.

Her legs fling around me too, and then we’re hugging, all sweaty and sticky from this exhausting match.

“That was incredible,” I whisper into her ear, but Cata doesn’t reply.

She merely holds on tighter.

We did it. We won our first tournament as doubles partners in years. We dominated this tournament.

“Good job, mi mariquita ,” I say.

“Good job, mi corazón ,” she replies, and I have a feeling that for the first time, she isn’t saying it sarcastically.