Page 36 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

My family is cheering for us every single time Santi and I make a point, and when we don’t, they yell out encouraging phrases.

From afar, I hadn’t noticed their shirts, but when I got closer to them earlier to greet them—while Santi distracted the umpire and made a fool of himself to give me time with my family—I noticed they were all clad in matching shirts that said “Catalina + Santiago = Best Team.”

It’s hard being away from them for months and months on end.

I chose this life, to be a professional tennis player, but I didn’t understand just how busy I would be.

How little time I’d have to see my family.

It isn’t easy for them to fly out to where I am.

They all have their responsibilities and schedules.

They can’t drop everything all the time, but I’m so grateful they did to be here.

It’s a boost of encouragement I didn’t think I needed, but that has me playing better than I have in months.

Santiago and I are always a good doubles match-up, but today we’re unstoppable.

Our opponents have no chance against us while I feel invincible and Santi plays like some sort of tennis god.

“How’s your back?” Santi asks halfway through the second set. We won the first one six games to three and are leading the second three games to one.

“Fine. How’s yours?” I reply, but I responded too quickly, and my question certainly doesn’t convince him.

Because if I’m being honest, it is a bit stiff, but I can hardly feel it with all of the adrenaline coursing through my veins at the moment. Santi opens his mouth to protest, to tell me to slow down, but I beat him to it.

“Three more games, then I have a break,” I reply, and his mouth clamps shut again. Two weeks off is what I’ll have before Stuttgart. Two weeks in which Santi and I will be attending the Monaco Masters, where I’ll watch him win.

“Fine, but let me take more of the shots, Cata. You’re taking most of them, and I need you to give me the chance to make points too, okay?” he asks, and it’s only fair that I nod in agreement because we are a team and he is right.

“Okay,” I reply with a nod, and he offers me a bright smile, his full lips stretching to reveal his teeth. His amber eyes are sparkling in the noon sun filtering into the arena.

“Last set as doubles partners for now,” he says and nudges my shoulder, placing his towel back down. I glance up at my family, at the way Charlie keeps making Hernanda laugh during the breaks between the games.

Only a few games left before I get to be with them.

Well, a few games and a press conference.

Almost there.

My eyes drift to where Santiago’s parents and Manuela sit, and his twin sister gives me a cocky smirk as if to say that Santi and I got this, that she isn’t the least bit concerned if we’ll win this match.

It’s Eunice’s turn to serve, and our opponent looks as frustrated as I would feel if I was losing a match this badly.

Her partner, Colin, looks pissed.

Santi is the first one to return so I make my way to the net. I glance at Colin again, but he’s staring at Santi. I think if he could, he’d rip his head off, and suddenly, I’m angry because no one gets to look at Santi this way.

No one but me.

If it wasn’t a ridiculous thing to do, I’d growl at Colin, but I think my deathly glare is enough because he turns his head to me, and surprise covers his face as he takes a step back, away from the net.

I force my attention to Eunice, content with hopefully putting Colin a bit off-balance for the way he looked at Santi.

Eunice finally serves, a perfectly placed shot in the right corner of the service box, but Santi was anticipating the placement and returns it effortlessly.

They rally back and forth while I stay ready at the net, waiting for the ball to get to me, but it never does.

Santi goes wide, forcing Eunice to make an error and hit the ball in the net.

Love-fifteen.

Colin stalks toward Eunice and starts whispering something to her, waving his hands around angrily as if it’s her fault they lost the point when it was merely Santi’s phenomenal shot. No one could have gotten it.

Colin doesn’t seem to care about that, though.

“Why is he so angry?” I ask Santi.

“Colin is usually a singles player, but because of the domestic abuse allegations against him, he was not allowed to play in any singles tournaments this season,” he explains, and my jaw just about drops to the floor.

“How the fuck is he playing doubles? Shouldn’t they have kicked him out of the sport entirely?” I ask, resisting the urge to take my racket and hit Colin with it to avenge the people he hurt.

“For now, allegations are all there is. It’s already a wonder they disqualified him from singles. Most of the time, they wouldn’t even have done that, but the evidence against him is too indisputable. There is a video, apparently.”

All words leave me because I know he’s right.

I know money comes before all else, even morals, in so many sports.

I simply wish it wasn't like that in the sport I love so much.

The one I dedicated myself to for so many years.

I've been trying to change mindsets since I got here, but in a sport as old as tennis, it’s hard to do that.

Clearly, considering a man accused of domestic violence with video proof is currently our opponent.

It disgusts me.

“Let's beat his ass,” I say with gritted teeth, and Santi gives me an agreeing nod, the topic having affected him so much, his smile is nowhere to be seen.

My sunshine man looks downright murderous.

It's my turn to return the serve. After missing her first serve, Eunice places her second one in the center of the service box, but she puts a spin on it that has me jumping in the air a little to get a good position on it.

My ball goes straight to her, and we rally back and forth until I place my ball too far toward Colin's side.

He doesn't hesitate to step toward it, hitting a volley that goes straight into Santi’s stomach.

And he put so much force behind it, my partner lets out a pained oomph and bends over at the waist as he clutches his stomach.

I see red.

I storm toward the net at the same moment Colin backs away, not even raising his hands to apologize.

It's the most unsportsmanlike behavior I have ever witnessed in my professional tennis career.

The crowd seems to agree because they start booing him, and I would smile at Sami being the one to boo the loudest if I wasn't so worried about Santi.

“Are you okay, mi corazón ?” I ask, my heart racing because of how angry I am. The tears that usually come with this type of anger combine with my worry, making me swallow hard to get them under control.

My hand slips onto his back, but he only very slowly straightens it out again. I notice tears have appeared in his eyes, and it makes even more anger spread through me.

“Fuck, that hurt,” he mumbles, letting out a strained breath. It's nothing new for a tennis player to get hit with a ball, we're used to it, but not so hard from so close up and then straight into the stomach.

“Do you need ice?” I ask, lifting his shirt to see the red spot on his stomach from how hard Colin hit him.

“I'll be fine. It doesn't even hurt that badly,” Santi assures me, but I don’t believe him. Not even a little.

I stare at the red spot on Santiago's stomach for a second longer, wondering if I could rip off Colin's head and feed it to Tornado.

“It's okay,” Santi says, caressing my jaw before he steps away and goes to line up at the baseline.

Red is still clouding my vision as I step toward the net on my side. Colin is already on his, the crowd still booing. He catches me staring at him, so I offer him a threatening smile that has his eyes widening.

“If you hurt Santiago again, I'm going to beat you with my racket until I'm sure your career is over.

As a matter of fact, if you ever hurt anyone physically again, I'll do that.

I don't give a fuck about what happens to me if it means one less prick like you is part of my sport,” I warn, quietly enough to ensure the crowd can't hear me, but loud enough so Colin can.

He has no time to respond before Eunice serves again, and Santi hits the ball back to her, but the look on his face, anger and surprise, is enough to satisfy me.

He seems scared of me, and he should be.

As much as it seems like an empty threat to him, I’ve once punched a guy in the throat and kicked him in the balls after he grabbed my ass at the club and rubbed his bulge against me non-consensually.

I’ll do the same to Colin, maybe even worse.

Santi and I fight for the point until finally, we secure it through an overhead smash on my part.

Fifteen-thirty.

Santi is at the net again, but for this point, I make sure not to let the ball get anywhere near Colin. I don’t trust my warning to have been enough for him to get the message.

Fifteen-forty.

Colin is getting more frustrated, yelling at Eunice like it’s her fault.

She doesn’t take his bullshit, though, and instead yells right back at him, telling him how useless he is.

It’s quite unprofessional from a tennis standard perspective, but I almost want to applaud her for standing up for herself.

“A wrongly matched pair,” Santi starts, and I nod several times, my stomach clenching from nostalgia as I finish the sentence.

“Will never reach the top.” His father used to say this to us before every match as children, and I will never forget those words. “They’re not going to recover from this tension,” I whisper, and he nods several times.

“They won’t have a comeback. This is ours.”

And it is. Colin and Eunice fight each other until the end, but the battle against us is long lost. No matter what they try, a new strategy or having both players stand at the baseline after the serve, nothing works.

The match goes to us.

As soon as the final point is ours, I spin around to run to Santi. He opens his arms for me to celebrate, but I have another mission: making sure his stomach is okay. The crowd screams for us, but I drown everyone out as I focus on Santi.

“It’s already bruising. We need to put some ice on it,” I say, placing my fingers around the area gently. “How hard did he fucking hit you?” I mumble, but he tilts my head up to get me to look at him.

“Forget about the stupid bruise and kiss me, Cata,” he says, but he doesn’t give me the chance to tell him we need to ice it again before putting his lips on mine.

Sharing a win with a doubles partner is always wonderful, but sharing it with Santi makes it all the sweeter.

And when we accept our trophy, and he says, “My half of the paycheck is going directly to a charity for domestic abuse victims,” I know falling in love with him again isn’t just a possibility anymore.

It’s a fact.

And it’s about damn time I take what I want.