Page 4 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

I hate Santiago Javier Castillo with a fucking passion.

Our past is enough of a reason to, but there is also something about him, about that smug smile and those defined muscles making up his body, that irritates me.

Add the man’s I’m-better-than-everybody-else-at-tennis-fuckboy personality on top, and you have all the makings of a person that I, Catalina Rivera Sanchez, will never be able to tolerate.

Even if his ass looks phenomenal in those shorts of his.

Even if his arms are coiled with muscles on top of muscles in a way only athletes who work on them every day have.

Even if his smile is as devastating as I remember it to be.

It doesn’t help that his lips are full and round, that his hair is a deep brown, that his skin is always lightly tanned, and that his eyes are a beautiful amber. I could stare at them all day, which is another problem entirely.

“You know when you serve, you’re supposed to aim for the box on the other side of the court,” I say after Santiago misses another first serve, the fourth one since we started playing mere minutes ago.

“You’re distracting me!” he complains, his voice low and full of irritation.

“How the fuck am I distracting you? I’m standing where I’m supposed to be,” I say, pointing down at my feet where I am at the net.

“I’m scared I’ll hit you, but never mind. I’ll hit you with the ball if it keeps you from complaining,” he says. When I turn back around, rolling my eyes, I notice Charlie and Santiago’s father, Carlos, laughing at us.

“What?” I ask both of them, but they just shrug.

“You’ll never win like that. You’re not rivals or enemies. You’re partners,” Carlos says, spinning his racket in his hand.

The score at the moment is 30-40 for them, even though we’re serving, which is bad.

They have a breakpoint opportunity—a chance to steal our service game.

In tennis, securing your service game is important.

If you lose it, you’re at a disadvantage in the set unless you can manage to win a service game from your opponent.

You win the set by winning six games in total, but if it’s five games to five, you play until seven.

If it’s six games to six, you play a tiebreaker where the first person to get seven points wins the set.

Women only have to win two sets. Men have to win three during Grand Slams, two in ATP games.

“Yeah, Cata, we have to play together ,” Santiago says, and I turn to him to show him the glare I only ever wear in his presence. “ Juntos ,” he repeats, my urge to kick him growing stronger and stronger.

The irony of him being the one to say that to me has more anger boiling inside of me.

It spills right over the top, and I can no longer keep the angry tears at bay, since I tear up when I get overwhelmed by anger.

It’s one of the few things I wish I could change about myself because it’s seen as a sign of weakness, not as a sign of “I’ll rip your head off now.

” And the only thing to do to keep anyone from seeing is to leave.

“Charlie, I’d rather drown myself in chlorine than spend the entire Grand Slam season being Santiago’s hitting partner and fake girlfriend. I’m calling this off,” I say and walk toward my bag.

“Give us a second,” I hear Santiago say. When I turn around with my bag on my shoulder, I run into his very hard, very nice chest. He’s not that much taller than me, but enough so that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.

“Get out of my way, Santi,” I warn, but he doesn’t move. Those amber eyes of his skip over my face, studying me.

“This isn’t ideal for either one of us, mariquita ,” he says, and I almost laugh at the nickname. He started ironically calling me “ladybug” when we were first paired together in school. He said it was because I was “so lucky,” the words laced with sarcasm.

“Wow, that must have taken your last two brain cells to deduce. What are you going to do now that you have none left?” I ask, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“Be serious for one moment. We’re going to have to spend the next eight months intensively training together. We will both win several Grand Slams if we train properly.”

I almost laugh at that.

“Oh, aiming low, are we? I haven’t even won a single one, Santiago, how do you expect us to win several each just because we're training together?” I say and shake my head. He crosses his arms too, mimicking my stance.

“Because I'm amazing, and I can teach you how to win,” he says, so I take a step forward, ready to kick him.

He jumps back, laughing even though I’m scowling at him.

“You’re so full of yourself. I’m the one who is more consistent. I’m the one who gets the most shots in because you are always trying out new things that cost you points!” Needing to justify my failures makes embarrassment creep up my neck.

I attempt to walk past him, but Santiago lifts his hands in a pleading manner to get me to stay put.

“The fact that you don’t try new things, play riskier, is the reason you haven’t won a Slam yet.

” I open my mouth to yell at him, call him all the bad names in the world, but he beats me to it.

“You’re stuck in your ways, Cata. You play it safe, and when you’re losing, you get frightened.

Overwhelmed. Anxious. And while that’s understandable, it’s a phase I had to work past as well.

You have to perfect problem-solving while under pressure.

I can help you with that,” he offers, and, putting my hatred for him aside, I try to process his words.

I’ve always been good at using the feedback given to me, allowing it to help me become a better player, a better person. So, I let his words sink in. I allow myself to acknowledge that he’s right.

That is one of my weaknesses.

“Fine. I’ll let you help me improve my problem-solving skills if you let me help you improve your consistency.”

“You can most certainly try, but no promises,” he says and smiles at me, the expression a little too handsome for my eyes to keep from dropping to his mouth.

“Are you two finished so we can get back to the game?” Charlie asks, impatiently swinging their racket around while Carlos grins at us.

“Let’s kick some ass,” Santi says, still smiling at me while I’m frowning at him.

“I’d rather kick yours, but sure,” I say, getting a laugh out of him that I don’t return.

We lose, and we lose badly against our coaches. Santi and I continue fighting with one another, so, naturally, we lose. Three games to six in the first set, two games to six in the second.

“You will be amazing hitting partners,” Carlos says, shaking his head in disappointment as he turns to talk to Charlie.

For some reason, I’m exhausted. Not physically.

I could probably keep going for another hour or two, but mentally, I’m drained.

Being around Santi is exhausting when neither one of us knows how to be around the other person.

He turns to me once we’re done, his lips parting like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how to phrase it, so I don’t give him a chance to figure it out.

I grab my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and walk toward the door, then my car.

I should have known Santi wouldn’t let me get away that easily.

“ Mariquita , we need to talk about going out together soon to sell the dating aspect of this arrangement,” he reminds me as I throw my bag into the passenger seat of my most-prized possession.

My glossy, black Ragna Velocità Rossa.

I may only be number two in the world, but I’ve worked my way up to being very important in the world of tennis. Velocità Rossa offered to give me this beauty as long as I wear their logo somewhere on my outfits during tournaments.

Yes, they sponsor me.

That’s how awesome I am.

It’s nothing extravagant in the world of Monaco, where Santi and I both live, but it’s a hell of a lot nicer than the car he drives.

Santi’s eyes attach to my Ragna for a moment, letting out a low whistle.

“ Joder , this is nice,” he says, walking around it to inspect every aspect.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask, leaning against the door as I slip my sunglasses onto my nose.

Once Santiago is back in front of me, he takes in the sight of me and my car, taking several steps back to take a picture on his phone.

“What was that for?” His answering smile is like sunshine that was bottled up for years, finally being released.

“That was for me to post on my socials. But we’re gonna need something more convincing,” he says, taking several steps toward me.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his side, pressing his cheek against mine and taking another picture with one of his big, happy smiles.

As soon as he’s done, I push him off me and glare at him.

Santiago laughs, a deep and amused sound that makes my knees a little weak.

“That face of yours, Cata, it’s so beautiful when you’re angry. ”

I might blush if I weren’t so annoyed with him.

“That face of yours, Santi, I want to punch it,” I reply, almost bursting into laughter when he chuckles at my jab. “Don’t press your cheek against mine again,” I say before adding, “Actually, don’t touch me at all.”

“Why? You like it too much?” I snort at that question.

“No. I don’t like you touching me because I don’t trust you.” All of his amusement fades, his expression turning sad and thoughtful all at once.

“You know, we’re going to have to find a way to change that.

If we go out in public and we don’t touch, no one is going to buy that this isn’t more than a publicity stunt to get our reputations cleared,” he says, and I hate that he’s right.

But I also have no idea how to keep from wanting to push him away every time he gets close to me.

“What do you suggest?” Santiago crosses those trained arms of his.

“Come to my house to have dinner with me tomorrow. I’ll make you a delicious meal and then we’ll discuss all of the rules and boundaries of this arrangement.

No matter the deal we made with Papá and Charlie, we’re the ones who’ll have to agree on what exactly ‘dating’ will look like for us,” he says, yet again bringing up such a good point that I can’t argue.

And I won’t argue for the sake of arguing.

“Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow, but I’m bringing the food. You are useless in the kitchen,” I say and open the driver’s door, watching envy enter Santi’s eyes.

“Fine, bring the food.” He’s too busy ogling my car to fight.

He wants it, wants the sponsorship I have with Velocità Rossa, and I love rubbing it in his face when I let the engine roar to life, a beautiful sound that has him groaning.

“I’m gonna steal it from you one day,” he says, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Try it, cabrón , and I’ll shave your head,” I warn, panic filling his gaze as I drive away, my middle finger raised into the air outside my window.

The last thing I see in my rearview mirror is Santi grinning.