Page 44 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

Catalina and I are both in the quarter finals of Roland Garros.

She’s been strong all tournament long, a new sort of determination coursing through her veins since we went to Greece, where we potentially found her mother’s sea turtle incarnation.

I know a lot of people don’t believe in those sorts of things, but I do.

I always have, and ever since we were there over a week ago, I believe it even more.

I know Cata never did, but there is no denying her renewed view on life.

She’s practically glowing every single time she’s on the court, something that hasn’t happened since her mother passed away.

It’s a glorious sight, and I have a hard time not staring at her every time we practice together.

She’s smiling a lot. She finds the joy in tennis she had lost for so long.

Cata has always had a passion like no other.

Goals to achieve. Dreams to reach. But she approached them logically so often.

Win this, close the gap. Lose this, widen the gap.

Win this, become number one. With Layla still unable to participate in tournaments due to an injury, this Grand Slam win is all Cata needs.

And while that is the logical thing she’s told me, she also told me how excited she is to be playing on the clay courts again.

I don’t blame her. She’s magnificent on them.

She’s magnificent on any court.

“Come on, Cata. Push,” Charlie calls out, and I stand at the net on the practice court, studying my woman’s playing.

She’s doing footwork right now, running around the cones that Charlie put at the baseline for her.

Her feet are so quick, never losing their rhythm.

Her quarter-final is in a few hours, but I have no doubt she’ll win it.

She’s playing against the number seven player, Akiko Yamamoto, and as amazing as her opponent plays, she is no match for my Catalina.

“Faster. Get under the ball, then follow through,” Charlie says, and I throw them a smile when Cata starts cursing them out for making her run so much.

“This is supposed to be a warm-up,” she complains, but her coach and best friend doesn’t look like they give a shit.

“It is whatever I make it. Now move your ass and run,” they call back, and I chuckle fully as I turn my head to look at Cata running back and forth.

Papá and Charlie have a lot in common when it comes to beating our asses during training. They both love pushing us to our limits, but Charlie isn’t overdoing it today. They push Cata far enough to make her complain, but not too far that she’ll be too tired later.

“Alright, Santi, let’s go,” Papá says, clasping my shoulder in his hand as he guides me toward our own court. “You’re playing at the same time as Catalina, so you need to warm up, too.” My eyes catch Manu as she appears beside our father, a bright smile covering her face.

She’s been looking much happier since everything happened with the woman whose name we won’t speak, and I wrap an arm around my sister, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Did you know that I love you? Like a lot?” I tell her, but she pushes me away and scrunches her nose up in disgust.

“Enough, Santiago, you know I’m not good with the whole feelings talk,” she says with a little chuckle, her amber eyes glowing with happiness as she looks at me.

“Love you too,” she mumbles, shaking her head when I grin at her.

“Let’s train,” she announces, bouncing around on the court in excitement.

I look over my shoulder at Cata one more time to admire her, but she’s too busy to pay me any mind, so I turn back around and follow my family to our court.

I have a match to get ready for.

And while Catalina won’t be there because she has her own match, I want to make her proud no matter what.

I’m playing against Renjun Choi, my biggest competition in the world of tennis.

After taking a break for two tournaments to play doubles with Catalina, Renjun managed to take a chunk out of the point-distance between us in the rankings, but since I’ve come back, I’ve been unstoppable, increasing the distance all over again.

My seed as the number one in the world is safe for as long as I can continue participating in matches and win them.

The score is currently one set to nothing for me, and we’re taking our break between sets to drink and potentially take a bite of either a banana for me or whatever Renjun is eating.

Papá is in the box where coaches and family members go, and I look at him for an update on Catalina. He lifts up one finger. One set for her. Zero fingers. No sets for Akiko. Two fingers. Two games for Cata. One finger. One game for Akiko in the second set.

I nod several times to acknowledge the standings, pride blooming in my chest for mi mariquita .

“Time,” the umpire says, and I’m on my feet and running toward the baseline to prepare to return Renjun’s serve seconds later.

I kick my knees high, almost touching my chest, to get them ready for another set after sitting for about a minute or even longer. Renjun doesn’t bother, walking straight toward where he puts down his towel before grabbing the balls to serve from the ball person.

I take a deep breath for concentration.

I shake out my shoulders as I wait for my opponent to prepare to serve, getting in position to start this second set of the day. Confidence rolls through me, adding to my determination.

He misses his first serve, so I move closer to the baseline, anticipating his second, slower one.

My return, unfortunately, isn’t great, and I hit it straight to his feet, allowing him to easily make me run to the other side of the court as he hits it back.

I barely manage to get it, sliding across the clay court.

It takes a lot of my strength to stand upright and run back to the middle of the baseline to prepare for him to hit the ball to me again.

But right as I try to run, I roll my ankle.

A sharp pain goes through my foot and leg, and I collapse to the ground, barely catching myself with my hands as it happens.

The crowd gasps, but there is nothing I can do but lie there and give myself over to the pain because fuck, it hurts. It hurts more than any other injury I’ve ever had in my life.

“Santiago,” I hear Papá calling out, and I try to lift my head to respond. The only thing I manage to do is tug my leg to my chest and wrap my fingers around my ankle, which is now pulsing from pain.

“Calling medical timeout,” the umpire says, the entire stadium silent as I writhe in pain. I roll my lips to keep the scream and burst of swear words from escaping me, but from the way no one utters a single word, I might as well have let it all out.

“Hey, are you okay?” Renjun asks, and I realize he made his way over to me. I open my eyes to see his genuinely concerned expression.

“No, man. I think something’s seriously wrong with my ankle.”