Page 45 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Catalina

I serve an ace, securing myself the win of the match and a spot in the semi-finals.

My heart pounds in my chest, happiness consuming every part of me.

I’m in the semi-finals. I played so well, I won the match in two sets with little struggle.

This feeling inside my chest, this certainty that I am going to win this tournament, makes me feel invincible.

But that feeling dissipates as soon as I see Charlie’s worried expression, their hand covering their mouth as they talk to someone over the phone.

My heart drops.

I move over to the umpire, looking up at her as I wait for her to finish speaking on the phone, too, to ask the one question I don’t want to ask because I already know whatever it is, it can’t be good.

Waiting for her to finish talking to whoever she’s on the phone with is torture, but I do my best to take the time to even out my breathing.

Technically, I know nothing for certain yet. There is no need to jump to conclusions except… I can feel it deep inside of me.

“What happened with Santiago?” I ask her as soon as she’s done speaking on the phone.

“Santiago injured himself during his match. He’s with the doctor we have here right now,” she explains, making my heart sink even further.

“Please tell the interviewer and fans I’m sorry,” is the last thing I say before grabbing my tennis bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and running out of the stadium.

The fans will understand.

The interviewer will understand.

Charlie will understand.

Getting to Santiago is my top priority.

It doesn’t matter if my body is exhausted, adrenaline is coursing through my veins.

It’s pushing me further and further until I reach the room Santiago is currently lying in with an ice pack wrapped around his ankle.

Relief only resides in my chest briefly because at least it’s only his ankle, but then the realization of all of the horrible things that could be wrong with his ankle set in, and worry returns tenfold.

“How bad is it?” I ask as I burst into the room. Santi’s head shoots up, his eyes flying open as he takes in the sight of me.

“Hi, carino ,” he says, throwing me a sheepish smirk.

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re not in pain. Don’t give me that smirk.” I move to his side, and he grabs hold of my hand, placing it on his cheek.

“I can’t help it. Seeing you makes me happy, even in the worst of times,” he replies, and as much as I wish it would soothe this ache in my stomach, it multiplies by the second at the sight of his elevated foot with the ice pack on it.

“What happened?” I ask, rubbing his cheek with the pad of my thumb to soothe him.

“Your boyfriend isn’t as young as he used to be, that’s what happened,” Carlos says, placing a hand on my shoulder as he appears beside me.

“Shut up,” Santi mumbles, but I welcome Carlos’ lightheartedness. It eases some of my worry.

“He rolled his ankle,” Carlos explains right as Santi’s eyes close when I trace his left eyebrow.

“How bad is it?”

“Not great. We’re going to have to take him to the hospital to do some tests.

It might either be a partial tear or a full one, but let’s hope it’s only partial because otherwise Santiago won’t be able to play in tournaments for the rest of the season.

” Carlos might have made his voice sound as emotionless as possible, but I see the tension around his mouth and eyes.

And there comes the concern again.

“Stop talking, Papá. You’re worrying my Catalina,” Santi says, his eyes on me.

“My worry should be the least of your concerns,” I argue, but Santi shakes his head.

“Your feelings are more important than a stupid injury.” He repositions himself, grunting in pain, just so he can face me better. “Speaking of which, tell me you won,” he says, taking my hand in both of his and bringing it to his chest.

I can feel his racing heart instantly.

“I won,” I reply, making Santi squeeze my hand and Carlos my shoulder.

“Good job, Lina,” Carlos says with pride. “I’ll give you two a second,” Carlos adds before leaving the room.

“Cata, can you flip the ice pack around, please?” Santi asks, so I move to do so.

A gasp almost escapes me at how swollen his ankle is. Tears fill my eyes because I can’t imagine how much pain he is in or what this might mean for the rest of his season.

“Come here,” he says, holding out his hand for me right as the tears fall.

“I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t help to see me cry, but I love you so much, and I’m so sorry this is happening to you halfway through the season,” I rant, covering my mouth to keep more words in.

“Don’t be sorry. Knowing you care so much for me is heaven on Earth,” he replies, wiggling his fingers to get me to come closer.

He places his hand on my cheek to wipe my tears as soon as I’m beside him again.

“You’re in the semi-finals,” he says with excitement in his voice, but I shake my head at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper, doing my best to stop crying, to be strong for him.

“Yes, it does. Mi mariquita , this season was never about me. It was always about you and your goals.” I’m about to protest when he keeps talking. “Don’t argue with a man in pain.”

“I’m not arguing with any man. I’m arguing with you,” I defend, but Santi merely smiles.

“Why don’t you kiss me instead?”

It’s hard to fight with him when his season might be over and he’s prioritizing me over everything else, proving once more how much he loves me.

I press my mouth to his, but we’re interrupted by Carlos coming back into the room with Alana and Manuela.

Everything happens in a blur after that. We take Santi to the hospital and, after his adrenaline washes off and the exhaustion of the day sets in, he sleeps for most of the drive with his head on my shoulder.

He doesn’t go anywhere without me in the hospital if he can take me with him, and we sit in the waiting room for hours after the tests, waiting to hear about his results.

His head is in my lap, letting me massage it as he continues sleeping.

I sift my fingers through his hair, praying to whoever might listen that his ligaments aren’t fully torn.

No athlete wants to miss an entire season because of an injury.

He says this season was about me, but his dreams and goals are important to me, too.

I used to hate him for being the number one player in the world, but that was pure jealousy and envy.

Now that we’re not fighting every step of the way, that we’ve fallen in love, knowing he could lose his number one seed makes me sick to my stomach.

He could lose all his progress. His goal to win more Grand Slams and set new records will be put on hold indefinitely.

“Everything will be fine.”

“Stop reading my mind,” I reply through gritted teeth, but Santi simply chuckles.

“Then stop thinking so loudly.”

In some of my fantasy books, the main characters can actually talk to each other in their minds, which I always found fascinating because I think if Santi was constantly in my head, I’d knock him unconscious so he’d stop every once in a while.

Then again, apparently, this man knows me well enough to look inside my head without any magic in play.

“Why don’t you get your ereader out and read something from your book to me? It’ll calm both of us,” he says, and with a suggestion as good as his, it’s hard to argue.

Another hour passes while I read to him. Manu listens too, and Carlos and Alana are sitting together on the other side of the seating area. Carlos has his arm around his wife while she speaks to him, and he watches her with his heart in his eyes.

I realize Santi looks at me the same way.

Like I’m his present, future, and all the good things yet to come wrapped into one person.

“All this waiting is driving me up the wall,” Manu says, standing up and running her hands through her hair.

“You can go back to the hotel, Manu. You don’t have to be here,” Santi says softly, making sure she knows he doesn’t mean it rudely.

“Shut up, Santi,” she replies, looking at him with a stern expression.

“I’m going to find a doctor and demand they tell us what is wrong with your gigantically swollen ankle.

” She walks away, and I do my best not to burst into laughter because it’s so inappropriate, but I should have known Santi would find her comment hilarious.

“Gigantically swollen ankle,” he repeats and laughs, his whole body shaking on top of me.

It dies out as soon as the nurse we met earlier approaches us, Manu standing beside her.

“The doctor will see you now,” she says, gesturing toward the room we were in earlier. I help Santi up, handing him the crutches we were given so he doesn’t have to put weight on his ankle.

Carlos, Alana, and Manu move toward the room, too, making me hesitate.

“What’s wrong?” Santi asks, not moving either because I have stopped.

“You have your family with you. I’ll wait out here,” I say, but he furrows his brows at me like he doesn’t understand a single word I’m saying.

“But then a big piece of my family would be missing,” he replies, and my heart melts into a little puddle. “Please come with me. I need you,” he adds, delivering the killing blow to my chest, except the thing that dies is the remaining doubts about his feelings for me.

Not that there were many.

Perhaps there weren’t even any, and I simply needed the reassurance that I’m not barging in where he doesn’t want me.

I should have known Santi wants me everywhere with him.

We settle down in our seats across from the doctor, who barely looks away from her computer to acknowledge our presence.

It takes several tense moments, filled with dread and hope, until she finally turns to us.

“Well, Mr. Castillo, I think you’ll be very happy to hear it’s only a partial tear.

That means lots of resting, icing the sore area, compression, and elevation.

Then, after a few weeks, you can start physiotherapy.

I’m confident you’ll be back to playing matches in approximately two months,” the doctor says, and the sense of relief that floods my chest is mirrored by Santi’s shoulders dropping.

“Thank you for the good news, doctor. I’ll go rest, ice, compress, and elevate now so I can watch my girlfriend win her first Grand Slam in a few days.”

I think Santi is taking this all too well, but when I open my mouth to argue, he turns to me and kisses me instead.

“It’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart right now. Let me focus on you entirely so I don’t think about what this means for my season,” he begs, and my argument dies on my tongue.

“Okay,” I say, and he gives me a relieved smile. “I’ll win,” I promise him, and he kisses my lips softly once more.

“I know you will.”