Page 5 of A Follow-Through in Faking

Santiago

Matteo Ricci has been my best friend since childhood.

Ever since we were paired together for a project where we ended up doing absolutely nothing and receiving the worst grade ever, we’ve been inseparable friends.

We’ve also been through hell and back together because when his dad passed away, I took his hand and we walked into the burning depths together so he didn’t have to be alone.

So he’d know I was right by his side whenever he was ready to walk back out again.

He stayed with me when I was at my lowest point with my depression, giving me as much time and patience as I needed.

We’ve been friends through all the silly stages of our lives too, the awkwardness, the queer awakenings, everything.

It was difficult to separate us as kids because we were either too busy playing games on the video game console, being on the court to practice since we both wanted to go pro from early on in our lives, and eating our weight in chips.

Maybe not the best thing to consume when you want to become a professional athlete, but oh well.

When I look at him, I feel strangely at peace. Like not everything has to be going right in my life for him to find a way to make me laugh.

“How’s your mom?” I ask him, gripping the handle of my tennis racket a little more firmly before spinning it once in my hand.

Normally, he and I would have done anything other than play tennis to spend time together, but his hitting partner has been sick for the past week, and this close to the beginning of the season, he needed someone to practice with who isn’t his coach.

I’d give my life for Matteo, as dramatic as it may sound, so playing a round of tennis even if I’m sore is the least I can do.

“She’s alright, but if you ask her, then she’s not because she’s annoyed with me for being an idiot,” he replies and takes a sip of his water. I can’t help but laugh.

“So, just the usual,” I say and he shrugs.

“Pretty much.” He lets out a sigh, and I give him a comforting smile. No matter how much he loves his mamma, she’s a difficult woman, according to him. She complains a lot. He never does anything right. That sort of thing.

“And how’s it going with your new coach?” Matteo cocks a brow and smirks. “No, you didn’t.”

“Of course I did. He wasn’t a very good coach, but the rest of my team made me promise not to fire him. So, I didn’t. He quit. Said it was unprofessional to train someone he saw naked,” Matteo says and shrugs, and I let out a surprised laugh.

“You’re impossible.”

“No, I’m smart. I didn’t piss my team off since he just quit and they couldn’t blame me, and I didn’t have to put up with a coach who told me everything I was doing was wrong because it wasn’t his way.

Plus, he was attractive. He was attracted to me.

We had some fun before he went and found himself a different player to coach, one who wasn’t so stubborn,” he explains with a little evil laugh, and I shake my head at him.

“Okay, you’re right. You’re not impossible. You’re a genius.”

“Exactly.”

Then we’re both grinning at each other before we walk to the opposite sides of our court.

We spend the next half hour playing a ruthless sort of tennis.

Neither one of us holds back. Neither one of us plays nicely at any point.

We’re pushing each other to our limits, but somehow it doesn’t feel the same as when Cata does the same with me.

When I play against her, it’s a constant battle of having to prove who’s better.

And maybe it’s because I win most points against Matteo.

Maybe it’s because I can try new things without risking losing the point and giving Cata the satisfaction.

Maybe it’s because I don’t have to prove anything to look cooler and impress him.

I don’t fucking know.

But I have so much fun.

At least until we move to the net again to get our things, and I have to poach this very inevitable topic of what the fuck is going on in my life because he asks me how I’m doing.

“There’s something I should tell you.”

Matteo has been laughing at me for the past four minutes without a single break. Every time I think he’s done, he wheezes out words I don’t understand and keeps laughing. Tears jump out of his eyes and he snorts but then covers his mouth with his hand to stop the same sound from leaving him again.

Under different circumstances, I’d join him. Matteo has the kind of laugh that’s irresistibly contagious.

But not when he’s laughing at me.

“My God, this is the best news I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Who can I pay for making this happen? They deserve some money for this wonderful turn of events,” Matteo says, throwing his head back to once more burst into laughter.

“We trained for three hours. You shouldn’t have the energy for all this laughing,” I say and wave at where he’s sitting on the other side of the sauna from me now.

The tennis club we’re members of, Lumière des étoiles , has everything we could ever need. Tennis courts, gyms, several pools, saunas, and enormous showers in all the washrooms. It’s paradise here, one of my favorite places in the world.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. Do you remember how the two of you always kept score in the past? You weren’t even playing each other, but every match, every game, every point you won was written down so you could keep track of who’d won the most,” he says and bursts into laughter again.

“Yes, I remember,” I reply as I lean back on the wooden bench I’m on, breathing in the steam surrounding us. Sweat is dripping down my body, my towel soaking up as much as it can, where it is around my hips.

“Do you remember that one time when you two were playing doubles and she served the ball right into your ass? You started fighting, her claiming it was an accident and you insisting it wasn’t,” he laughs the words the whole time, barely speaking at all. I’m surprised I understand him at all.

“I remember,” I say through gritted teeth while he continues reveling in his amusement.

“Do you remember—” I cut him off.

“ I remember everything . Every moment with her. Every interaction. Every word. I remember it all,” I blurt out, too annoyed to keep the words at bay.

“You don’t have to remind me, and, for the love of God, could you cover your dick.

I don’t want to keep looking at it,” I add when he shifts and his towel moves away from his groin.

With a swift laugh, Matteo removes the towel altogether and shifts on his bench until he’s lying down, one arm under his head.

A sigh leaves him.

“There, is that better?” he asks, pointing at his naked body on full display.

“You are intolerable.”

“Yes, I am, but you love me anyway,” he reminds me, flashing me one of his dashing smiles. “The people I’ve been with loved my penis, so maybe you just need to learn to appreciate the glorious sight of it.” He smirks, then turns his head and closes his eyes.

“I don’t know what’s making breathing more difficult, the steam or the amount of space your ego takes up,” I tease, and Matteo snorts. “Plus, I’ve seen and had better.” This makes his smile drop, and mine grow.

“Liar,” he mumbles, but I cock a teasing brow at him.

My gaze lifts to the ceiling, thinking about the dinner Cata and I will have tonight. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone so hard during training today. I’m going to need all of my energy for Catalina Sanchez.

“You know what your greatest obstacle will be for the next eight months?” Matteo says, his voice breaking into my thoughts.

“Trying not to stab myself in the eyeball when I’m around Catalina?” Matteo sits back up and wraps his towel around his hips before walking toward me and putting a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re not allowed to have sex with anyone else, Santi, and you sleep with someone new almost daily. How will you survive eight months without your playboy ways?” He’s taunting me, I can see it in the smug gleam in his eyes.

“I’ll focus on my career. It’ll distract me,” I reply, feeling a sense of unease settling in my chest.

“On your career or Cata?” A glare takes over my face, but my asshole of a best friend laughs.

“Please, Santiago, you’ve been obsessed with her since you were kids.

You always talk about her, dedicate every win to ‘rubbing it in her face,’ and you always get that glimmer in your eyes when her name is mentioned.

You don’t hate her, you never have. You love the challenge she gives you. ” My lips seal shut at that.

“Are we talking about Catalina?” someone says, and I jump in my seat, my heart skipping several beats.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, my eyes drifting to the crown prince of Monaco.

His Royal Highness Thomas Crovetto.

“I went for a swim and saw you two going into the sauna. I thought I’d join you, see what’s new,” Thomas says as he very gracefully sinks onto the bench next to Matteo, who jumps at the opportunity to tell our friend about my situation with Cata.

Thomas is always so calculated about his movements.

I have never seen this man let loose in any way, but I wish he would.

We’ve been friends for over five years, and I have yet to see him with a single hair out of place or hear a bad word come out of his mouth.

Even around us, his friends, he thinks he has to keep up this facade that’s been ingrained in him since he was a child.

I wish he’d be whoever he wants to be with us instead of being who he’s been told he has to be since he was born.

A king.

A leader.

An image.

A pawn.

But there’s no way to allow him to open up when we hardly ever see each other. We talk on the phone, sure, but with his busy schedule and ours, it’s difficult to find time to spend with one another, simply sharing a meal or a conversation.

“Is Catalina the woman you’re in love with but pretend you don’t like?

” Thomas asks with his thick Monegasque accent, running a hand through his curls.

He’s very tall with a chiseled face, a million muscles, beautiful dark brown skin, and a charming smile that wins over every single person he speaks to.

I won’t lie. When we first started hanging out, I had a little bit of a crush on him, but that disappeared quickly.

They all seem to as soon as I start thinking about… her .

“I am not in love with her. What is wrong with you?” I blurt out, and Thomas tilts his head, intrigue in his eyes.

“So defensive,” he states, making a tsk noise with his tongue. “Denying your feelings will get you as far as lying. Far enough to think you’ll make it to the finish line, but never close enough to reach it. My father always says, ‘One cannot reach the end when one has taken the wrong path.’”

“What century was your father born in?” Matteo says with a mischievous grin, but one look from Thomas is enough to make him clear his throat and turn serious.

The only way I can describe Thomas’ expression is how I imagine he looks at his brother.

Scoldingly. Warningly. Threateningly.

“All I’m trying to say is that you can deny how you feel to me, to Matteo, to yourself, all you want, but it will not help.” Thomas folds his hands over his lap, his towel snugly hugging his hips to prevent anything from accidentally slipping out. The complete opposite of Matteo, in other words.

“I’m getting irritated with both of you,” I say, wiping the sweat off my forehead. It’s getting even harder to breathe, and it isn’t because of the steam surrounding us. It hasn’t thickened. The only thing that’s changed is the heaviness of the conversation. “How are your royal duties going?”

Thomas smiles knowingly at me but doesn’t force us to continue speaking about my complicated feelings for Catalina.

“They are as they always have been, Santiago. Tiring.” He smiles, leaning his head back to stare at the ceiling of the sauna. “But a future king must do as told and never complain.”

“You’re allowed to complain to us, you know?” Matteo chimes in, placing a hand on His Highness’ shoulder. “We will never tell anyone what passes between us.” It’s a promise neither one of us will ever break, but it’s not that easy for Thomas.

“You actually know how to keep that big mouth of yours closed?” Thomas teases, nudging Matteo with his shoulder.

“Depends,” Matteo says with a quirk of his brow.

“On what?”

“On whether you’ll finally make me a Lord. Or a knight. Lord Matteo Ricci or Sir Matteo Ricci sounds phenomenal.” I can’t help it. I burst into laughter at the mere thought of my best friend forcing me to address him in either of those ways because he would.

He absolutely would.

“I’d rather knight a toad,” Thomas replies.

I almost fall off the bench laughing.