Page 30 of A Follow-Through in Faking
“You’re scared.”
I try to play it off with apfffftsound that I drag out, but she pokes me again to bring my attention back to her face.
“You are. You’re scared of failure. You’re scared of not being the golden boy of tennis anymore. You’re scared you won’t be good enough.”
This finally breaks her curse of enchantment—it has to be a curse because if I had it my way, I would not be attracted to her. I stumble backward ever so slightly, attempting to swallow the panic rising in my chest.
“You don’t know me. Don’t pretend you do,” I croak out, but it’s useless. Tears shoot into my eyes at the very thought of being exactly what she claimed I was scared of becoming.
A failure.
For the first time in years, Cata’s eyes soften in a way that gives me hope for our future.
“Santi, you don’t have to be perfect. I know everyone expects it of you, even your own parents, but being the golden boy is a ridiculous concept. You should be whoever you’d like to be. Play however you want to play. If that means taking risks, fine. But if taking risks puts more pressure on you, there’s no shame in playing it safe.” Instead of poking me, Cata places her hand on my left pec, patting it gently once.
The gesture is so sweet, it has my stomach in such knots, I close the distance between us to place my forehead against hers.
I could lash out. I could tell her I’m number one and she’s number two, so what the hell would she know, but I don’t want to. It would be bullshit, and I want her comfort. I want her touch. I want her to calm me because, despite pretending I’m so put together, I’m actually terrified of getting kicked out in the first round.
I’d never live down the shame the media would put on me.
Santiago Castillo doesn’t even make it through the first round of the first major tournament of the season.
“Santi, there is no one watching us. You can stop with the act,” she says, but I don’t back away.
“Someone is always watching,” is my lame excuse. “Can I put my hands on your hips,mariquita? Can I touch you?” Her hand hasn’t fallen from my chest, and I want to place mine on her throat to feel her quick heartbeat beneath my fingertips.
“No, Santi, you can’t. You need to stop touching me when people aren’t watching,” she says and moves away, my forehead no longer touching hers, her hand nowhere near me anymore.
“Why?” Defeat takes over my voice, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t comment on it.
“Because I can’t do this. Not again,” Cata says, lifting her hands as she backs further away. She shakes her head and sprints toward her bag, placing her racket inside.
I don’t try to stop her, and she doesn’t look back to see if I am. This confusing woman is not running to be chased, she’s running to be left alone and figure out her feelings, and I will not pressure her to do so on the spot.
Hell, I haven’t even figured mine out entirely.
This constant need to touch her and see her and… I shudder as the list continues on and on in my thoughts.
There is no point looking at any of those things too closely.
What Catalina and I have isn’t real.
We’re playing the happy couple for the world, but once the season is over and my deal with Papá is done, that’s it.
She’ll never want to see me again, and there is no way I can change her mind unless she allows me to.
Unless she offers me the piece of her that used to belong to me before I fucked everything up.
Pre-match jitters are a pain in the ass.
Once I’ve warmed up and the match starts, I’m fine. Beforehand? It feels like my organs are twisting to make knots.
When I was diagnosed with depression, I was also diagnosed with mild anxiety. And while I’ve found coping methods for my depression, it’s not that easy with my anxiety. It has a habit of only showing up before matches, so I haven’t figured out how to stop my heart from racing, my hands from tingling, or my breathing from turning shallow.
Music helps. Moving around helps. Doing breathing exercises helps.
But it’s still always there, always bothering me in one way or another.
