Page 33 of A Follow-Through in Faking
I have sixteen tournaments lined up, while Santi has eighteen because, of course, he does.
Overachiever.
The coin toss determines Maria will start serving, so after we’ve warmed up, I take one last sip of water, wipe the sweat off my forehead with my towel, and smooth a hand down the front of my dress. Vanessa outdid herself with this design. Unlike so many other tennis dresses, the shorts underneath are actually much longer and have pockets to slip my second ball into when I serve. It’s just the right amount of tight to keep everything in place while also being airy enough to let me move with ease.
This dress wasn’t designed to simply look good, which of course it does as well. It was made for comfort and practicality.
Another reason to loveSpinand Ness.
My eyes drift to my box where Charlie, Santiago, and the rest of my team are sitting. Usually, my family would sit beside my physio, agent, Charlie, and now Santi, I guess, but Hernanda and Samuel have school, and Ori is too busy with work to join. Dad has to take care of them, so there is no way he could be here either.
It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it’s hard not to miss them.
It’s hard not to miss my mother every single time I think about her not being here. She never got to see me participate in these tournaments. She never got to see me play on the courts that she won her grand slam titles on. She never got to see me make a name for myself.
Santiago throws me a smile I can only describe as soft and gentle, as if he can sense my sadness and is trying to comfort me with that expression alone. I give him a tight nod, swallowing down every little piece of my hurt to focus on winning this match.
Returning is one of my stronger areas. I often preferred it to serving because there was always something that felt off during my serve. My back would ache for a split second after I hit the ball, but a split second is a long time when I have to prepare for my opponent to return the ball to me.
It doesn’t happen as much anymore.
My serve has been feeling a lot better since Santi’s tips, and, as much as I still hate him, I’m so grateful I don’t have to dread my serve as much anymore.
That doesn’t mean I’m not still a fantastic returner.
Maria’s serve isn’t necessarily fast, but she places it in the corners of the serving box, making it more difficult for me to recover quickly. Her first one goes into the net, so I move up the court, getting closer to the baseline. My eyes are trained on her until the moment the ball flies toward me. I jump a little for my split step, positioning myself to attack the ball slightly more than I would be able to on a first serve.
I send it down the line, away from where Maria is, earning me the first point of the match. Without celebrating, I move on to the second, walking toward the other side of the court to receive the serve.
The first set flies by, and I win it six games to three. Maria is getting frustrated with me continuing to take service games from her, and she’s started groaning in frustration when she misses a ball. It’s not uncommon for tennis players to be very vocal during a match. Men and women have been grunting and screaming for decades, but unless I usea lotof force or am very tired, not a sound comes from me. Not even when I win a particularly good point.
I think it irritates my opponents even more, and it’s definitely one of the reasons the crowds never know what to do with me. They love it when Santiago screams “VAMOS!” from the top of his lungs. They love it when he places a finger to his ear and waves his other hand around to get the crowd to scream louder for him.
I’m more stoic. Controlled. Unwilling to give them any reason to criticize me or doubt my sportswomanship.
“More footwork, Lina,” Charlie says as I place my towel in its designated spot at the back of the court after the break between sets is called to an end. “You’re not getting to enough balls. You’re watching after them instead of running, and I need you to try a little harder, okay?” they go on, and I throw them a look I hope reveals what I think of their instructions.
“You need to pay closer attention, Charlie. I’m on every ball,” I complain, the exhaustion making me a bit grumpy.
Technically, it’s not forbidden anymore to listen to your coaches when you’re on the side of the court where they are, but there is a time limit until we have to start playing again, and mine is running out. I don’t look at Charlie or Santi as I twist my racket and prepare for Maria to serve again.
Her serve has been getting worse and worse with every game that she gets more frustrated, and I use that opportunity to attack her second serve more, running to the net to win my point there. It’s what I do in the first point of the set, sprinting to thenet to volley the ball back. She goes cross-court, and I backhand volley the ball, making my way to the center line. Maria goes down the line, but I forehand volley it, a short hit that lands right in the corner of the service box.
She doesn’t manage to get it.
“Come on!” Maria screams, raising her racket as if to smash it on the ground, but she stops herself a second before she makes contact.
I simply move on to the next point.
My eyes catch sight of Santiago’s smug smile as I grab my towel.
“Stop that,” I call out in Spanish, not looking at him.
“Can’t. The way you play, Cata… It’s fucking magnificent.”
The compliment has the corners of my mouth curling, but I hide the expression by wiping my face until it’s gone.
The rest of the match is easy. Because Maria is so rattled, she doesn’t even try to go for my balls anymore when I hit drop shots or go wide in the corners. She lets it happen, almost like she’s already given up.
