Page 43 of A Follow-Through in Faking
Seems like I didn’t get the fucking memo.
The second point of the game goes to Layla too, making it love-thirty.
More nerves continue to make my hands shake, and I barely keep my whole body from trembling.
“Thank you,” I hear the umpire say, and I realize the crowd has started chanting.
For… me.
They keep going, even as the umpire repeatedly tells them to quiet down, and I don’t miss that Santiago is the one screaming the loudest. Spurring me on. Encouraging me. Showing me he believes in me.
Crowds do this when their favorite players are losing, to try and build them up and give them new energy.
A new wave of emotion hits my chest at the realization of how many people support me, want me to win. I thought most of the people here are Layla’s fans, and while they are, the rest that are mine are using their voice to the fullest extent. There are rows upon rows screaming my name, urging me on in this tennis battle that I’m losing at the moment.
But when I serve again, and though it’s a fantastic serve, Layla’s return is too good for me to catch.
The next point, a break point for her, I lose, too.
She takes my first service game of the set, and all she has to do is bring home her service games until she reaches six games.
Which she does.
Layla wins the match in two sets, and I leave all of my fans, my family, my team, everyone disappointed once more as the Grand Slam title slips through my fingers and right into my biggest rival’s hands.
I fucked up.
This is entirely my fault.
And I want to scream at the top of my lungs because Mamá isn’t even here to hold me and tell me everything will be alright, that I’ll get another chance.
Tears fall and I don’t stop them this time.
I’m in too much pain to do so.
Chapter 19
Santiago
Catalinahasbeenhidingfrom me for hours since she lost the match against Layla. I tried to go to her after the match to comfort her, but she disappeared. Charlie left to go with her, but they wouldn’t tell me where they were going.
Up until twenty minutes ago, when they texted me, telling me Catalina needed me.
Me.
Granted, I’m convinced she didn’t ask for me and Charlie is simply lost trying to help mymariquita, but I’m more than happy to have Cata scream at me for an hour if it makes her feel better about the result today. If she needs to let out her anger, if she needs me to be her punching bag, I’ll be the recipient of her frustration.
It’s become abundantly clear to me that I’d be just about anything for Catalina if it means she lets me be around her a little longer.
Some might call me pathetic—with some I mean Matteo—but I can’t help it.
I crave her presence like water during a particularly humid match.
My knuckles brush against her hotel room door, but Cata doesn’t open it for me. Instead, Charlie reveals their worried expression as they unlock it.
“Where is she?” I ask, even more concern filling my chest.
“On the floor, in front of her bed, staring blankly at the television,” they reply, grabbing their bag and jacket before moving back toward the door. “I’ll go grab her somepatatas bravasand a bit ofleche fritato cheer her up. She likes to feel close to her mamá when she loses a tournament like this, and food and music are a big way for her to do so,” Charlie explains and then leaves, shutting the door behind them.
