Page 47 of A Follow-Through in Faking
“Like ass. But I have to put on a show. For Santi. For our fake relationship.” And if I’m being honest, being here distracts me from my failure and all the dark thoughts it comes with.
Wondering if I’ll ever be good enough to win a title.
Wondering if I’ll ever be good enough to become number one.
Wondering if I’ve wasted my life in a sport that I will never be as good at as my mother.
Wondering if she’d be disappointed in me if she could see how often I’ve failed at something she excelled at.
“Fuck the pretense, Catalina. If you’re not feeling up for it, we will leave.”
There are no words for how much I love Charlie. They are my best friend, without a shadow of doubt, and they’re always in my corner when I need them. It shouldn’t be possible to be so close to someone who manages my career and kicks my ass in training more often than not, but somehow, we make it work.
“That’s not very managery of you,” I say with a small smile, and they squeeze my shoulder.
“Your mental health will always come first.”
Their lips find the side of my head before they let go of me entirely, clapping along with the rest of the people present here in the Rod Laver Arena for the final match of the Australian Open.
I clap too, watching Santiago and Blake get ready to start their first set.
My fake boyfriend has this habit of looking at me before, during, and after his matches, and he does the same now. His eyes meet mine, and I give him a single nod, my scowl firmly set in place even as he smiles at me.
The first half hour of the match is uneventful. Blake started serving, and there have been no break points for either of them. It’s three games to three, both of them so evenly matched that not even I have any clue how Santi could adjust his game to be more aggressive and fight for a break point. He already plays a lot more aggressively than most, but Blake has been in the world of tennis for a lot longer than Santi. He’s more experienced, and he has this way of anticipating what Santi is about to do before he even raises his racket.
“He needs to approach the net more,” I tell Carlos after three more games, the score now five games to four for Blake.
“It’s risky. Blake is too good at placing his shots wherever he needs them to go with consistency,” he replies, our voices quiet as we wait for both players to finish their water breaks.
They only have ninety seconds between games, two minutes between sets, but those can feel like an eternity for me. I don’t like sitting still at any point in my matches. I know it’s important, Charlie always tells me it is, but I have this irrational fear that if I sit down during a match I’m doing well in, I’ll lose my rhythm.
“Yeah, but if he keeps going like this, I can assure you, they’ll be fighting out every set in tiebreaks, and Santi isn’t the best at those.”
As if he heard my words, Santi looks up at me, smiling in amusement.
Since he’s already looking at me, I lean forward in my seat, placing my hands on the railing in front of me like I did last time. I mouth the words, “Approach the net more,” in Spanish for him, and he tilts his head, confused. I mouth them again, and this time, his eyes widen in understanding. His eyes drift to the net as he seems to consider my words, then he slowly starts nodding repeatedly.
“I hope it won’t come back to bite him in the ass,” Carlos says, but I shake my head.
“No, Santi is fantastic at the net. He has to start approaching it,” I say, hearing Carlos chuckle beside me. “What?”
“You two were so set on being against this relationship, against becoming hitting partners, but both of you are absolutely amazing at it. Down to pretending you care even when no one is watching.”
My lips seal shut, but if I didn’t respect him so much, I would shoot Carlos a disgusted look. Unfortunately, I think he’s a greatcoach, a good father, a kind human being, and an amazing tennis player.
Plus, he’s not wrong.
I care. No one is watching me right now, they’re too busy focusing on the match, and yet, I care so much I try to find ways to help Santi win. I could blame my love for tennis, but if that were the case, I might as well give Blake tips on how to beat Santi. Except only thinking about that makes me sick to my stomach.
Santiago moves to the baseline on his side of the court, waiting for the ball kid to hand him three balls. He inspects them carefully before giving the ball back, sliding one of them into his pockets and bouncing the other on the court.
“Vamos, Santi.” I clap after the words have left my mouth, encouraging him.
His eyes are trained on the ball, but he smiles like he’s very happy I’m so invested. He should only be focusing on his match, but this man apparently has time to be distracted by me anyway.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Santi is obsessed with me.
His first serve of the game is aggressive, sending Blake to the side far enough, that Santi has a chance to run to the net and volley his return to the other side of the court.
