Page 48 of A Follow-Through in Faking
A bright smile covers his face as he spins to point his racket my way. He uses his left hand and the face of the racket to clap, clearly applauding my advice. I blush instantly, sliding down in my seat to avoid the way several hundreds of eyes move in my direction. It’s pointless, but trying makes me feel a bit better.
The second point he wins is an ace. The third one is an unforced error from Blake, and the fourth is a forehand winner from Santi, a powerful shot that has me standing up and clapping.
It’s now five games to five.
“Get that break, Santi,” Carlos calls out from beside me as his son wipes his face with his towel. He doesn’t look at his father, but he nods, acknowledging the words.
Blake is still composed despite how badly he lost the previous game, but he’s not known for being quick to anger on the tennis court. I think in his entire fifteen-year career as a professional tennis player, he’s slammed his racket against the ground once. Even Santi has done so more frequently out of frustration, but he has never broken a racket.
In general, it’s against the rules to break your rackets or be so angry you behave unsportsmanly. You either get warnings or, if it happens often enough, you get disqualified. Tennis is very strict when it comes to respecting your equipment, opponent, and all the people who make a match happen.
It’s unlike many other sports.
Santiago battles for every point in this next game. He approaches the net twice, winning one more point and losing another to a mistake he makes. All in all, I think approaching the net more is helping him in the way I hoped it would, and he even starts becoming more creative. More like his usual playing. He switches between forehand and backhand winners, dropshots, and volleys. He’s doing so well, minutes later, he finally has a break point. The first of the match.
I hold my breath as Blake positions himself at the baseline, bouncing his ball as he prepares to serve. His first one goes too long, and his second one is slow enough for Santi to hit it hard and place it in the corner, another forehand winner.
“Let’s go!” I call out as the crowd cheers, roaring in the way they tend to do for their favorite players.
Santi points at me again, then places his index finger on his temple. I throw him a kiss because everyone is watching us, and it feels like the girlfriend thing to do. He blushes so violently, I can’t help feeling one creep up my neck too.
Carlos chuckles, but this time, I nudge him in the side, trying not to feel as embarrassed as I do. Not because I’m embarrassed Santi and I had a moment. We’ve been having those for weeks. I’m embarrassed that it felt real and the whole world watched.
Santiago brings his service game home, securing him the first set of the game.
One out of three.
The way he’s playing right now, there is nothing standing in his way of winning this title.
Chapter 21
Santiago
It’stwosetstotwo.
It all comes down to this last set, and I’m fucking exhausted. I started off so well, winning the first set, but then everything went downhill for the following two sets. Blake has been so consistent and crafty, not even I could reach his shots for those two sets. I doubt anyone could have.
In the fourth set, I finally managed to get my act together, and I won it six games to four, so it’s all going to come down to this set. Whether I have it in me to win or if I’m going to be too distracted and out of it to do so. Which is fucking ridiculous because I want this. I want this so much, it feels like I won’t be able to breathe properly until I have that win. But seeing Catalina, one of the most amazing tennis players and the person who deserves to win her first title, lose another chance yesterday showed me that no matter how deserving you are, it all comes down to you.
I get to start serving in this set, which is a huge advantage. It offers me a confidence boost by being the one to lead the set if I manage to bring my service game through and not lose it to Blake.
He looks more and more tired with every game, and I’m hoping my stamina will get me this win. We’ve been playing for three and a half hours, and that’s a long fucking time in tennis matches. Three and a half hours, and we still have a set left.
My body is exhausted, but there’s no letting up yet.
I have to win this.
Because every time I look at Cata, I realize she needs me to win this for both of us.
My first service game of the set is a battle. We go from deuce—forty all—to advantage me to back to deuce. It terrifies me when he’s the one who has the advantage, but I manage to bring us back to deuce.
Sweat drips down the side of my face, down my back, and arms. It’s so hot, and I’m so exhausted, all I can do is wipe the sweat off my brow with the wrist sweatband I wear on my left arm. I serve again, the score still deuce. It’s a well-placed shot down the center line, but Blake returns it as if it’s the easiest shot I’ve played all match long. He aims for my backhand, so I hit the ball back to him, going forhisbackhand. It’s not his strongest shot, so I do my best to keep this cross-court thing going, from my backhand to his.
He goes down the line, and I get to the ball, but it’s a reaching sort of shot. My eyes catch him running to the net at the same time, so I do exactly what he did, placing my shot down the line. He doesn’t reach it.
Advantage me.
I take a deep breath, not letting a sense of victory course through me yet.
