Page 49 of A Follow-Through in Faking
It’s only when I serve again, another ace, and secure my service game, that I scream victoriously because, fuck, this was too close. It shouldn’t have been so close. If I want to win, I have to be in control of my service gamesandtake his from him at the same time.
After another brief water break, we switch sides of the court again, and I’m finally back on Catalina’s side.
I mean, on my team’s side.
But my eyes do tend to drift to her more. I blame her shirt, which says, “Team Santiago” today, and I’ve never been so happy. Especially, because of the little ladybug resting on the O of my name.
“I know you’re tired, Santi, but you’re so close. You can do it,” Catalina calls to me as I place my towel down, clapping a little for encouragement.
“With my beautiful girl cheering for me, how could I lose?” The words slip free, but I wish I could catch them mid-air and throw them back in my mouth becausewhat the fuck was that?
“Shut up, Santi,” she mumbles, leaning back in her chair. I notice a smile slipping onto her lips, but she covers her mouth to keep me from seeing it.
And suddenly, I don’t regret the words at all.
Not when my little rain cloud seems so positively impacted by them and any smile from her is a reward in itself.
Blake takes a long time to serve. There is a time limit between points, and he already got a time violation earlier, but this is all part of his strategy. He’s trying to derail me, make me wait long enough to unsteady me and take me out of the game mentally. He’s trying to irritate me so I make mistakes more easily.
It does irritate me, but he’s risking another time violation, which works in my favor.
“Time violation number two. Love-fifteen,” the umpire says, and the crowd cheers because they were also getting irritated with it.
Blake shakes his head and calls out something to the umpire, but she simply shakes her head, unimpressed with his arguments.
It’s an easy point handed to me, a major mistake on his part. If I can get three more points now, I will be able to snatch his service game, and then all I’ll have left is winning all of mine to win the match.
I can do this.
I make a mistake, an unforced error, on the next point, and I curse myself out for being such an idiot.
“Enfocate, Santi!” I hear Papá call out to me. I turn to him and frown.
“Ya sé,” I mumble to myself, squatting a little again as I get in position to return the serve.
It’s a tedious battle, much like the first service game of the set, but when it’s advantage me, I take a deep breath, waiting for him to serve. I hear Cata’s words ring in my ears when Blake misses his first serve. I step forward, toward the baseline, and attack his second, slower serve. My legs bring me to the net, jumping for my split step as I get ready to volley, but Blake lobs me, sending the ball flying too high for me to reach. A gasp escapes me as I run back toward the baseline, but the only way I get the ball is by going between the legs.
A tweener I place right in the corner of the left side of his court side, opposite of where he’s standing.
“Vamos!” I scream, taking his service game for myself.
The crowd goes back to cheering my name because they know how much this break point means to me. To the potential ending of this game.
I take my next service game easily, and to everyone’s surprise, Blake’s next service game goes to me as well. It’s four games to zero. I only need two more for another title.
Two more.
My next service game is another battle that has sweat dripping down my back and arms. I blow on my fingers where they grip my racket, because my hands are sweating too. The heat is weighing heavily on me, but I’m so close. I’m almost there. I serve over and over, winning a point, then losing another. Our rallies have shortened significantly from what they used to be, but that’s mostly because we’re both exhausted.
We’ve been playing for over four hours.
I finally win my service game, which leaves his.
But I lose his game, dragging out the match even more.
My limbs hurt so badly, not even the adrenaline rush of playing is helping the way I feel. Taking a sip of my electrolytes, I draw on the very last strings of my strength, rolling out my neck and shoulders.
It’s five games to one.
