Page 6 of A Follow-Through in Faking
It just shows that those people haven’t seen Catalina play yet. She’s quick, like me, and her serve is faster than most men I’ve played against. Yes, my forehand and backhand are physically stronger than hers in the sense of speed, but it’s also about placement in tennis, and Catalina is fantastic at it. Irritatingly so. Not even I, who runs like my life depends on it during games, can get to her goddamn balls when she’s in control of the rally.
We warm up in silence, like two players would during a tournament. We move from forehands and backhands to volleys at the net, then overheads. Serves are the last thing we warm up before it’s time to decide who gets to start serving.
I’m ready to beat her in thisfriendlycompetition when, all of a sudden, Papá decides to interrupt us.
“Did you really think I’d let you off this easily today?” he says, causing my body to freeze in place.
Oh no.
“Charlie and I will be partners, versing you and Catalina. If we win, we make the rules. If you win, we’ll let you make the rules. Don’t bother agreeing or disagreeing. This is the way things will go,” he explains, and I feel anger settling deep inside my chest.
And here I thought Papá and Charlie were warming up to play on the other court. I should have known things would never be so simple with my father.
“Fine,” Cata says and struts over to where I’m standing. Breathing becomes more difficult when she lets her hair down for a minute to secure it in a ponytail instead of the bun she had it in before.
“Do you want the forehand or backhand side?” she asks when she’s in front of me, those blue eyes sparkling with shades of brown near the pupil.
“Your backhand is unreliable, so I’ll take that side,” I say, and she directs the meanest glare my way. I love riling her up too much to keep stabs like those to myself.
“When’s the last time you watched me play?” she challenges.
The last game you played before the season ended. You were down by five games in the first set and managed to win it anyway. You were also wearing a purple dress that seemed to have been made for you in every way possible.
“I don’t know. A few years ago?” I lie.
“Exactly. You have no idea how much my backhand has improved.” She’s right, it definitely has. It’s not her strongest shot, not like her forehand is, but it’s annoyingly good.
“If you say so,mariquita,” I reply with a bored shrug of my shoulders, making her face turn red with anger.
A smile crosses my face before I can stop it.
Naturally, it only irritates her more.
“Fuck you,” she mumbles in Spanish as we get into our positions on the court, Cata squatting a little to get into position and ultimately showing off her ass.
Fuck me, indeed.
Chapter 4
Catalina
IhateSantiagoJavierCastillo with a fucking passion.
Our past is enough of a reason to, but there is also something about him, about that smug smile and those defined muscles making up his body, that irritates me. Add the man’s I’m-better-than-everybody-else-at-tennis-fuckboy personality on top, and you have all the makings of a person that I, Catalina Rivera Sanchez, will never be able to tolerate. Even if his ass looks phenomenal in those shorts of his. Even if his arms are coiled with muscles on top of muscles in a way only athletes who work on them every day have. Even if his smile is as devastating as I remember it to be.
It doesn’t help that his lips are full and round, that his hair is a deep brown, that his skin is always lightly tanned, and that his eyes are a beautiful amber. I could stare at them all day, which is another problem entirely.
“You know when you serve, you’re supposed to aim for the box on the other side of the court,” I say after Santiago misses another first serve, the fourth one since we started playing mere minutes ago.
“You’re distracting me!” he complains, his voice low and full of irritation.
“How the fuck am I distracting you? I’m standing where I’m supposed to be,” I say, pointing down at my feet where I am at the net.
“I’m scared I’ll hit you, but never mind. I’ll hit you with the ball if it keeps you from complaining,” he says. When I turn back around, rolling my eyes, I notice Charlie and Santiago’s father, Carlos, laughing at us.
“What?” I ask both of them, but they just shrug.
“You’ll never win like that. You’re not rivals or enemies. You’re partners,” Carlos says, spinning his racket in his hand.
