Page 7 of A Follow-Through in Faking
The score at the moment is 30-40 for them, even though we’re serving, which is bad. They have a breakpoint opportunity—a chance to steal our service game. In tennis, securing your service game is important. If you lose it, you’re at a disadvantage in the set unless you can manage to win a service game from your opponent. You win the set by winning six games in total, but if it’s five games to five, you play until seven. If it’s six games to six, you play a tiebreaker where the first person to get seven points wins the set. Women only have to win two sets. Men have to win three during Grand Slams, two in ATP games.
“Yeah, Cata, we have to playtogether,” Santiago says, and I turn to him to show him the glare I only ever wear in his presence. “Juntos,” he repeats, my urge to kick him growing stronger and stronger.
The irony of him being the one to say that to me has more anger boiling inside of me. It spills right over the top, and I can no longer keep the angry tears at bay, since I tear up when I getoverwhelmed by anger. It’s one of the few things I wish I could change about myself because it’s seen as a sign of weakness, not as a sign of “I’ll rip your head off now.” And the only thing to do to keep anyone from seeing is to leave.
“Charlie, I’d rather drown myself in chlorine than spend the entire Grand Slam season being Santiago’s hitting partner and fake girlfriend. I’m calling this off,” I say and walk toward my bag.
“Give us a second,” I hear Santiago say. When I turn around with my bag on my shoulder, I run into his very hard, very nice chest. He’s not that much taller than me, but enough so that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
“Get out of my way, Santi,” I warn, but he doesn’t move. Those amber eyes of his skip over my face, studying me.
“This isn’t ideal for either one of us,mariquita,” he says, and I almost laugh at the nickname. He started ironically calling me “ladybug” when we were first paired together in school. He said it was because I was “so lucky,” the words laced with sarcasm.
“Wow, that must have taken your last two brain cells to deduce. What are you going to do now that you have none left?” I ask, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“Be serious for one moment. We’re going to have to spend the next eight months intensively training together. We will both win several Grand Slams if we train properly.”
I almost laugh at that.
“Oh, aiming low, are we? I haven’t even won a single one, Santiago, how do you expect us to win several each just because we're training together?” I say and shake my head. He crosses his arms too, mimicking my stance.
“Because I'm amazing, and I can teach you how to win,” he says, so I take a step forward, ready to kick him.
He jumps back, laughing even though I’m scowling at him.
“You’re so full of yourself. I’m the one who is more consistent. I’m the one who gets the most shots in because you are always trying out new things that cost you points!” Needing to justify my failures makes embarrassment creep up my neck.
I attempt to walk past him, but Santiago lifts his hands in a pleading manner to get me to stay put.
“The fact that you don’t try new things, play riskier, is the reason you haven’t won a Slam yet.” I open my mouth to yell at him, call him all the bad names in the world, but he beats me to it. “You’re stuck in your ways, Cata. You play it safe, and when you’re losing, you get frightened. Overwhelmed. Anxious. And while that’s understandable, it’s a phase I had to work past as well. You have to perfect problem-solving while under pressure. I can help you with that,” he offers, and, putting my hatred for him aside, I try to process his words.
I’ve always been good at using the feedback given to me, allowing it to help me become a better player, a better person. So, I let his words sink in. I allow myself to acknowledge that he’s right.
Thatisone of my weaknesses.
“Fine. I’ll let you help me improve my problem-solving skills if you let me help you improve your consistency.”
“You can most certainly try, but no promises,” he says and smiles at me, the expression a little too handsome for my eyes to keep from dropping to his mouth.
“Are you two finished so we can get back to the game?” Charlie asks, impatiently swinging their racket around while Carlos grins at us.
“Let’s kick some ass,” Santi says, still smiling at me while I’m frowning at him.
“I’d rather kick yours, but sure,” I say, getting a laugh out of him that I don’t return.
We lose, and we lose badly against our coaches. Santi and I continue fighting with one another, so, naturally, we lose. Three games to six in the first set, two games to six in the second.
“You will be amazing hitting partners,” Carlos says, shaking his head in disappointment as he turns to talk to Charlie.
For some reason, I’m exhausted. Not physically. I could probably keep going for another hour or two, but mentally, I’m drained. Being around Santi is exhausting when neither one of us knows how to be around the other person. He turns to me once we’re done, his lips parting like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how to phrase it, so I don’t give him a chance to figure it out.
I grab my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and walk toward the door, then my car.
I should have known Santi wouldn’t let me get away that easily.
“Mariquita, we need to talk about going out together soon to sell the dating aspect of this arrangement,” he reminds me as I throw my bag into the passenger seat of my most-prized possession.
My glossy, black Ragna Velocità Rossa.
