Page 70 of A Follow-Through in Faking
“Yes, we can. One more game, and we’ll finally have a few days off to go on a date,” I say, a sense of giddiness spreading through me at the very thought.
“Is that all you think about?” she asks, shaking her head at me.
“Not all, but like ninety-five percent of my thoughts are occupied by you.” The words roll off my tongue more easily than I ever thought possible, but at this point, I can’t remember a time I wasn’t wrapped around her finger.
I can’t even remember why I ever chose to fuck around instead of asking her to be in a real relationship with me.
“Santi, are you obsessed with me?” she asks, starting to walk back to the baseline while I follow behind her like a lost puppy.
“Undeniably.”
I only see the back of her head, her braided hair as it moves from side to side, but I know she’s smiling at my response. Despite not thinking we could ever make this work, I think Cata may be falling for me, too, even if it’s only a little.
Fuck, I hope it’s a lot.
“Okay, focus on the game, Santi. We can keep talking about this later,” she says, taking the balls the ball person hands her and inspecting them.
“Promise?” My smirk has a blush settling on her cheeks, but she doesn’t respond to my question. Instead, she locks in and goes straight back to talking strategy with me.
“I’m going to try and speed up my serve,” she says, and I open my mouth to argue, to remind her she’s been slowing it down—if only slightly—for a reason. “They won’t expect it.” Hard to argue with a good point, even one I don’t like.
“As soon as you feel the tiniest pulling or pain, you slow down again,” I say, pointing a warning finger at her. She pokes me in the stomach with the head of her racket, making me drop the finger.
“You know I’m a grown woman, right?” she asks, furrowing her brows at me, but I just shrug because yes, she is, but I’m also never going to stop worrying about her.
Not since I saw what happened when she overused her back.
Cata takes my arm and leads me to the baseline, and I realize our opponents are doing the same.
No more time to flirt.
“Trust me,” is the last thing Cata says before urging me to go to the net.
We’re both so tired, but I think she’s even more so because her left hand trembles a little as she wraps her hands around the tennis ball and prepares to serve. Then I look at her face and realize it’s not exhaustion at all.
She’s nervous.
As a matter of fact, I’d even say she’s anxious about losing this, and I don’t blame her.
Losing when you have a fundamental fear of failure is one of the most triggering things for my mental health. I can only assume the same applies to her. Knowing Cata, I’d even go as far as assuming it’s a combination of things, and she’s scared serving faster, using more strength, is going to do something to her back again. If only she’d listen to me and keep slowing it down. We don’t need her to risk anything. We will win either way, but Cata is determined, and there is no stopping her now.
Worst of all, I’m pretty sure she’d risk injury if it meant proving to herself and the world that she’s good enough for this sport.
“Cariño,take a deep breath,” I say in Spanish, and she does as told as I position myself at the net.
She takes another fifteen seconds or so until her racket connects with the ball, followed by a grunt. My eyes catch sight of the ball as it goes straight down the center line. It’s fast, precise, and absolutely perfect. Noah, so surprised at the sheer speed, doesn’t manage to get to it, turning the serve into an ace. I shift to Cata and start clapping along with the rest of the stadium. Her nerves seem to settle a little now that she got her first ace of the set in, and I couldn’t be prouder when I notice her confidence as she positions herself to serve again.
The next shot isn’t an ace because Bernadette manages to touch the ball with her racket, but it goes flying into the crowd.
Thirty-love.
“One more, baby. Give me one more of those beautiful serves.”
She gives me one more, another ace, making it forty-love.
The game is ours in the next rally.
The match is ours.
