Page 77 of A Follow-Through in Faking
Our opponents have no chance against us while I feel invincible and Santi plays like some sort of tennis god.
“How’s your back?” Santi asks halfway through the second set. We won the first one six games to three and are leading the second three games to one.
“Fine. How’s yours?” I reply, but I responded too quickly, and my question certainly doesn’t convince him.
Because if I’m being honest, it is a bit stiff, but I can hardly feel it with all of the adrenaline coursing through my veins at the moment. Santi opens his mouth to protest, to tell me to slow down, but I beat him to it.
“Three more games, then I have a break,” I reply, and his mouth clamps shut again. Two weeks off is what I’ll have before Stuttgart. Two weeks in which Santi and I will be attending the Monaco Masters, where I’ll watch him win.
“Fine, but let me take more of the shots, Cata. You’re taking most of them, and I need you to give me the chance to make points too, okay?” he asks, and it’s only fair that I nod in agreement because we are a team and he is right.
“Okay,” I reply with a nod, and he offers me a bright smile, his full lips stretching to reveal his teeth. His amber eyes are sparkling in the noon sun filtering into the arena.
“Last set as doubles partners for now,” he says and nudges my shoulder, placing his towel back down. I glance up at my family, at the way Charlie keeps making Hernanda laugh during the breaks between the games.
Only a few games left before I get to be with them.
Well, a few games and a press conference.
Almost there.
My eyes drift to where Santiago’s parents and Manuela sit, and his twin sister gives me a cocky smirk as if to say that Santi and I got this, that she isn’t the least bit concerned if we’ll win this match.
It’s Eunice’s turn to serve, and our opponent looks as frustrated as I would feel if I was losing a match this badly.
Her partner, Colin, looks pissed.
Santi is the first one to return so I make my way to the net. I glance at Colin again, but he’s staring at Santi. I think if he could, he’d rip his head off, and suddenly, I’m angry because no one gets to look at Santi this way.
No one but me.
If it wasn’t a ridiculous thing to do, I’d growl at Colin, but I think my deathly glare is enough because he turns his head to me, and surprise covers his face as he takes a step back, away from the net.
I force my attention to Eunice, content with hopefully putting Colin a bit off-balance for the way he looked at Santi.
Eunice finally serves, a perfectly placed shot in the right corner of the service box, but Santi was anticipating the placement and returns it effortlessly. They rally back and forth while I stay ready at the net, waiting for the ball to get to me, but it never does. Santi goes wide, forcing Eunice to make an error and hit the ball in the net.
Love-fifteen.
Colin stalks toward Eunice and starts whispering something to her, waving his hands around angrily as if it’s her fault they lost the point when it was merely Santi’s phenomenal shot. No one could have gotten it.
Colin doesn’t seem to care about that, though.
“Why is he so angry?” I ask Santi.
“Colin is usually a singles player, but because of the domestic abuse allegations against him, he was not allowed to play in anysingles tournaments this season,” he explains, and my jaw just about drops to the floor.
“How the fuck is he playing doubles? Shouldn’t they have kicked him out of the sport entirely?” I ask, resisting the urge to take my racket and hit Colin with it to avenge the people he hurt.
“For now, allegations are all there is. It’s already a wonder they disqualified him from singles. Most of the time, they wouldn’t even have done that, but the evidence against him is too indisputable. There is a video, apparently.”
All words leave me because I know he’s right. I know money comes before all else, even morals, in so many sports. I simply wish it wasn't like that in the sport I love so much. The one I dedicated myself to for so many years. I've been trying to change mindsets since I got here, but in a sport as old as tennis, it’s hard to do that.
Clearly, considering a man accused of domestic violence with video proof is currently our opponent.
It disgusts me.
“Let's beat his ass,” I say with gritted teeth, and Santi gives me an agreeing nod, the topic having affected him so much, his smile is nowhere to be seen.
