Page 29 of A Follow-Through in Faking
The first match she will be in my box as my girlfriend.
Fake girlfriend.
I’ve got to remember that.
Today, Catalina is wearing a dark blue tennis skirt in a dark blue as well as a matching shirt with the words, “Consistency is key” written across her chest. An obvious jab at my inconsistent way of playing, but I haven’t done more than grin at it. My favorite shirt so far has been the one she wore when we were practicing three days ago.
“Santiago Castillo’s Best Quality: Having Catalina Sanchez as a Hitting Partner.”
There was nothing else written on it, and I was laughing the whole time.
“Focus, Santi. You don’t want to be kicked out of the tournament during the first match, do you?” she asks after I’ve missed another ball by hitting it too wide. It went in the doubles alley instead of staying within the singles lines.
She storms toward the net, a scolding look taking over her face. I stay at the baseline, keeping my distance from her. It’s what I’ve been doing since New Year’s. It’s what I need to do while she’s still mad at me.
Otherwise, I’ll end up begging to touch her, and that isn’t a good look if Cata says no. If she doesn’t want me to.
“You make me nervous,” I reply, staring directly into her blue eyes from across the court. She leans a little against the net as she crosses her arms over her magnificent chest.
“What part of me makes you nervous, Santi? My tennis skills or my tits?” she challenges, clearly not having my ogling. I drag my gaze back to her face, feeling my features turning into a frown.
“All of you makes me nervous, Cata. I feel like you’re aiming for me with every hit, trying to hit me in the face or balls.”
This makes her crack a smile as she slowly backs away.
“I am.”
It’s her only reply before she serves the ball, an underhand serve she places perfectly in front of me. I hit it back to her, doing my best to listen to her feedback in the same way she listens to mine. I have this habit of being stubborn when it comes to my tennis. It’s not a very flattering personality trait, thinking I know my tennis best and there is nothing I need to improve on because I am winning matches and I’m number one in the world.
I listen to Papá, but only because he’s my coach and he’s been in the world of tennis a lot longer than I have. He knows things I’ll never learn without his help.
But Cata?
I don’thave totake her criticisms under consideration. She’s my hitting partner, not my trainer. We’re stuck together because we’ve been forced to be this way.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t admire her tennis and want her to teach me, too.
I just have a harder time with it.
“Santi, stop aiming for the fucking line. If you aim for the line every time, you’re going to have your ball go straight back into the doubles alley,” Cata calls out from the other side of the court, waving her hands around in frustration.
“But if I don’t take risks, I won’t make points.”
I won’t entertain.
I’ll disappoint my fans.
I’ll disappoint everyone attending the match.
Cata studies me for a second before making her way back to the net. This time, she doesn’t stop there. She jumps over it, more gracefully than anyone has a right to, and storms toward me. Part of me thinks about running away as she stalks toward me like a predator, but another is so mesmerized byher, all I manage to do is observe every little movement of hers. The way her long, brown hair sways with every step she takes. The way her clothes shift against her skin. The way her eyes burn with irritation.
“What is it with you?” she asks, poking my left shoulder.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply, attempting to take a step away from her but my legs aren’t moving. One look at her, one inhale of her fresh and sweet scent, and I’m cemented in place, unable to escape Cata’s pull on me.
Her blue eyes study my face, as if she could find the answer to her question written in my features.
And perhaps she does, because what she says next is so accurate, it sends a chill down my spine.
