Page 3 of A Follow-Through in Faking
“That’s not going to happen any time soon, so you have to play house with the man whose ass has made more front pages than I can remember,” Charlie swoons, forcing a chuckle out of me.
Charlie is only four years older than Santiago and me, something I’ve often found great comfort in because they understand me and my needs better than a coach and manager twenty years my senior would. It has also allowed us to build a friendship like no other, and I can’t imagine my life without them anymore, even if we’ve only been working together for the last four years.
It’s hard not to get attached to Charlie.
They’re warm, kind, funny beyond measure, caring, intelligent, and they’re not afraid to give me a metaphorical kick in the butt when I deserve it.
“His ass might be the greatest I’ve ever seen, but it doesn’t change that he’s Satan incarnate,” I reply right as I move over to the bench press, getting ready to start my sets there.
“No, but it will make for a phenomenal view when you’re training with him and sitting in his box, watching him play.” I can’t help it. I burst into laughter, which soon turns into a frustrated crying sound as I cover my face. “There are worse things in the world of tennis that could have happened to you,” Charlie argues when I continue to pretend-cry into my sweaty arms.
“Are there?” I lift them to stare into their deep brown eyes.
“Yes.”
The look on their face reminds me that there is, in fact, something much worse. And it happened to them.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out when I realize my mistake.
“For what, Lina? It’s not your fault that they made me leave. It’s their fault for still not respecting a person’s pronouns, and I wasn’t going to be misgendered at every turn. Plus, I enjoy being your coach far more than fighting for any title,” they say, but I know it’s not entirely the truth.
I know they miss the matches, the tournaments, the glory. I know because I would too, and they’ve pretty much called me every imaginable thing a pansexual person can be called, especially while I was dating a woman.
When you’re in love with a sport, you do your best to make it better because it’s not the craft itself that is the problem. It’s the people. So you do your best to make them more open-minded. You fight for a change while you fight for the titles you always hoped you’d get. It’s what Valentina Romana did in Formula One when she became the first female driver. It’s what countless other female, trans, non-binary, and more athletes have done and are doing.
“You don’t need any titles or specific rankings for everyone to know you’re one of the best fucking players the world has ever seen,” I remind them, and the smirk covering their face is so instant, I grin.
“Maybe not, but maybe if I had both, my parents wouldn’t be such pains in the ass.” That makes me laugh.
“Yeah, they still would be,” I reply, and Charlie gives me an agreeing nod. Their parents love them, but they still wanted more for them than a career as my coach, not something I blame them for, no matter how grateful I am that Charlie chose me. That they continue to choose me no matter what.
We fall silent for a moment while I continue training, gritting my teeth as I push through the workout. But there is somethingI need to say out loud, no matter how often Charlie’s already had to hear me say it.
“I want to be the women’s world number one by the end of this season,” I say once we’re finished for the day.
My eyes are glued to my shaking hands, tired from the three-hour workout—playing tennis, endurance training, and weight-lifting. Even Charlie’s warm brown skin is glistening with sweat because of how tired they are from the day, their short, dark brown curls messier than they were when we started.
“You will be. You worked your ass off and it’s going to get you to the top, Lina. I know it will,” Charlie replies, taking my hands in both of theirs and flashing me an encouraging smile.
“I want to follow in Mamá’s footsteps,” I admit in a whisper because saying it out loud, putting that expectation out there, is terrifying. It’s my dream, but it’s also pressure beyond anything I’ve ever felt.
“Your mother currently holds the title for the most Grand Slams ever won, most matches ever won, and longest reigning number one in the world. If there is anyone capable of living up to her accomplishments, it’s you.” Charlie gives my cheek a small nudge with their index finger, and I can’t help but smile in return.
“I think she’d have ripped the reporters a new one for writing that article about me and tainting my whole image,” I say with a small shake of my head.
My fingers slide upward to the tennis ball charm she gave me when I won a big tournament at my school. It was the last gift she gave me before she passed away.
“Oh, a hundred percent. I’m surprised you didn’t do it yourself,” Charlie says as they hold out their hands to help me off the ground.
“I would have, but you warned me you’d fill my bed with bugs if I did.” Charlie merely chuckles.
“I didn’t think that would stop you.”
Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have, but I know better than to add gasoline when my career is the thing on fire. I didn’t want to be kicked out of the WTA, especially not when I’m one of the youngest players ever to be number two, fighting for number one. Nothing will stop me from becoming who I’ve always dreamt I’d be.
It’s just another thing that irritates me about Santiago.
He’snumber one in the men’s ranking.
