Page 8 of A Follow-Through in Faking
I may only be number two in the world, but I’ve worked my way up to being very important in the world of tennis. Velocità Rossa offered to give me this beauty as long as I wear their logo somewhere on my outfits during tournaments.
Yes, they sponsor me.
That’s how awesome I am.
It’s nothing extravagant in the world of Monaco, where Santi and I both live, but it’s a hell of a lot nicer than the car he drives.
Santi’s eyes attach to my Ragna for a moment, letting out a low whistle.
“Joder, this is nice,” he says, walking around it to inspect every aspect.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask, leaning against the door as I slip my sunglasses onto my nose. Once Santiago is back in front of me, he takes in the sight of me and my car, taking several steps back to take a picture on his phone. “What was that for?” His answering smile is like sunshine that was bottled up for years, finally being released.
“That was for me to post on my socials. But we’re gonna need something more convincing,” he says, taking several steps toward me. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his side, pressing his cheek against mine and taking another picture with one of his big, happy smiles. As soon as he’s done, I push him off me and glare at him. Santiago laughs, a deep and amused sound that makes my knees a little weak. “That face of yours, Cata, it’s so beautiful when you’re angry.”
I might blush if I weren’t so annoyed with him.
“That face of yours, Santi, I want to punch it,” I reply, almost bursting into laughter when he chuckles at my jab. “Don’t press your cheek against mine again,” I say before adding, “Actually, don’t touch me at all.”
“Why? You like it too much?” I snort at that question.
“No. I don’t like you touching me because I don’t trust you.” All of his amusement fades, his expression turning sad and thoughtful all at once.
“You know, we’re going to have to find a way to change that. If we go out in public and we don’t touch, no one is going to buy that this isn’t more than a publicity stunt to get our reputations cleared,” he says, and I hate that he’s right. But I also have noidea how to keep from wanting to push him away every time he gets close to me.
“What do you suggest?” Santiago crosses those trained arms of his.
“Come to my house to have dinner with me tomorrow. I’ll make you a delicious meal and then we’ll discuss all of the rules and boundaries of this arrangement. No matter the deal we made with Papá and Charlie, we’re the ones who’ll have to agree on what exactly ‘dating’ will look like for us,” he says, yet again bringing up such a good point that I can’t argue.
And I won’t argue for the sake of arguing.
“Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow, but I’m bringing the food. You are useless in the kitchen,” I say and open the driver’s door, watching envy enter Santi’s eyes.
“Fine, bring the food.” He’s too busy ogling my car to fight. He wants it, wants the sponsorship I have with Velocità Rossa, and I love rubbing it in his face when I let the engine roar to life, a beautiful sound that has him groaning. “I’m gonna steal it from you one day,” he says, a teasing smile on his lips.
“Try it,cabrón, and I’ll shave your head,” I warn, panic filling his gaze as I drive away, my middle finger raised into the air outside my window.
The last thing I see in my rearview mirror is Santi grinning.
Chapter 5
Santiago
MatteoRiccihasbeenmy best friend since childhood. Ever since we were paired together for a project where we ended up doing absolutely nothing and receiving the worst grade ever, we’ve been inseparable friends. We’ve also been through hell and back together because when his dad passed away, I took his hand and we walked into the burning depths together so he didn’t have to be alone. So he’d know I was right by his side whenever he was ready to walk back out again. He stayed with me when I was at my lowest point with my depression, giving me as much time and patience as I needed. We’ve been friends through all the silly stages of our lives too, the awkwardness, the queer awakenings, everything. It was difficult to separate us as kids because we were either too busy playing games on the video game console, being on the court to practice since we both wanted to go pro from early on in our lives, and eating our weight in chips.
Maybe not the best thing to consume when you want to become a professional athlete, but oh well.
When I look at him, I feel strangely at peace. Like not everything has to be going right in my life for him to find a way to make me laugh.
“How’s your mom?” I ask him, gripping the handle of my tennis racket a little more firmly before spinning it once in my hand.
Normally, he and I would have done anything other than play tennis to spend time together, but his hitting partner has been sick for the past week, and this close to the beginning of the season, he needed someone to practice with who isn’t his coach.
I’d give my life for Matteo, as dramatic as it may sound, so playing a round of tennis even if I’m sore is the least I can do.
“She’s alright, but if you ask her, then she’s not because she’s annoyed with me for being an idiot,” he replies and takes a sip of his water. I can’t help but laugh.
“So, just the usual,” I say and he shrugs.
