Page 65 of A Follow-Through in Faking
It takes me several ball bounces to ignore how gorgeous Cata looks as she gets into position at the net. It takes several more to swallow down my fear of accidentally hitting her. Only then do I manage to serve a perfect shot down the center line. Frederic is on it, though, and returns it to me. We rally back and forth until ultimately, he hits the ball to Cata, and she puts it away with so much force, neither of our opponents manages to get it.
I stand behind her, shocked into place by her amazing shot. A smile curls the corners of my mouth, and when she turns around to catch me being so surprised, she smirks and winks my way.
This woman is going to bring me to my fucking knees, and I will enjoy every second of it.
The match flies by.
Our serves are consistent. Our shots are well placed most of the time. Everything is going absolutely flawlessly. We communicate well. We listen to each other. We build a strategy that has us on top of the game.
Even though I knew Cata and I would do well, I didn’t expect that we’d win the first set six games to two and then the second one six games to three. But as she serves again, she places it wide and in the corner, earning us our first win as doubles partners since we were kids.
I spin on my heels just in time to see her run my way, jumping into my arms. I catch her with ease because I was made for this woman, I truly believe that, and she wraps her arms around my neck. A victorious laugh escapes her lips, pure happiness consuming both of us as we take home this first victory.
I know people will probably have a lot to say about how we’re celebrating, making such a big ordeal out of nothing. But this is important for us. It’s a demonstration of our power, of our ability as doubles partners to return and play such a strong match.
Cata releases me too quickly, but I have no time to be disappointed by it because after shaking our opponents’ hands, as expected, she skips toward her bag, the sight too fucking adorable to mind. I join her, both of us getting ready to be interviewed and then leave for the press conference after, cool down, and more. I’m not as physically exhausted as I would beafter a three-set match, potentially five, and I hope Cata feels the same.
“How’s your back?” I ask, placing a hand on it and rubbing the small of it with my hand.
“It feels good, Santi. Really good,” she replies, wiping her face with one of the towels. She’s not wearing a speck of makeup, and I can’t describe how devastatingly beautiful I think she is, especially when she’s all sweaty and happy from a match well played.
“Can I hold your hand while we do the interview?” I find myself asking, and Cata wastes no time flinging her bag around her shoulder to take my hand.
“You’re a very needy man,” she says, pulling me toward the interviewer.
“Only when it comes to you.” I know she’s rolling her eyes, even if all I can see is the back of her head.
“Everybody, let’s givethecouple of tennis a warm round of applause,” the interviewer says, and the entire arena fills the space around us with more applause. “You two played a fantastic match. You had the strategy, the skill, and the communication to dominate today. Did you think you’d be playing this well during your first match back?”
Catalina looks up at me, probably because I’m almost vibrating from excitement to answer this question. She gives me a nod, as if to say “go ahead,” and I waste no time doing so.
“I had no doubts. Catalina and I have been playing doubles since we were kids, and we’ve been training together all season as hitting partners. I know her tennis inside out, I’ve been studying it her whole career, and I think we fit really well together, on and off the court.” I’m rambling, but there is no stopping my words. Not even as I admit something I lied to her about when we first met up before the season began.
“That’s sweet. Catalina, you looked fantastic out there. Confident, strong. There were no signs your back was bothering you today. Can we take that as a good sign that you’ll be back to playing singles matches soon?” the interviewer goes on, and I give Cata a proud look as she steps toward the microphone a little.
“Absolutely. I’ll be back in no time, and it’ll be to win my first Grand Slam,” she says, and the crowd explodes into another round of cheers.
They love her so much. They always have. Catalina is the kind of person you can’t help but fall for, and it shows in their support.
It shows in my feelings for her.
The interviewer wraps up their questions, and Catalina and I make our way to where Charlie and Papá are waiting to go through our post-match procedures with us. But before we reach them, she drags me into a private room, a bathroom, because there are cameras pretty much everywhere else in this area, and gives me a serious look.
“Were you telling the truth out there? You’ve been watching me play all this time?” She isn’t angry. There is something akin to hope filtering through her eyes, and her features have softened immensely.
Without hesitation, I raise my hands to cup her cheeks, taking her face in them to keep her eyes on me as I tell her something I should have told her a long time ago.
“In my eyes, you are the best tennis player in the world. I’m in awe of you. I've been in awe of you for over a decade. You inspire me to be better, even when it was more rivalry than anything else.”
I take a step toward her, bringing my chest flush against hers. Hers is rising and falling so quickly, I wish I knew why. Does shewant to kiss me again? Does she want more? Are my feelings too much for her?
“I’m sorry I lied to you about that. I—” She cuts me off.
“You don’t have to apologize. It was a tiny lie, and we were still angry with each other at the time,” she says, attempting to avoid my gaze, but I hold her in place.
“It may have been tiny, but I’m still sorry I ever made you feel like I haven’t been paying attention to you since we met. Because I have.” I take a deep breath before saying something I never thought I’d say. “Cata, not a day has passed in the last decade that I haven’t thought about you in some capacity. Every time I pick up a tennis racket, I think about you. I think about you during highly inappropriate moments. I think about you when I shouldn’t, when I don’t want to.”
Our mouths keep getting closer. Our breaths are becoming one. But I won’t kiss her unless she really wants me to, and she knows that.
