The floor rushes up.
Gasps.
Someone laughs.
I hit hardwood.
The world tilts sideways.
I see stars.
Coach is yelling.
Ref blows the whistle.
“Service error!”
Harper shrugs. “Sorry. Slipped.”
I push myself up.
Dizzy.
Humiliated.
The crowd is murmuring.
They would rather tank our chances at a state championship run than let me shine.
Let that sink in.
Before letting a scholarship Latina freshman take the crown and help the school earn a berth.
Coach helps me to the sideline.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
But I don’t go back in.
Concussion protocol.
Precautionary.
Melody’s injury suddenly “not as bad as we thought.”
She’s back in before the set ends.
Royal Oaks wins. But not with me in the game. And by the way the trainer keeps looking at me and frowning—I doubt I’ll even see minute in states.
The hospital lights are too bright.
They make everything feel sterile and small.
“Minor concussion,” the nurse says. “Two days no school. No devices. No screens. Rest. We’ll clear her before playoffs.”
Playoffs.
