I land, stagger once, recover.
The other side cheers.
For half a second the old version of me threatens to creep in—the one who spirals, the one who starts calculating, the one who gets careful.
Then I hear it again.
Not literally.
Memory.
Play angry while I’m gone.
Something hot and immediate flares low in my chest.
Fine.
The next rally, I tool the block off the outside hand and stare straight through their middle as the point hits.
Mari grabs my shoulder when we rotate.
“You are terrifying tonight.”
“Good.”
She grins like she likes that answer.
At 19–18, Lila overpasses. I’m tight to the net, almost under it. I jump on instinct and redirect with one hand before their block is even set.
Point.
At 21–20, they target me on serve receive again and I give them a pass so clean Lila could set it in her sleep. She feeds me back row. I rise behind the ten-foot line and swing through the seam so hard the ball ricochets off their libero’s arms and into the stands.
The sound that tears out of our bench is feral.
By 23–23, I can taste copper at the back of my throat.
Every inhale burns.
Every exhale scrapes.
The gym has turned into one giant heartbeat.
I look up once between points.
Emmanuel is standing now with that same unreadable intensity.
The whistle blows.
The serve comes.
Chaos.
Our libero shanks it.
I sprint.
Lila chases it down and throws up a blind set from ten feet off the court.
