By the first live-ball drill, it becomes obvious she’s decided something.
She’s going to push me until she knows exactly where my head is.
Not punishment.
Verification.
The first hard rep, she blows the whistle and points.
“Again.”
I reset.
Serve.
Pass.
Transition.
Hit.
“Again.”
Sweat starts running down my spine before the rest of the team is even fully warm.
I jump for another kill.
Land.
Rotate.
“Again, Cortez.”
Lila shoots me a glance over the net that saysyou are so screwed.
I shoot one back that saysshut up and block.
The next half hour is just me and the floor and Coach refusing to let me drift one millimeter off center.
She makes me run extra transition reps.
Extra serve-target drills.
Extra block-and-close footwork until my legs are burning hard enough to sing.
Not meanly.
Not vindictively.
Relentlessly.
Finally, after she has me hit out of system for the fourth time in a row and I still manage to put the ball down cross-court, she blows the whistle and folds her arms.
“You done being famous?”
The whole gym goes quiet.
I wipe my forearm across my face and look at her.
