Because some part of me has already grown used to feeling him nearby when things matter.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes for one second.
I know.
I send.
He doesn’t reply right away.
Probably taping ankles.
Probably in film.
Probably doing the same thing I am—trying to hold one season in his hands while the other one he loves runs in parallel somewhere he can’t reach.
When the bus rolls into the away arena parking lot, my stomach drops exactly the way it always does.
Game body.
No matter how many matches you play, your body always knows.
The gym inside is cold and overlit and louder than it should be for a college arena not even half full yet. Their student section is already trying too hard. Our locker room is small and smells like hairspray, muscle cream, and the sharp synthetic scent of clean jerseys pulled from plastic.
Coach Alvarez doesn’t give speeches before matches like this.
That’s one of the reasons I love her.
She gives bullet points.
Serve tough.
Don’t play small.
Close the seam.
Trust your training.
Then she looks directly at me and says, “You don’t need to win this by yourself.”
I nod once.
But she knows.
I know.
Everybody knows.
When the air gets this tight, stars get leaned on.
That’s how sports works.
Fair or not.
Warm-ups blur.
Tape.
Bands.
