26–26.
That number starts to feel cursed after a while.
We take the fourth somehow, mostly on anger and a back-row kill from me that clips a hand and lands inside the line by maybe an inch.
Then it’s five.
A season should never come down to fifteen points.
That feels obscene.
And yet.
The fifth set is shorter, louder, crueler.
Everything narrows.
Their crowd is on its feet.
Our bench is hoarse.
Coach Alvarez’s voice cuts through the noise like steel.
At 9–9 I block one straight down and we surge ahead.
At 11–10 they answer with an ace that clips tape and dies like God personally picked a side.
At 12–12 my shoulder is burning so hard it feels detached from the rest of me.
I can feel the season tipping.
That’s the worst part.
Not not knowing.
Knowing.
At 13–13, Mari sets me high.
I go up.
See the block.
Adjust late.
Tool the outside hand.
Point.
14–13 us.
Match point.
My whole body becomes one bright, terrible wire.
The gym is screaming.
Coach is yelling something I can’t hear.
