Hands.
Stuffed.
The ball comes down on our side.
The sound that leaves their gym is not cheering.
It’s detonation.
My feet hit the floor a split second too late to save anything.
14–14.
The whole match flips in that instant.
I feel it.
Everybody does.
We lose the next point on a scramble.
Then the last on a line shot I almost reach and don’t.
That’s it.
That’s the season.
Not a dramatic collapse.
Not some grand cinematic failure.
Just two points.
Two ugly, ordinary, merciless points.
The whistle blows.
Their side explodes.
And my body goes silent.
That’s the weird part about losing something that mattered this much.
You expect tears first.
Rage first.
Some obvious violent emotion.
Instead it’s blankness.
A vacuum.
Like the inside of your chest just got hit with weather hard enough to strip it clean.
Their girls are screaming.
Ours are frozen.
