Who’s throwing the next party.
By Thursday, my teammates are deep in debate over smoothies after lift.
“I’m telling you,” Lila says, stabbing her straw at the table, “soccer boys have endurance.”
“That is not science,” Mara fires back. “Tennis. It’s all core strength.”
Someone across from me giggles.
I close my eyes.
This again.
They start listing names.
Football.
Soccer.
Rugby.
Comparisons like it’s scouting reports.
My eye roll is aggressive enough that Lila notices.
“What?” she says. “You’re judging.”
“I’m tired,” I reply flatly.
“You’re boring,” Mara counters.
The table erupts.
I take a bite of eggs.
They keep going.
Stories. Teasing. Ranking. The kind of conversation that makes preseason feel like summer camp instead of survival.
Finally, I snap.
“Are we here for volleyball,” I say, setting my fork down, “or are we here for hookups? Because some of you sound like you’re majoring in bad decisions.”
Silence.
Half a second.
Then chaos.
“Ice princess strikes again.”
“God forbid we have fun.”
“Sorry some of us have lives, Cortez.”
I shrug.
“Some of us have scholarships.”
