EPILOGUE
Stella
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The ball hits the hardwood and jumps back into my palm, alive and familiar and steadier than my pulse.
The arena in Athens is a wall of sound.
Not noise.
Sound.
Layered and massive and bright enough to rattle through bone—the drums in one upper section, a chant rolling through another, flags flashing under white lights, cameras gliding the perimeter, the whole world crowded into one place to watch twelve women try to turn a lifetime of training into one clean gold-medal ending.
My jersey is damp between my shoulder blades.
My knees are chalked.
My fingers are taped.
The air smells like resin, adrenaline, and hot stadium light.
Across the net, Italy resets into serve receive.
My teammates spread behind me, bent at the waist, hands on thighs, breathing hard.
The score burns over center court in giant blue-white numbers.
Final set.
Olympic gold on the line.
Late enough in the match that the whole game has stopped feeling like a game and started feeling like a test of who can still hear herself think.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I step back.
The ball settles in my hand, warm from my skin.
And for one suspended second, the whole arena narrows.
Not to the court.
To the stands.
To one section cut in shadow and camera flash and waving flags.
My mother is already crying.
