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I line up with my teammates last, taking a spot near the back, not feeling the usual hype I do when we wait for the introductions and the sound of thunder that the announcer plays for our entrance. We’re a ranked squad, and I usually eat up the fanfare that goes with that. Today, though, I feel empty. I’m going to have to fake it.
The rumble begins to shake the doors and the lights dim on the other side of the glass.
“Let’s hear it for your Lady Knights!” The announcer’s voice booms as Kiera pushes open the doors and leads us out to the court to run our laps and take a few final swings at the net before game time.
I jog by the line of coaches, training my eyes straight ahead so I don’t accidentally connect with Coach or anyone in thestands. I don’t need Coach filling my head with false hope or trying to coax me into leading from the sidelines. I’ll do my job, begrudgingly but well.
We meet in the center of the court, and all start to clap until our hands meet in the middle and we shout, “Win!” Everyone takes a ball from the rack and splits into specialties on the court while Kiera sets us. I make my way to the outside position as someone calls my name. I know better than to look, but today’s weird—my life is weird. I turn my head without thinking and come face-to-face with the man I haven’t seen in real life in years. His smile is for everyone else, but the fire in his eyes is for me. He’s a competitor. And he’s going to be so disappointed.
“Laney! Shift middle!” Coach Kane’s orders break through the noise and stab me in the chest. I nod at her while my insides start to crumble.
I don’t want to hit middle. That’s not where I’m strongest.It’s not my position. Of course, I don’t have a position.
I wait my turn and get a total of three swings in at middle, only cleanly attacking once and putting the ball down hard. My gaze is like a magnet for my father’s approval, too, which makes me sick. I haven’t needed his approval for years. I haven’t had it in years. Why I keep looking to him now baffles me. It’s like I’m trying to telepathically explain the situation to him and defend myself for not being the amazing offspring he thinks he deserves.
I am amazing! I’m better than he is!
I take a spot in the middle of the row of seats and we all listen while Coach walks us through the sequence she’d like us to work on with our offense and what to guard on defense. We’re playing Lincoln, and they like to tip. A lot. Our libero is going to look like a stud today.
The game starts, and when I don’t take the floor when the starters are announced, my father shifts his weight back andcrosses his arms. The visual tugs at the nine-year-old that still lives inside me somewhere and much prefers seeing her father nod with approval.
“Let’s go, ladies! Watch the short serve!” I shout, redirecting my focus to the court and my team. I get to my feet and stand in a cluster with the rest of the bench players, ignoring the pang of jealousy I feel when a few of them get to sub in to serve. Through it all, I’m poised. Or at least I think I am. I high-five every single player as they exit and enter the court. I shout tips to Chelsea while secretly wishing her shoelaces will disintegrate. I celebrate the points and even go as far as getting on the floor to pound my palms on the wood when we manage a pancake.
I’m the perfect example of team player and sportsmanship. And I ache not getting to be the one hearing the encouragement instead of giving it.
We cruise to victory in three sets. It was an easier match-up than coach predicted. Lincoln graduated their power hitter last year, and it seems they haven’t done much to fill the role. Too bad it’s too late for me to transfer.
I avoid the student reporter after the game, not really feeling up to mentally rifling through my talking points.I can’t wait to get back out there, and I’m proud of our team. I played a role in the background, and it’s not about me, it’s about the team. Blah, blah, blah.
I get a “good job” from Coach Kane, but nothing more than that.
The only interaction I can’t find a way to avoid is waiting for me by the exit. I catch him signing an autograph for a woman his age. They take a selfie together and I get caught in my father’s gaze as he fakes a smile.
I draw in a deep breath through my nose and ready myself for whatever the next ten minutes holds. I’ll do my best to control what comes out of my mouth, but there are a lot ofyears of anger brewing in my chest right now. It’s blanketed with disappointment from not playing, though, so maybe I’ll be able to leave this gym without making a scene.
“Yes, nice to meet you,” my father says to the woman as I walk up. He turns in my direction and lifts his brows. I’m not sure if he’s expecting a hug or an explanation.
“What are you doing here?” Yeah, that’s the best I’m going to do.
My father steps back, feigning offense.
“Laney, you know I love watching you play.” He glances around to see if anyone’s within earshot but I don’t care. I roll my eyes and huff out a laugh.
“I mean, I was a pretty solid nine-year-old server. I guess you could say I’ve grown since you saw me last.” I pull my bag strap up on my shoulder and shift my weight, jutting out a hip and catching a few stares from some of my teammates as they maneuver around us to leave the gym.
My cheeks are burning. I hate that people are seeing this. They’ve never seen my father at a game, and I’m sure they read the program piece and figured I’d be excited. Or maybe they pieced our shitty relationship together. It’s not a new story. A lot of people have fucked up relationships with their parents.
“Laney don’t make this about me,” my dad says in a hushed tone, leaning toward me.
I breathe out a short titter and my mouth tugs up on one side.
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?”
Our eyes lock for several seconds, and I feel my nostrils stretching wide with my breath. My dad’s gaze is simply unfamiliar. I know his face. I’ve seen it in photos and videos. I just haven’t seen it in person in a very long time. There’s nothing to hold onto behind his eyes. No warmth or understanding. We have no backstory.
“I’m guessing Coach is still working you in after your injury?” Finally, something he’s familiar with.
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate.
