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I try to tell her “thank you” with only my gaze. Her mouth softens from the worried frown. It’s not quite a smile. I can sense her meaning, though. She gets me.
“I think I was just overhyped for this game. I set big expectations on myself sometimes.” It’s not totally a lie, and when my eyes meet my coach’s she’s on board with my excuse.
“She seems fine,” Tracey says as she lets go of my arm from taking my pulse. “I want you basically drinking nonstop, though. I don’t care if you piss on the court.”
I blurt out a hard laugh and everyone around me joins in. Coach holds out a hand and Kiera holds out another to help me to my feet. Everyone claps when I stand, which is . . .embarrassing.I hold up a hand and jog back and forth a few times. I wonder what the student broadcasters are saying. Thank God Matt is out of town. The last thing I need is to become a sports meme.
My mom grabs her purse from the floor and then heads back to the bleachers, stepping up into the spot where I’d hoped my father would be. He’s not here, but she came. She booked a last-minute flight and showed up. For me. Like she has my whole life.
“You sure you’re good?” Kiera threads her hand with mine and shakes a little juice into my muscles. The tingling is gone.
I nod.
“I’m good. Let’s get it!”
She reaches up and grabs both sides of my head and shouts, “Yeah!” I join in. Kiera and I are cut from the same cloth.
I move to the sideline and ready myself for the announcements, jogging down the line of teammates when they call my name last. I slap hands with my starting sisters then turn to my right for the national anthem. My gaze wanders as the song plays, and I drift back to the balcony. Cutter’s no longer standing front and center, and my chest starts to burn.
He left.
I’m aware of everything and I take a deep breath and return my gaze to the flag on the wall. I squeeze my hands to make sure I feel them. I wiggle my toes to check that the blood is there. I listen and hear clearly.
When the song ends, I drop my gaze to the entry to the gym and spot Cutter standing just inside. He nods at me and claps. He stayed. I want to nod back, but I don’t.
Coach asks me five more times if I’m feeling good while we pre-game in the huddle. I finally flatten my palm on her clipboard on the sixth time and her glare whips at me.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
She stares deep into my pupils, and there’s a shift in her expression, all concern wiped away and replaced with command. She brushes my hand from her board and leans in close.
“Then let’s go,” she growls.
We break and I jet to the middle of the court, every muscle in my body teaming with an abundance of fuel. I feel stronger, maybe even taller. I span the net with my arms and imagine covering it all. I can feel the ball against my palm seconds before it happens. I see it all play out in my mind, and then it transfers to reality.
My first kill is dominant. Straight down. Inside the ten-foot line. The kind of kill they usually only see on the men’s team. The announcer says, “Boom!”
Cutter rushes along the stands to my right, clapping—hyping.
“Thata girl!”
The next set comes and this one I send through the block and into the chest of the libero with a thud.
Boom!
I glance to my right. Cutter’s standing next to my mom. They’re talking.They’re talking!
“Let’s run a slide,” Kiera says in my ear. I nod and refocus. A play later, I put the ball away again just inside the far corner.
Three sets. Three kills. Three points.
“MVP! MVP! MVP!” The chant starts with a handful of people at first, but by the third set, it’s grown into a howl that I would bet can be heard from the parking lot. I know in my heart where it started. With Cutter. It fuels me, and it lifts me higher. And for the game, Kiera sets me one last time and I put the ball down in center court for kill number fifty-two.
My team rushes around me, and I look up at the ceiling and think about what an epic moment this is. That’s the new record for Tiff. Maybe for the NCAA. My dad fucking missed it, and I don’t care.
I let the smile spread while my teammates pull and tug on my jersey, hugging and slapping my back. They praise me and I feel my cheeks warm with blush. We shake hands with the Midwestern girls then cluster on our side of the court for more screaming. I scan the crowd behind them, looking for him. He’s by the door again, his smile the embodiment of pride, and finally, I let myself reciprocate and smile back. My body jostles against the others, and everyone continues to celebrate. Eventually my teammates peel away one at a time to get to the bench. Someone nudges my arm to my left and I startle as I look. It’s a reporter. Someone with the Times.
“Laney, great game today. Mind if I get a quick word? You set a record and we’d love to get a photo for the story.” Reporters always talk to the men’s teams. And now, this guy is talking to me.
