“You’ve got two,” Temi hollers. I try and move my swing to hit around the two blockers, but their middle has edged me out for my cross. I try and adjust at the last second to hit down the line, but as I’m landing, the ball comes right back down at me.
It’s like slow motion. Me and the ball both coming down at the same time. Instinct kicks in and I shoot my arms out to try and pop it up from where it falls along the net—a drill we’ve done at least a million times. But I step on someone from theother team’s foot and start to lose my balance. My body pitches to the side as the ball hits my arms, and instead of going over my head and behind me to the waiting passers, it shoots to the right, runs along the net, and then falls to the ground.
The whistle blows and the referee signals a point for the other team. Immediately, I’m incensed. “She’s over the line! That’s illegal.” I’m yelling but I don’t know if it’s out of kinship with my team, or fury at the refs for not calling it. “That’s our point.” And we desperately need it. This game is tied up tight at eighteen all in the third set.
Daly comes up beside me as I’m about to start up again and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Those are international rules, babe.” I go completely still. I swear my blood stops moving through my veins. The air stalls in my lungs.
“What?” I’m supposed to be a professional volleyball player, and I can’t keep up with the rules of the country I’m currently playing in? What is wrong with me? How am I going to convince the entire country that they want this league to live on after this season when I’m making stupid mistakes like this?
“Overseas it’s a fault if they’re so far over that they’re not touching the line, but here it’s legal as long as they didn’t interfere with your play.”
“They did, though!” I gesture wildly at the net, speaking rapidly. “I stepped on them and couldn’t get the ball up.”
The referee’s been listening to me this entire time, and to his credit he thinks I just need an explanation of the rules, when what I really need is a lobotomy to save myself from this embarrassment. “Miss, your attack was complete, the ball falling was part of their block. It’s not interference.”
He blows his whistle again.
Well, I guess that’s the end of that. A strangled laugh escapes my throat, but I don’t have much time to regroup before Coach calls me. “Green, sub out!” I jog to the sideline and touch hands with Lauren. “Where is your head tonight?”
“I don’t know, Coach.”
“I need you to sit on that bench and fucking find it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I take my seat next to Megan and grab my towel off the back of the chair to mop the sweat off my face. Of all the games to make that horrible mistake, it had to be tonight when we’re at home.
…With Wyatt watching from the stands.
My eyes make their way to him, and I’m surprised to find a small line forming at the beginning of his row.
What the…?
I see Noah holding his hands up at a young man as if keeping him from scooting down the aisle. Noah signs a hat and takes a selfie with the kid, then the next person in line comes up. I look two seats over at Wyatt, whose eyes are locked onto the court. I watch him, on the edge of his seat, as he watches Temi winding up for the kill. Despite what’s going on right next to him, it’s like nothing else exists in the world. As if he can feel my gaze on him, his eyes swing from the court to me. I keep my face straight, not feeling even a small smile after my massive mistake, and he must see it because he gives me a thumbs up. I nod slightly in response and focus back on the game.
Because I have to focus on what’s important—and right now that’s my career, so Wyatt will have to take a back seat along with my feelings.
“I think the Hurricanes in the stands got more time on the jumbotron than we did,” Megan huffs as she throws her clothes into her locker. Even though we won the game, the vibes are a little low because of all the attention Wyatt and the guys got. I knew they were coming so I expected them to get some attention, but basically live-streaming Noah signing hat after hat was a bit much. I can’t blame Megan for her frustration even though my heart is begging me to go to bat for them. They were here to support me; they didn’t ask to be the center of attention.
“It was nice of them to come,” Temi says as she takes her court shoes off and begins working on her ankle braces.
“They knew exactly what they were doing,” Megan spits.
That’s it.
“I don’t think making enemies of the other Houston athletes is a good way to start this season, do you?” The words come out sharp as a tack. My need to defend Wyatt is stronger than my need to smooth things over with her.
Megan looks properly scolded. “Geez, I just meant that the minimal amount of people who came were there to see us, and that’s what they should have got.”
“We’ve got to earn the right to a full crowd,” says Temi.
“Exactly,” I say in agreement. I’m not sure how we’re going to manage it, but winning our first home game of the season is a good start.
Chapter Ten
WYATT
The Houston Moons end up winning their first home game thanks to their defensive specialist’s digs and Temi’s kills.