I cup my hands around my mouth and start to chat. “Hous-ton Mo-ons.” I clap five times after, and people in the crowd around me pick it up. We’ve got to make them second-guess something that should be muscle memory. Like when the crowd behind the uprights tries to distract the opposing kicker and makes them miss. All of the Hurricanes are screaming and twirling/shaking/slapping their various noise makers. The regular fans around us catch on and add their voices in. The cacophony thundering through the gym is like one of Houston’s powerful summer storms.
The ball hits the tape at the top of the net and tumbles its way over, but the Moons were ready for it. Lucky serve. You never get that twice in a row. Bumping a tipped-over ball that short is tough, and the setter is forced to bump-set. The ball goes too far back for the opposite hitter, forcing the D ball. It doesn’t cause quite as much confusion among the Fire as the Moons would hope. Their defense stays disciplined reading around their blockers. They’re able to get a beautiful pass to their setter and she lofts it toward the outside. I’m not gonnalie—their hitter’s swing is majestic as she flies through the air. She’s nothing compared to Nash, of course. But even I knew it was a good swing, and I’m not surprised when it beats the block and tumbles down the Moons’ side of the net. Their point.
The same player, number eight, goes back to serve again.
If we made her stumble once, we can do it again.
I rally the crowd once more, raising my hands in a ‘pump it up’ motion. We get as loud as we can. This set is getting way too close for comfort.
This time her jump serve hits the net. I look up at the scoreboard. Twenty-three all.
Chrissy turns to us. “What if they tie at twenty-five?”
I open my mouth to answer, assuming none of my other teammates are going to know the rules, but Jaden beats me to it. “They’ll keep playing until someone wins by two.”
I point my thumb at him. “What he said.”
We watch with bated breath as the Vegas player goes back to serve. When the ball hits the net, we all expel our held breath.
It’s Nash’s serve and it’s basically on her to win. A serve error like the Fire had will effectively end this game.
Nash steps back to the line, bouncing the ball as she goes. A hush falls over the stadium.
I’ve seen Nash play tons of times, and I still can’t get over her serve warmup. She takes the full fifteen seconds. I count along, like the dance mom’s on that show she made me watch for a whole weekend once while she was sick, as she bounces it five times, spins it toward herself twice, then picks it up, and spins it twice more. I motion along with her. She once told me that in high school someone made fun of how long her warmup was, pressuring her to change it, but then she gotbenched for missing too many serves. She went back to this routine and hasn’t deviated since.
She tosses the ball and pounds it to the other side. I can see it float side to side in the air from where I’m sitting, and I feel bad for whatever player ends up having to field that ball.
It goes to the back right and the player chases it down behind her. She reaches one arm out in an attempt to get it, but it flies right over and lands just barely in.
“Ace, baby,” shouts Jaden as the Hurricanes group swarms like a disturbed beehive.
Game point.
Nash’s serve again.
The world’s longest warmup again, but I’m so glad that in a moment like this she has it to rely on, to steady her, and focus her mind.
“Dude, what is she doing back there,” asks Mack.
“Shut the fuck up. Don’t jinx her,” I snap.
She pauses for one second, then tosses the ball high over her head, taking a couple big steps. By the sound the ball makes when it connects with her hand, I justknowit’s a good one. It sails right over the top of the net, barely any arc for the other team to get under. It’s perfectly positioned. The middle back dives for it, but misses.
It’s an ace. Two in a row to win.
“MOONS WIN,” the announcer calls over the loudspeakers, but I’m not paying him any attention. My eyes are locked on my best friend whose teammates are coming over and shaking her by the shoulders and patting her butt.
My legs move without my permission, and I’m hurtling, unthinking, down the stairs toward the court, down the little ramp that leads to the hardwood and jogging to the Moons who are now a tangled pile of limbs.
Someone puts a hand on my chest. “Excuse me, sir. You can’t–” But I don’t even let him finish. Colin will come behind me and smooth it over anyway. My one-track mind is taking me straight to Nash. She turns from Temi at the last second and sees me.
“Wyatt, oh my God.” She’s breathless from the game, and I’m sure the winning. I wrap my arms around her waist and hoist her into the air.
In that moment, when nothing matters except what exists between us, it’s the easiest thing in the world to touch my lips to hers.
Chapter Thirty-Six
NASH