“That’s kind of depressing.” I look at the noodles in my bowl. They look limp and a little sad, but maybe I’m projecting.
“Life can be depressing,” he says quietly, and I know he’s talking about meeting his hero and hating him. About leaving Green Bay and starting over again in a new city on a new team. I wonder—if he had the chance to go back would he actually take it now with everything that has happened over the last few months? “Want to see something that will cheer you up?”
I immediately perk up. “Of course I do.” He reaches into the collar of his shirt and pulls out his chain. It’s the same one I’ve never seen him without, but now it’s got a small silver N hanging from it. I meet his eyes and see pride in them. “My initial?” It comes out high-pitched.
“Gotta show off my girl.” He lets the chain fall back against his chest and I find myself briefly jealous of a piece of metal. God, I am so catastrophically and undeniably into him.
“Who could possibly think we’re faking now?” I mean to make a joke, but it comes out tight.
Fuck me.
Moons Clench the Championship Spot
ESPN
The Houston Moons will be one of the two teams in the Pro Volleyball Federation championship held in Omaha this upcoming Saturday. Last week they beat Atlanta; this week they’re preparing to face New Orleans for the championship trophy, as well as one-million dollars in prize money and custom jewelry.
The road to the championship game will be intense because in standard form, the next two weeks before a deciding game like the championship will be filled with hardcore practices, studious review of game tape, and preparation for the big game ahead.
Our own Victor Vega will be traveling to Omaha to cover the game. It will be on ESPN starting at 8 Eastern/7 Central.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
NASH
The championship game is no exception to the ball throwing pregame routine.
I line up next to the other starters—Temi, Daly, Danica, Simin, and Lauren—with mine in hand. The announcer booms over the speakers, but I barely hear him as I scan the crowd. My parents would have loved to be here, but they didn’t have the money for plane tickets and a hotel and everything. I know they’re watching on TV, cheering me on from the living room of the house I grew up in.
My gaze lands on blue eyes in the front row as Wyatt towers above his neighbor. He’s here. Just like he promised he would be.
I’m a little surprised to see him here by himself. Normally, the Hurricanes roll several deep. Where you see one, another is surely close behind. But here he is. By himself in my Moons number. Just for me.
I’m sure what I’m about to do is against the rules, but I don’t care. When my name blares over the loudspeakers, I break rank and run toward Wyatt. He’s so close to the courtthat I lean over the metal bars and hand him my ball. He catches my hand and kisses the back of it before letting me go. Stuff like that is going to make this really hard to undo when all of this is over. But I have plenty of time before I have to think about that. I have three plane rides between me and the end of whatever this is between us. Until I don’t have any excuses to wear his cowboy hat or kiss him in front of everyone.
I sprint back to my place as Lauren steps up to throw her ball at her cheering parents. She was the last one to go, so we’re ready to shake the other team’s hands and get this show on the road.
In the last huddle before the game starts, Coach speaks, “We had twenty-two people who thought we’d be in the final. Maybe forty if you count your mothers.” She looks at us each in turn as if acknowledging each individual player’s contribution to getting us here. “A winning season never comes without adversity. It’s what pushes you to be better. To rise above the bullshit and win. Everything we’ve been up against this year has led us here. Tonight. To this game. Understand? It’s yours to win or lose.” She puts her hand out into the circle, and we all add ours. “Moons on three. One, two, three–”
“MOONS!”
We are immediately out of system. The first pass takes a bad bounce forcing our setter to adapt and we lose our chance at running our intended offense, but we clean up our passing right after.
They’re serving us short, disrupting my hitting route with abody in my way. We break their serve with our impeccable blocking, but ruin it again by serving to their libero. Rule number one of service—never serve to the player in the different color jersey. Passing is the bread and butter of a defensive specialist. They’re there to get the hardest balls, so lobbing them a serve is basically just handing them points.
As much as we’re messing up, the other team is too. We’re doing a lot of throwing the ball around, pushing it and tipping it instead of the attackers killing it. Makes for a lot of scrambling on both sides. Both teams want to be able to load up their weapons and let it rain. The crowd wants that too.
We lose the first set.
The second set starts like the first except our near-perfect passing percentage drops. Now the issue to solve isn’t our attack, but the basic fundamentals of play. This is embarrassing. Having done so much to get this on national television, and now my team’s rocking on their heels looking for an answer after losing two straight sets.
The huddle is tense as we prepare for the third set. I can’t help but speak with ardor. “Ya’ll, what the fuck is going on?” I look at the ladies around me. They’ve been in situations like this before. I never thought when I came to play with this team that we’d be in this position. Though, nothing I thought or didn’t think has turned out to be true this season.
Lauren, one of our decorated Olympians, speaks up. “We’ve got to get back to basics. No easy serves they can slam back at us. No bad passes. No unforced errors.”
We all look to Coach who hasn’t spoken again. “You all know what needs to be done. You’re professionals and you know your mistakes. What’s there for me to say? You can either do it or you can’t. You’re all capable of it. You have towant it more than the opposition wants it. You just have to go out there and make it happen.”
“Yes, Coach” we say in unison. She’s right. The team who wants it the most will win this. I look back up to the crowd, something I normally never let myself do, but tonight it feels necessary. Wyatt isn’t looking at me, he’s checking his phone, his face split with a smile like he’s seeing our last kiss on video again. I wonder if he rewatches the clip like I do, but quickly shake off the thought. We have a game to win.