“Well, I never got it. Where did you mail it from?”
“The store had a little outgoing mailbox right outside. The man gave me a pen to use, and I bought a stamp from him. I wrote it up against the brick wall outside the store and put it in the little–” A grin breaks across Wyatt’s face, followed by aquiet laugh. “What,” I ask. “What’s funny about a tiny mailbox?
“There’s no way that was legit. That was one-hundred percent a tourist trap.”
“Then why bother selling me a stamp?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Explain that.”
“To make it look real, obviously.” My mouth hangs open like a fish. He’s totally right. The worst part is, I had been in Rome over a year at that point. You’d think I would have known something like that with months of being there, but apparently not. Must have caught me at a bad time. Maybe I was tipsy? I don’t remember. All I remember was walking along the street, finding that little place, and dragging Temi in behind me. Clocking the realization in my eyes, Wyatt catches my hand and gently pats the back of it. “Don’t worry. There are worse scams to fall for than that one.”
“Yeah,” I nod, but my heart sinks a little in my chest. He never got the postcard that I signed withall my love. I would have written more, but spilling my guts on a tiny piece of paper where everyone who handles it will read my thoughts didn’t feel right. Even that one small admission never made it here. Wyatt never got it out of the mailbox, held it in his hands, and knew that I loved every second of our kiss at my going away party. He was unaffected by it anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.
“You’re right. Well, I’m going to get cleaned up for bed. Have a good night, Wyatt.”
“You too, Nash.”
That night I lay in my bed, doomscrolling per usual, when a text from Chrissy pings my phone. I open it and find the photo we took earlier. I pinch the screen to zoom in on myself. I’m a sweaty mess, but that’s a regular day for me. And for the guys. It’s nice to look at a picture of myself surrounded by people who don’t make me look like a freak. I’m a staggering six-foot-one, but that’s nothing compared to Wyatt’s six-foot-five frame.
I move the screen to look at him closer. His blonde hair is floppy on top, and a couple days of scruff adorns his jawline.
And he’s looking right at me.
He’s completely ignoring the camera, looking down at me while I smile into the flash. His blue eyes look… full of adoration? That can’t be right. We’re just friends. So what’s up with this? Is this actually the best picture we took, or did Chrissy send just this one to me on purpose?
Five years ago, he kissed me the night of my going away party. The next day, I got on a plane, and we never really talked about it. I thought about it the entire flight. Replaying his lips on mine over and over again. Studying the look in his eyes after, trying to figure out what was going on behind them. When I landed in Rome, I turned my phone off airplane mode, expecting it to blow up with messages from Wyatt either explaining or apologizing, but there was nothing. After twelve hours straight of traveling to a new country, then getting right into the groove of practice while fighting jet lag, I had to pack that memory away and move on. By the time I realized I never said anything either, it felt like too much time had passed. I chalked it up to him being overwhelmed by emotions before his best friend left the country. Since he also never brought it up, he must have thought the same. Something propelled by knowing we would be apart, and that for the next howevermany years our friendship would be harder than it had been while living two blocks from each other in a small college town in the middle of Wisconsin.
This photo makes me realize just how strong my feelings still are for him. Time and distance have done nothing for my poor heart.
Chapter Five
NASH
JANUARY
“Ow! Why’d you throw it so hard,” cries Daly as we beam her with volleyballs after her pass didn’t end up in the trashcan we’re using as a target. She’s still peeking out from behind her arms in case a rogue ball comes her way. Her curly dark hair flows over her shoulder in loose ringlets.
“Why did you miss?” Lauren asks. Her straight brown hair is the direct opposite of Daly’s curls.
“Like it’s so easy.” She motions at her to come over and take her turn at what’s supposed to be our friendly icebreaker game. Megan had seen a video online where a player tries to pass the ball into a trashcan, and if they miss, the rest of the team throws balls at them. I don’t know how that’s anyone’s idea of fun, but I wasn’t about to be a naysayer on the first day of practice. I breathe a sigh of relief as Lauren goes to take her turn. I still have time before I have to go. It’s not that I can’t do it. I’m just afraid of getting nervous and missing in front of everyone. I pick up my ball as Lauren gets into a ready stance.
After Lauren goes, Coach calls to us, ending our game and relieving me of having to take my turn. We run over and circle up around her. Standing there, ready to lead us all into a new battle is Ms. Stephanie Etlinger, a pillar of the volleyball community. Earning Olympic medals in both indoor and beach volleyball in the late nineties, since then she’s been the coach for the women’s Olympic volleyball team. I have no idea how Houston managed to snag her for our first season in a newborn league, but I’m hyped that she’s here.
“Ladies, welcome to the first practice of the Houston Moons!” We all cheer. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you all what an honor and privilege it is to be a part of the inaugural season of the Professional Volleyball Federation. I hope all of you are up to the gigantic task of bringing this league to life.” We nod, hanging on her every word. “As we get warmed up and start our drills for the day, I want everyone to be patient with one another. This is a star-studded group, and it might take some time for everyone to gel. I don’t expect that relationships will form instantly, but it does have to be before our first game against New Orleans in two weeks.” She looks at all of us in turn, a glint in her eye. “Lastly, I hope you kept up your conditioning during your break.” I groan and turn to look at Temi, who’s standing next to me with a ghostly look on her face because, like me, I’m sure she didn’t do one ounce of conditioning. I’m so happy she’s here with me, though. The chances of us having been on the same team in Italy and becoming friends? Slim. The chances of us leaving that team at the same time to come play on this exact team? Infinitesimal.
Coach blows her whistle. “Everybody, three lines for the belly drill. Let’s hustle up!”
Hell yeah. My favorite.
We all jog to one side of the court behind the out of boundsline, splitting into three lines. I’m in the first group to go, so I step up and get on my belly facing away from the net, making sure my hands are on the line. I’m in the back-right, Daly is next to me in the middle-back, and Danica is on her right. I remember when I was little and just learning how to play volleyball, we would do this drill facing forward, and my coach would bounce the ball real high, giving us plenty of time to get underneath it. But I’m a career pro now, and Coach pounds down balls at us like the adults we are.
She slaps the ball with her hands one time, our signal to start moving, and I clamber to my feet, turning around at the same time. The ball comes launching our way kind of in between me and Daly. In the split second I open my mouth, waving Daly away with the quick flick of my hand, I say, “I go.” I put my arms out quickly, backing up to make sure the ball doesn’t hit me in the face. One of the first things I learned in this sport is when to cover your face, but I don’t want to do that here in our first practice. I want the women around me to know that I’m in it to win it, no matter how tough we have to play. If it hits me in the face, I want someone to play the second ball right off of it. I recover in time, making the perfect pass to where Simin stands in the setter position. We head to the back of the line, our turn successfully completed. While we stand and wait, we cheer on our teammates and help them read the ball as it comes. The next ball Coach hits goes sailing. “Deep! Deep,” I call to Temi, and she shuffles back, getting in a better position.
When I was in Italy, it was soothing to have similar movements and drills as I did in college. That familiarity with the sport I love were the only thing keeping me sane in those first few months.
One Sunday, maybe two weeks after I arrived in Italy andafter all the awe of having a new place to explore had worn off, I woke up with a hollow feeling in my chest. Like everything that kept my soul buoyed had been sucked out. I grabbed my phone to call my mom, but quickly realized it was the middle of the night at home. Suddenly, the full weight of being alone in a foreign country threatened to knock me flat and not let me up. For the first time I realized that I was alone on this continent. I looked at Wyatt’s contact for only a split second before dialing.
He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi,” I breathed. Through the phone he sounded like he could have been next to me, not a cellular connection in what seemed like a million miles away. I instantly felt myself unclench a little. “Isn’t it like three o’clock in the morning there?”