The gym lights were still dim, casting long shadows across the court. The scent of sweat, polish, and worn leather lingered — familiar, grounding. Maybe it was the quiet atmosphere, or maybe it was the fact that this was one of the few places where shit still made sense.
I’d decided to start with some stretches, really trying to get my head into the game. But my thoughts kept circling and wouldn’t rest.
How much did Dom know?
I’d been avoiding him with the excuse of my busy schedule, but curiosity clawed at me.
Between stretches, I picked up my phone, scrolling through some of the evidence I’d collected, all the notes I’d taken.
A notification hovered at the top of the screen.
Unknown: Still playing detective? Keep going, and we’ll bury you in more than rumors.
My chest tightened. That message hadn’t been there last night — it must’ve come in the early hours, while I was still passed out beside Dom.
What if he’d seen it? He had acted strange this morning. Quieter. Sharper. Like he knew something I hadn’t said out loud yet.
“It’s here. It has to be. I’m just not seeing it.” My frustration rose as I muttered to myself. I tried to compartmentalize, to shove it all into a corner of my brain. This wasnotthe time.
Volleyball first. Feelings, betrayal, and revenge later.
A memory of Dom’s face surfaced, his deep voice, his eyes looking straight into my soul. Not the time forthat, either.
I needed to regain control. Right now, more than ever.
***
The whistle blew, and instinct took over.
My feet barely kissed the floor before I was airborne, arm swinging back with purpose. The set was perfect.
Too perfect to pass up. Snapping my wrist over the ball, I sent it screaming into the backcourt,untouched.
Whenever the ball came to me today, I slammed it like it owed me something, every single time, working out all my frustrations.
Cheers erupted all around, but I didn’t smile. Not yet. I wasn’t here to enjoy myself, after all. I was here to win. To regain some semblance of control, even when it recently eluded me in the rest of my life.
The pace shifted, and the other team adapted. A low dig slipped just out of reach. I dove, my fingers grazing it, but it slipped past, making my jaw clench. I knew I could do better, Ihadto be better.
“Almost had it! If you wanted to put on a dramatic flop for the crowd, then bravo,” one of my girls chuckled next to me.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, next time I’ll throw in a slow-motion hair flip.”
“NowthatI want to see.”
The next serve came fast and flat, catching me mid-step. It threw me out of position, too far inside. Rotating my hips, I corrected my position instantly, keeping my footwork tight.
There was no room for panic. I simply needed to recalibrate, tocontrol myself.
Making eye contact with the setter, I gave her a nod, sharp and sure. I wanted the fucking ball again. At the net, the opposing middle blocker loomed — tall, long-armed, cocky.
The first attempt was a fast outside. I went for the line, hard and clean … and got stuffed. Straight down. The ball slammed at my feet, and I could hear the crowd wincing.
Brush it off.
“Okay,” I told myself, stepping back, eyes already tracking the blocker’s patterns. “You got one.”
During the next rotation, the set came high and tight, with the same blocker. I managed to sell the hit, my shoulders turning for the same line shot. But at the last second, I tipped it softly, just over the blocker’s outstretched hands.
