Page 18 of It’s All in How You Fall
Alex pops up the ball and catches it, a little smile on his face to go with a shake of his head. His hair is so perfectly gelled into place it doesn’t move. He plows forward. “Not if you’re a libero. You bumped the ball and kept it in play. Plus, you dove—body sacrifice is crucial to the position. How’s the back?”
“Uh, fine?” And it actually is. I don’t know if the cortisone shot is masking the pain or if nearly a month’s rest has paid off or what, but I’m going to roll with it. Still, I’m stuck back on the words “body sacrifice.”
“So what exactly is a libero? You’ve said that word twice like you think I know anything at all about sports other than gymnastics. I can give you the lowdown on the specifics of an Amanar, including a biography of the gymnast it was named after, but if you go deeper into another sport other than what I may have seen in a movie, I’m going to have no idea what you’re talking about.”
There’s a flash of sun-bright teeth and Alex smooshes both palms against the ball, biceps tensing for a hot second as he clasps the poor thing in a vice grip. “A libero is a special position—do you know what a designated hitter is?”
“The name makes it pretty obvious.”
“Well, it’s like that. Sort of. In baseball the DH is very specific to the league and its offense, but the idea’s the same—a specialist who comes in to do one thing and is allowed to do that thing only.”
Great. He wants me to be a specialist in a sport I’ve never played. His confidence in me is completely misplaced.
“A libero in volleyball is a player designated specifically for the back row. The position can’t move forward, block, or serve—it’s designed for defense, plain and simple.” He cocks a brow. “You do know the difference between defense and offense, right?”
I hold up my pointer finger and then peel it down and pop up my middle finger. “You do know the difference between this finger and the first one, don’t you?”
Predictably, he just laughs. “Learned that part from the movies, eh?”
“Or from one of the approximately eleven bazillion basketball games I’ve attended since Nat—and you—started playing.”
“Touché, Caroline. Anyway, like I was saying, a libero is pure defense. The player doesn’t have to be tall like the ones closer to the net. And actually, your low center of gravity and mega body awareness are huge positives.”
“Okay, so what do I have to do?”
“Keep the ball in play. Don’t let it hit the sand, don’t let it go out.”
A little raised white line marks the in-play sand from the out-of-bounds sand. “Okay. Now what?”
“Back up.”
I do, and without warning Alex smashes the ball on a downward trajectory straight for the sand two feet in front of me. I dive, both hands out and facing the sky. I get a fingertip on it but the ball taps the sand, pops up a few inches, and then rolls in Alex’s direction. He scoops it up. “Again, but dig with your fists—like you did the first time.”
The ball is my responsibility before I even get completely vertical again. I hit the sand, this time on my side, fists out. The left one catches the ball and it sails high enough Alex catches it. “Good. Next time you do that, reset, because the ball is coming right back to you.”
The moment I’m to my feet, the ball comes again. And again. And again.
The hour flies by and before I know it, we have to leave because some sort of four-on-four pairing of teams has arrived to play. Ever the rule follower, Alex is off the court before the stroke of four—he’s spent as much of his life on court rotation for tennis as he has for anything else and moves like clockwork.
“Want to cool off at the cabana? My treat.”
“Heck no.” I produce a ten-dollar bill from the little hideaway pocket in the front waistband of my running shorts.
“Your money’s no good here, Caroline.” Alex shrugs me off and keeps walking, my hard-earned allowance flapping in the half-dead Kansas breeze.
“Oh come on.” I sprint ahead of him and start walking backward as we pass the pools (yeah, plural) and hot tub, tennis players and golfers shuffling by with massive bags. “I owe you something. You did all that work.”
“I offered. And I did that work because I’m not just Nat’s friend—I’m your friend. This is what friends do.”
Maybe. But still. I mean, he already has a job and three sports to train for. Plus, you know, a family. And friends. This is too much. “Please, for my sanity.” We hit the steps of the cabana and I flail-gesture at the rosebushes that line the railing. “If I’m so pitiful that you’d take the time to do this and get nothing in return, I might as well just crawl into those rosebushes and suspend myself in the thorns until the end of time.”
“Your sense of debt is wildly overdeveloped.”
I ignore him. “Brownies? I make a mean brownie.” They have black beans in them but no one can tell. If Nat hasn’t figured out that they’re healthy, Alex won’t. “You’ve earned at least two pans today.”
“Not necessary.” Two frozen lemonades materialize in his hands. Between this and my Snickers meltdown, I’ve probably had more sugar this week than I have at any one time in the past five years. Still, I yank the wooden spoon off the lid, ready to go to town—it’s freaking nuclear out here.
We hop on bar stools to eat as people in bright tennis whites saunter by, tan arms already glistening in the heat. The lemonade is sweet and tart and frozen solid, my wooden spoon working hard at first to collect more than just sugary frost.
