Page 120 of Bad Prince
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She studies me a second longer.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am.”
I pull my hoodie tighter around me like it’s armor.
“Did he fight for you?” she asks.
“No.”
That word hits differently.
“He didn’t.”
And that’s somehow worse.
Practice is brutal.
Coach doesn’t yell.
Which is worse than yelling.
She just watches.
Evaluates.
Waits.
My first spike hits the net.
I never hit the net.
“Again, Cortez.”
The tone is neutral.
Too neutral.
I reset.
Jump.
Contact.
This one lands clean.
But it doesn’t feel clean.
Because my head isn’t here.
And she knows it.
After drills, she calls me over.
“Walk with me.”
The gym clears slowly.
