Page 129 of Bad Prince

---

Contact.

The crack of the serve slices through the empty gym and echoes back to me.

Clean.

Again.

Five taps.

Again.

By the time the rest of the team trickles in, sweat is already sliding down the center of my spine.

Delia stops mid-sip of her pre-workout.

“Jesus, Cortez. Did you sleep here?”

“Morning,” I say.

She shakes her head but she’s smiling.

They all feel it.

The shift.

I’m not icy because I’m mad.

I’m icy because I’m focused.

Drills begin.

My passes are sharp enough to sting my forearms. My footwork is surgical. When I jump, I feel weightless for half a second before gravity remembers me.

“Again!” Coach calls.

I do.

Harder.

She doesn’t compliment me.

She doesn’t need to.

Her nod at the end of scrimmage is enough.

“Starting rotation,” she says casually, clipboard tucked under her arm.

My teammates cheer.

I just exhale.

Earned.

It’s finally the first home match. The locker room buzzes like champagne. Glitter gel. Loud music. Someone arguing over eyeliner.

I sit on the bench lacing up in silence. Bubble braid redone. This time with a thin white ribbon woven through it.

Delia nudges me.

---