Page 131 of Bad Prince
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Second set.
I elevate above the block and drive the ball straight down the seam.
The sound is violent.
Final.
Coach claps once.
That’s approval.
Midway through the third set, while resetting at the baseline, I feel it.
Eyes.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
Just there.
I glance up briefly.
Top row.
Shadowed.
Two figures.
Tristan.
Kane.
Separate seats.
Still.
Watching.
They don’t wave.
They don’t shout.
They just stay.
Something in my chest tightens — not distraction, not weakness — just awareness.
I don’t look again.
Instead I jump higher.
Hit harder.
We win in three.
When the final whistle blows, glitter cannons explode in the student section and music blares.
I let myself smile this time.
