Page 154 of Bad Prince

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Exhale.

Toss.

Jump.

The serve explodes off my hand.

The crack echoes across the gym, sharp and final, the ball slamming into the hardwood untouched.

Ace.

“Again!” Coach barks.

I don’t smile.

I don’t react.

I just reset.

Five taps.

Again.

Harder.

By the third serve, my palm stings.

Good.

Let it.

Let it hurt.

Because pain is clean.

Pain doesn’t whisper.

The whistle slices through the noise. That’s game.

The match ends in a blur of squeaking sneakers and water bottles cracking open.

But whispers don’t stop.

They get louder.

Looser.

Less careful.

I catch pieces as I walk to the locker room.

“…T & T…”

“…basketball and soccer royalty…”

“…guess she fumbled…”

“…thought she was too good…”

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