Page 303 of Bad Prince
I don’t have to.
I feel him.
First set—we own it.
I leap, swing, land. The ball rockets off my palm with a sound like a gunshot, burying itself in the far court.
Point.
The bench erupts. Teammates slam into me—sweaty limbs, shouted hype, pure electricity.
But every rotation back to the end line, my eyes lift.
Quick.
Discreet.
Scanning rows, faces, shadows.
Nothing.
He’s not there.
Relief should follow.
It doesn’t.
Second set.
Still no sign.
My father rises when I kill the next one—single sharp clap, not loud, but commanding. Heads turn. Phones rise. Whispers ripple outward like dropped stones in water.
I meet his eyes again.
He’s looking at me like I personally hung every star in the sky tonight.
For one breath, it’s enough to drown everything else.
Third set.
We’re up.
Game point.
The gym is standing now—roaring, chanting, music slicing in and out like a blade. Energy crests, crackling.
I step to the service line. Ball in my palm.
I roll it once.
Twice.
Then the ritual:
tap
tap
