Page 392 of Bad Prince
The first set is a knife fight.
Nothing comes easy. Their setter is everywhere. Their middle closes fast. Their outside hitter starts targeting the seam between me and Mari like she found buried treasure there.
We take the set 25–23, but it doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like barely getting a door shut before the storm forces it back open.
The second set gets uglier.
Long rallies.
Bad whistles.
One net call that has our bench half-standing and Coach looking ready to commit a felony.
By the middle of it, sweat is already sliding between my shoulder blades and my thighs burn every time I land. My serve is good, but not lethal. My kills are scoring, but not clean. I’m playing smart.
And smart isn’t enough tonight.
We drop the second set by two.
The gym gets louder.
So does my head.
I towel off near the bench while Coach paces in front of us, jaw tight, clipboard tucked under one arm like he’s afraid he’ll throw it.
“Cortez.”
I look up.
She points at me.
“You are playing not to lose.”
I bristle instantly.
“I’m scoring.”
“You’re surviving.”
The team goes quiet.
Coach leans in, not yelling, which somehow makes it hit harder.
“Not the same thing.”
She’s right.
I hate that so much I could spit.
Mari elbows my knee as the timeout winds down.
“You good?”
I look back out at the court.
At the lights.
At the net.
