Page 393 of Bad Prince
At the other team bouncing on their toes like they smell blood.
At Emmanuel, still watching.
And somewhere miles away, too far and much too present, Tristan in somewhere— his hoodie up, jaw set, telling me with those dark, ruined eyes that when he gets back—it’s us.
I stand.
“I’m good.”
It comes out calm.
That’s how I know it’s dangerous.
Set three starts with a serve to my zone.
I pass it clean.
Lila sets outside.
I go up.
Their block closes.
I tip over fingers for point.
Next rally, I rotate back.
I spin the ball once in my hands.
Twice.
Everything narrows.
The crowd drops away.
The noise blurs.
Even my own heartbeat settles into something colder.
I toss.
Jump.
Hit.
The serve cracks down the seam and kisses back line before anyone can get there.
Ace.
The gym erupts.
Lila is in my face instantly.
“There she is.”
I don’t smile because I’m not done.
The next few points go by in flashes.
