Page 394 of Bad Prince
Pass.
Set.
Jump.
Swing.
Block touch.
Reset.
Cover.
Attack again.
I stop thinking in full thoughts. My body takes over. Every part of me feels hotter, faster, more precise. My legs have more spring. My arm feels like it’s attached to something electric. Every time I leave the floor, it’s like I’m carrying all that want, all that ache, all that held-back fire with me and turning it into force.
The difference is important.
By 14–10, I’ve got three kills in a row and one block that sends the ball straight down on their side hard enough to make the whole front row scream.
Lila backpedals toward me with her eyes huge.
“What happened to you?”
I wipe sweat off my upper lip with the back of my wrist.
“Nothing.”
Then I rotate out and leave her staring at me like she doesn’t believe a word.
She shouldn’t.
Because something did happen.
Something dangerous.
A boy I have loved in too many versions looked me dead in the face and finally made it clear that when he comes back, he plans to choose us in the light.
And apparently that knowledge has turned me into a menace.
We take the third set 25–18.
Not because the other team folds.
Because I stop blinking first.
The fourth is war.
They come back meaner. Smarter. Their setter starts dumping second ball. Their coach challenges two line calls and wins one. Nobody is fine.
That’s playoff sports.
Pain’s dressed like momentum.
At 11–11 I go up for a swing and get stuffed so hard the ball comes straight back into my chest.
The breath whooshes out of me on impact.
