Page 553 of Bad Prince
Pep talks.
Music in one ear.
The pop of my serve off my palm.
The slap of Mari’s hand against mine.
Lila muttering, “Let’s ruin their whole night.”
By first whistle, I am all heartbeat.
The first set is a brawl.
We take it 25–23.
The second they steal by two after a bad call and one stupid overpass we should have buried.
The third turns into war.
Long rallies.
Dig after dig.
Block touches.
Bodies on the floor.
The kind of points that leave your lungs clawing at your ribs.
I score.
I get stuffed.
I score again.
I serve tough.
I get targeted in serve receive and answer anyway.
By the fourth, everything hurts.
Not dramatically.
Systemically.
Quads.
Shoulder.
Low back.
The spot between my ribs where breath keeps scraping on the way in.
The score stays ugly and close.
24–24.
25–25.
