Page 557 of Bad Prince

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Then somebody on our bench starts crying.

That breaks the spell.

Lila bends over with both hands on her knees.

Mari yanks her ponytail out so hard it snaps.

One of the freshmen is openly sobbing before she even makes it to the line.

We do the handshakes because sports is sadistic and insists on courtesy in moments where your soul is actively leaving your body.

Good game.

Good game.

Good game.

I hope all their socks shrink.

Then locker room.

And that?—

that is where it really happens.

Not on the court.

Not on the scoreboard.

In the quiet after.

Tape coming off.

Girls crying into towels.

The hiss of showers.

Coach Alvarez standing in front of us with her clipboard hanging limp at her side because there are no more adjustments to make now, no more sets to steal back, no more next point waiting to save you.

“It hurts because it mattered,” she says finally.

I stare at the floor.

At my knees.

At my hands.

At the stupid shape of my own fingers.

Somebody says, “We had them.”

Somebody else says, “I know.”

The freshman beside me starts crying harder.

I still can’t.

I want to.

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