Page 594 of Bad Prince
Breathe.
Find your center.
North.
My thumb brushes my wrist before I can stop it.
The bracelet lies warm against my skin under the edge of the sleeve cuff—a slim chain, dark blue enamel, tiny gold compass rose.
He gave it to me in Newport to make sure I never thought that weekend was a dream.
I wore it onto an Olympic court because some part of me still likes knowing I carry him where the world can’t.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The whistle blows.
I toss.
Jump.
Serve.
The ball leaves my hand clean and hard and vicious.
It cuts over the net and dies fast at their libero’s shoulder. She gets enough of it to keep it alive, but the pass shanks high. Their setter chases. Scramble. Free ball.
Mine.
Our setter looks at me before she even touches it.
I’m already moving.
Approach.
Plant.
Rise.
And in the split second at the top of the jump, everything becomes unbearable clarity:
The stadium.
The lights.
The weight of my country on the front of my jersey.
The years.
The loss that once felt like the end of me.
The off-campus apartment and the smell of his hoodies in my closet.
The chef-labeled meal containers in our fridge because neither of us had time to cook but both of us were too disciplined to eat garbage.
