The first day of preseason for Leo's sophomore year began with a text from Maya: “Aaron stopped flinching. Took two years. You owe me.”
Leo smiled at his phone, sitting on the edge of his dorm bed, his roommate still asleep in the other bunk. The room was small, cramped, covered in posters that weren't his. But the volleyball gear in the corner—shoes, kneepads, a tarnished state championship ring on his desk—was all his.
He texted back: “I'll come home for winter break. Serve at his face myself.”
Maya: “He's six-seven now. He'll block you.”
Leo: “He can try.”
He put the phone down and looked at the practice schedule Coach Morrison had taped to his door. Preseason workouts started at 6 AM. Then weights. Then film study. Then evening practice. Twelve-hour days. No days off.
He was read
