Leo woke up to the smell of Bengay and the sound of his own shoulder popping.
He lay still in his dorm bed, staring at the ceiling, cataloging the pain. Right shoulder: dull ache, manageable. Left shoulder: sharp twinge, concerning. Knees: sore but functional. Lower back: tight, the way it got after too many landings on the hardwood.
He was twenty years old. He felt sixty.
The season had taken its toll. Crestmont was 14–3, sitting in second place in the conference, with four matches left before the tournament. Leo was leading the team in kills, second in digs, first in serves that made the libero cry. He was playing the best volleyball of his life.
And his body was breaking down.
He sat up slowly, rotated his right arm in a circle, then his left. The left shoulder clicked. Not a pop—j
