Small Giant

The Recruits

Kevin Wu showed up to practice the next day with a track jersey, borrowed knee pads, and the expression of a man walking into a dentist's appointment.

“I hate you,” he said.

Leo smiled. “You said that last time.”

“I meant it last time. I mean it more now.”

Kevin dropped his bag on the bleachers and looked around the Westbrook gym. The dust. The sagging net. The single flickering light above the scoreboard. His nose wrinkled. “This is worse than junior school.”

“We have a setter now.”

“The robot kid who destroyed us?”

“The same.”

Kevin stared at Leo for a long moment. “You're insane. You know that, right?”

“Probably.” Leo tossed him a ball. “Warm up. We start serving drills in ten.”

---

The second recruit came at lunch.

Leo found Tyler Brooks in the library, alone, reading a field guide to North American raptors. The book was open to a picture of a red-tailed hawk. Tyler's finger traced the outline of its wings.

“You like birds,” Leo said, sitting across from him.

Tyler looked up, startled. His eyes were wide behind thick glasses. He was six-four now—he'd grown another inch since junior school—but he still held his shoulders in, trying to take up less space.

“They're… interesting,” Tyler said.

“Do you know what else is interesting? Volleyball.”

Tyler closed the book. “I'm not good at volleyball.”

“No one is good when they start.”

“I flinch.”

“I remember.”

Tyler's face went red. “Then why are you here?”

Leo leaned forward. “Because you're six-four. Because you have arms that can reach places most players can't. Because you're smart—you read books about birds, which means you notice details. That's a blocker's skill.”

“I don't want to get hit in the face.”

“You won't. I'll serve at you until you stop flinching. Then you'll block, and you'll realize that getting hit in the face is better than watching from the sidelines.”

Tyler was quiet. He looked down at the hawk. “What if I'm terrible?”

“Then you'll be terrible with us. And we'll make you less terrible. Day by day.”

The library clock ticked. Tyler's fingers drummed the book cover.

“I'll try,” he said finally. “But I'm not promising anything.”

Leo stood up. “That's all I ask.”

---

Practice that afternoon was chaos.

Seven players now: Leo, Ethan, Jake, Ryan, Derek, Kevin, and Tyler. No coach. No subs. No rhythm.

Kevin was fast—blazing fast—but he had no idea where to stand. He played libero like a sprinter: always moving, always early, always diving past the ball instead of under it. Every dig was a spectacular save that went nowhere.

“You're overrunning,” Ethan said, after Kevin's fourth shanked pass of the drill.

“I'm getting there,” Kevin shot back.

“Getting there isn't enough. You have to be there. Before the hitter swings. Watch their shoulder. Their elbow. Their eyes.”

Kevin wiped sweat from his forehead. “That's a lot of things to watch.”

“Then watch faster.”

Leo watched the exchange. Ethan was right, but his tone made Kevin's jaw tighten. The robot was back—cold, precise, impatient with anyone who couldn't keep up.

Tyler was worse.

He stood at the net like a statue. His arms were up—good—but his eyes were closed. Every time a ball came toward him, he flinched. Not a small flinch. A full-body recoil, like the ball was a fist.

“Open your eyes,” Leo said, after Tyler flinched for the tenth time.

“I can't.”

“You can. The ball isn't going to hurt you.”

“It might.”

Leo walked to the service line. “I'm going to serve at you. Don't move. Just watch the ball.”

“Wait—”

Leo tossed the ball and served. A float serve, no spin, drifting left. Tyler flinched, turned his head, and the ball bounced off his shoulder.

“See?” Leo said. “You're still standing.”

Tyler's face was pale. “That hurt.”

“It didn't. Your shoulder is fine. Your pride is hurt. There's a difference.”

He served again. Tyler flinched again. Again. Again.

By the twentieth serve, Tyler stopped flinching. He didn't pass the ball. He didn't block it. But he kept his eyes open.

“Progress,” Leo said.

Tyler nodded, swallowing hard.

---

Jake Morrison watched from the bench, his knee wrapped in ice.

He hadn't participated in the full drills. Coach Velez's rule—if Leo was going to drag Jake back to relevance, he had to protect the knee. So Jake did passing drills sitting down. Arm work only. No jumping. No lateral movement.

But he was watching. And Leo could feel his eyes.

“You're not helping from the bench,” Leo said during a water break.

Jake shrugged. “My knee says otherwise.”

“Your knee is scared. You're not.”

Jake's jaw tightened. “You don't know what it's like. To have something taken from you. To know that one wrong landing could end everything.”

Leo sat next to him. “I'm five-seven. Every jumper is a wrong landing. Every block is a risk. If I tear something tomorrow, no one will be surprised. They'll say I was too short to play this game anyway.”

Jake stared at him.

“But I'm going to jump anyway,” Leo said. “Because the alternative is sitting on a bench, watching other people play, and telling myself I used to be good. I'd rather explode.”

He stood up and walked back to the court.

Behind him, Jake unwrapped the ice from his knee.

---

The conflict boiled over on the third day of practice.

Ethan had been pushing the team hard—harder than Leo thought was smart. He ran the same drill forty times in a row: pass, set, spike. If any player made a mistake, the whole line started over.

By the thirtieth repetition, Ryan Bell's arms were shaking. Derek Park had given up trying. Kevin's legs were twitching with fatigue. Even Leo's timing was off.

“Again,” Ethan said.

“No,” Leo said.

The gym went quiet.

Ethan turned. “What did you say?”

“I said no. We're done with this drill.”

“We haven't run it cleanly once.”

“Because we're exhausted. You're not training us. You're breaking us.”

Ethan's eyes narrowed. “You wanted to be the best team in the country. The best teams don't take breaks.”

“The best teams have coaches who know when to stop. We don't have a coach. We have you. And you're not listening.”

They stood face to face. The other players watched, frozen.

“I'm listening,” Ethan said quietly. “I hear everything. I hear Ryan's passing form breaking down. I hear Derek's footwork getting lazy. I hear Kevin's breathing pattern—he's oxygen-depleted, which means his reaction time is shot. I'm not being cruel. I'm being honest. If we can't run this drill cleanly when we're tired, we can't win a single match.”

Leo wanted to argue. But Ethan wasn't wrong.

“Then we stop for five minutes,” Leo said. “Hydrate. Breathe. Then we run it again. But we're not machines. We're seventeen-year-olds with bad knees and borrowed knee pads.”

Ethan held his gaze. Then he nodded once.

“Five minutes.”

---

The team sat in a circle on the court. Water bottles passed from hand to hand. No one spoke at first.

Kevin broke the silence. “So… are you two always like this?”

Derek laughed—a short, nervous bark. Ryan snorted. Even Tyler cracked a smile.

“Yes,” Leo and Ethan said at the same time.

They looked at each other. Something shifted.

“I'm not good at people,” Ethan admitted. Quietly. For the first time. “I never have been. I see the game. I see the mechanics. I don't see the… feelings.”

“We noticed,” Jake said dryly.

“But I need you. All of you. Not just Leo.” Ethan looked around the circle. “Kevin, you're the fastest defender I've ever played with. You just need to trust your reads. Ryan, your passing is clean under pressure—you just panic when you think too much. Derek, you're tall and you don't use it because you're afraid of making mistakes. Tyler, you flinch because you've been hit before—not by a ball, by something else. And Jake…” He paused. “You're the best player here. But you're letting fear win.”

The gym was silent. The lights buzzed.

Jake stared at Ethan. “How do you know that?”

“Because I'm scared too. Every time I set the ball, I'm scared no one will hit it. Every time I look at the other side of the net, I'm scared someone better is standing there. I'm not a robot. I just pretend to be.”

Leo looked at Ethan—really looked at him. The cold eyes weren't cold. They were tired.

“Then let's be scared together,” Leo said. “And let's win anyway.”

---

They ran the drill again. Cleanly. Twice.

Then Leo called practice over.

“Tomorrow, we recruit our eighth player,” he said. “I don't know who yet. But we need one more body before we can register for tournaments.”

“I know someone,” Tyler said.

Everyone turned.

Tyler's face went red, but he didn't look away. “There's a kid in my biology class. Samir. He's six-one. He plays beach volleyball in the summer.”

“Beach volleyball?” Kevin said.

“It's still volleyball. He's good. Really good. He doesn't try out because he thinks the team is a joke.”

Leo looked at Ethan. Ethan looked at Leo.

“Bring him tomorrow,” Leo said.

---

That night, Leo stayed late in the gym again. He couldn't help it. The court called to him—the squeak of his shoes, the c***k of his spike, the way the ball spun off his palm.

He practiced his jump serve. Toss, step, jump, swing. The ball screamed over the net and hit the back wall. He retrieved it. Toss, step, jump, swing. The next one was faster.

He thought about Ethan's words. I'm scared every time I set the ball.

That admission had cost Ethan something. Leo could see it—the robot's armor cracking. And underneath, a boy who'd been alone for a long time.

Leo understood that. He'd been alone too. Training with girls. Drilling with friends who didn't love the sport. Watching Marcus Cole on a screen because there was no one in real life who understood.

But now there was Ethan. Jake. Kevin. Tyler. Ryan. Derek.

Seven broken players. One ghost gym. And a banner that said 2009 Regional Champions.

Leo served again. The ball hit the wall and rolled to the corner.

He served until his arm went numb. Then he picked up the balls, turned off the lights, and walked home.

---

The next day, Samir showed up.

He was six-one, lean, with the tan of someone who spent summers on sand courts. His hands were calloused in different places—beach volleyball gave you harder palms, softer fingers. He watched the team warm up with a critical eye.

“You're not very good,” Samir said.

“We know,” Leo replied.

“And you have no coach.”

“Also known.”

“And you want me to join.”

“Yes.”

Samir looked at the banner. At the sagging net. At the mismatched jerseys and borrowed knee pads.

“My dad played here,” Samir said quietly. “In 2009. He was the libero on that championship team.”

Leo's heart stopped. “What?”

“George Hanna. He was a senior. After they won regionals, he tore his ACL celebrating. Never played again. But he talks about that team like it was yesterday.” Samir turned to Leo. “He told me Westbrook volleyball was dead. He said don't bother.”

“And what do you say?”

Samir picked up a ball. He tossed it, jumped, and served a perfect jump floater that landed on the back line and spun in place.

“I say let's see if we can wake it up.”

---

That practice was the first time the team felt real.

Eight players. All positions covered. Samir took the left side—he was raw, but his beach instincts gave him a soft touch and unpredictable angles. Kevin settled into libero with Samir's advice on reading hitters. Tyler, with Ethan's relentless serving, stopped flinching after the first ten minutes.

Jake stood up from the bench. His knee brace was tight. His face was pale.

“I'm going to try one jump,” he said.

The whole team stopped.

Jake walked to the net. He took a breath. Then he approached—three steps, slow and deliberate—and jumped.

His knee held. His arm swung. The ball hit the block and bounced back.

He landed on both feet. His face was wet.

“Again,” he said.

Leo set for him. Jake jumped again. This time, the spike cleared the block and hit the floor.

The team erupted.

Ethan didn't cheer. But Leo saw him nod—a small, almost invisible movement. Approval.

The robot has feelings after all, Leo thought.

---

They ran a scrimmage. Eight players, four on each side. Leo, Jake, Kevin, and Derek against Ethan, Samir, Tyler, and Ryan.

It was ugly. Passes went everywhere. Sets were off. Spikes hit the net. But for the first time, it looked like volleyball.

Leo's team won 25–23. The winning point came from Leo—a cut shot cross-court, past Samir's outstretched hands, landing inside the line.

He looked at Ethan across the net.

“Good set,” Leo said.

“Good read,” Ethan replied.

They didn't smile. They didn't need to.

---

After practice, Leo sat on the bleachers alone. The gym was empty. The lights were off. The only sound was the wind outside, rattling the windows.

He pulled out his notebook.

Week one:

· Recruits: Kevin, Tyler, Samir – check.

· Jake jumped – check.

· Ethan admitted fear – check.

· Team has eight players – check.

He turned to a fresh page.

Next goal: Win a match. Any match.

He closed the notebook and looked up at the banner. 2009 Regional Champions.

Fifteen years. A ghost gym. Eight misfits.

Leo smiled.

“We're coming for you.”