The New Blood
1873 Words
The first day of tryouts for the new season felt nothing like the first day of the last one.
Leo stood at the net, his right arm loose and warm, his left arm resting at his side. The shoulder that had nearly ended his career was now stronger than it had ever been—physical therapy had seen to that. Marcus Cole had seen to that. The long weeks of left-handed drills had given him something he hadn't expected: ambidexterity.
He could swing with either arm now. Not equally well. But well enough to be dangerous.
The gym was fuller than last year. The state championship banner had done its work. Fifteen boys stood on the court, some in volleyball shoes, some in basketball sneakers, some in running shorts. They'd come because Westbrook was a winner now. Because they wanted to be part of something.
Leo didn't mind. Let them come for the banner. They'd stay for the work.
“Line up,” he called. “Passing drill. Two lines. Kevin, you're running it.”
Kevin stepped forward, his libero jersey already faded from use. “You heard him. Let's go.”
---
The first cut was easy.
Five boys couldn't pass a standing float serve. Leo thanked them for coming and sent them to the bleachers to watch. They'd have a development team this year—a second squad for players who weren't ready. That was new too.
The second cut was harder.
Ten players remained. Leo knew most of them from around school. A few he'd never seen before. But three stood out immediately.
Maya Chen was shorter than Leo—five-five, maybe—with her sister Sarah's sharp eyes and quicker hands. She moved like she'd been born on a volleyball court. Her passes were flat, fast, and accurate. Her sets were crisp. Her serve was a jump floater that died on the line.
“Sarah taught you well,” Leo said during a water break.
“Sarah taught me everything,” Maya replied. “But she also said you were the most stubborn person she'd ever met.”
“She's not wrong.”
“Good. So am I.”
Leo smiled. He liked her already.
---
Devon Cross was everything Ethan wasn't.
Where Ethan was cold and silent, Devon was warm and loud. Where Ethan set with mechanical precision, Devon set with chaotic creativity. He was left-handed, short for a setter at five-nine, and he smiled constantly.
“You're the guy who almost beat us,” Leo said.
“I'm the guy who lost to you,” Devon corrected. “There's a difference.”
“You want to play setter?”
“I want to play. I'll play wherever you need me.”
Leo looked at Ethan, who was watching from the service line, his face unreadable. Two setters. Two egos. Two different styles.
“You'll start as a defensive specialist,” Leo said. “We'll see where it goes.”
Devon nodded. “Fair enough.”
---
Liam Foster was a giant.
Six-five, maybe six-six. Fifteen years old. He'd never played volleyball before, but he'd been a basketball player until he realized he didn't like getting elbowed in the ribs. His hands were soft. His footwork was terrible. His jump was nonexistent.
But he was tall. So tall.
“You're going to be a middle blocker,” Leo said.
“What's a middle blocker?”
“Someone who stands at the net and puts their hands up.”
“That's it?”
“That's the start. We'll teach you the rest.”
Liam looked at the net, then at his hands, then back at Leo. “Okay.”
---
The first week of practice was chaos.
Fifteen players. Two setters. One gym. Leo ran drills from sunrise to sunset, his clipboard never leaving his hand. Kevin ran the defense. Ethan ran the setters. Jake was gone—graduated, playing at a small college somewhere—and his absence was a hole in the middle of the court.
“We need a captain,” Kevin said on the third day.
“We have captains,” Leo replied.
“We have you and Ethan. But Ethan doesn't talk, and you're too busy coaching.”
Leo looked at the court. Maya was running a drill with the new players. She was loud, encouraging, demanding. The younger kids listened to her.
“Maya,” Leo said.
Kevin followed his gaze. “The freshman?”
“She's a leader.”
“She's five-five.”
“So am I.”
Kevin shrugged. “Fair enough.”
---
Maya became the third captain.
She didn't ask for it. Leo called her over after practice, handed her a clipboard, and said, “You're running the morning warm-ups from now on.”
She looked at the clipboard, then at him. “Why?”
“Because you see things the rest of them don't. Because you're not afraid to yell. Because you're your sister's sister.”
Maya's eyes softened. Sarah had been Leo's first coach. The girls' team captain who'd let a short boy practice with them.
“She talks about you, you know,” Maya said. “She says you're the reason she kept coaching.”
Leo blinked. “I didn't know that.”
“Now you do.”
She took the clipboard and walked onto the court.
---
The conflict came on the tenth day.
Ethan and Devon had been circling each other all week. Two setters, one starting spot. Ethan was better—more accurate, more consistent. But Devon was more creative. He saw sets that Ethan didn't see. He took risks that paid off as often as they failed.
“We should run a two-setter offense,” Devon said during a scrimmage.
“That's inefficient,” Ethan replied.
“It's unpredictable.”
“It's gimmicky.”
Leo stepped between them. “Enough. We're not deciding anything today. Run the play again.”
They ran it. Ethan set. Devon set. The hitters adjusted. The offense worked.
But the tension didn't fade.
---
That night, Leo called Marcus Cole.
“Two setters,” Marcus said. “That's a good problem to have.”
“It doesn't feel good. They hate each other.”
“They don't hate each other. They're competing. There's a difference.” Marcus paused. “When I played, we had two setters. One was a robot—perfect, consistent, boring. The other was a magician—unpredictable, creative, risky. We won a national championship because the robot started and the magician finished.”
“Which one were you?”
“I was the spiker. I didn't care who set as long as the ball got there.”
Leo laughed. “That's not helpful.”
“It's the truth. Your job isn't to choose between them. Your job is to make them better. Together.”
---
The next practice, Leo put Ethan and Devon on the same side of the net.
They played together. Ethan set the first ball. Devon set the second. The hitters had to adjust mid-rally—different tempos, different locations, different spins.
It was chaos. But it was beautiful chaos.
“Again,” Leo said.
They ran the drill twenty times. By the end, Ethan and Devon were communicating. Not talking—Ethan never talked—but nodding. Adjusting. Trusting.
“That wasn't terrible,” Ethan said afterward.
“That was fun,” Devon replied.
Ethan didn't agree. But he didn't disagree either.
---
Liam was the other problem.
He was tall. So tall. But he moved like a baby deer on ice. His footwork was slow. His timing was off. He closed his eyes when the ball came—just like Tyler used to.
“You're flinching,” Leo said.
“I'm not flinching. I'm blinking.”
“You're closing your eyes. That's flinching.”
Liam pushed his hair out of his face. “The ball is hard.”
“The ball is soft. It's leather and air. It's not going to hurt you.”
“It might.”
Leo served at him. Liam flinched. The ball bounced off his shoulder.
“See? You're still standing.”
Liam glared at him. “That hurt.”
“It didn't. You're fine. Do it again.”
Leo served twenty more times. By the end, Liam had stopped flinching. He hadn't blocked anything—his hands were still down—but his eyes were open.
“Progress,” Kevin said.
“Baby steps,” Leo agreed.
---
The first scrimmage of the season was against a local club team.
Westbrook's starting lineup: Leo at opposite, Maya at outside, Liam at middle, Kevin at libero, Ethan at setter, and Devon as a defensive specialist.
The club team was good—not great, but good. They'd been playing together for years. They knew each other's movements.
Westbrook won the first set 25–20. The second set 25–18.
But it wasn't the score that mattered. It was the way they played.
Maya scored eight kills. Her swing was faster than her sister's, sharper, more aggressive. Liam got his first stuff block—the ball hit his hands and dropped straight down. He stared at his palms like they'd betrayed him.
“That's a stuff,” Leo said.
“That's a what?”
“A block. You blocked it.”
Liam looked at the other side of the net. The hitter was rubbing his shoulder.
“I did that?”
“You did that.”
Liam smiled. It was the first time Leo had seen him smile.
---
After the scrimmage, the team gathered in a circle.
“We're not where we need to be,” Leo said. “But we're better than we were a week ago. That's the goal. Every day, a little better.”
“How much better do we need to be?” Maya asked.
“Good enough to win state again.”
The circle was quiet. Then Kevin laughed.
“You're insane,” he said.
“Probably.”
“State again? We lost Jake. We lost Samir. We're starting a freshman middle who didn't know what a stuff block was until five minutes ago.”
“And we have Maya. And Devon. And Liam. And Tyler's still here. And Ryan and Derek are seniors now. And Ethan's still the best setter in the state. And you're still the best libero.”
Kevin opened his mouth. Closed it.
“We're not the same team,” Leo continued. “But we're a team. And that's enough.”
---
That night, Leo walked home alone.
The streets were dark. The air was warm. His shoulder was quiet.
He thought about Marcus Cole. About the man who'd flown. About the season he'd missed, the surgery, the recovery, the return.
You're not done, Marcus had said. You're just beginning.
Leo pulled out his notebook. The pages were full—every line written, every margin filled. He'd need a new one soon.
He turned to the inside cover and wrote:
New season. New team. Same goal.
He tucked the notebook into his jacket and kept walking.
Behind him, the Westbrook gym sat dark, the banner hanging in the rafters, waiting for the next chapter.
- Writer
