The Stand
2193 Words
Leo woke up on Sunday morning with his right arm wrapped in an Ace bandage, his shoulder throbbing a low, rhythmic warning, and a single text from Ethan Shaw: “Seventy-five percent. Don't forget.”
He stared at the message for a long time. Seventy-five percent. That was the conversion rate Ethan had demanded for the final match. Twenty-two of thirty-four against Northridge. Twenty-three of thirty-four against Monroe. Sixty-five, then sixty-eight. Progress, but not enough.
The final would be harder.
Leo sat up slowly, testing his shoulder. The pain was there—a dull ache that sharpened when he raised his arm above his head. But it wasn't the screaming agony of yesterday. The ice had helped. The compression sleeve had helped. The two ibuprofen his mom had pressed into his hand before bed had helped.
“You don't have to play today,” his mother said from the doorway. She was already dressed, a travel mug of coffee in her hand. “You've already proven everything you needed to prove.”
“I haven't proven anything,” Leo said. “Not yet.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded. “Then let's go.”
---
The tournament gym was different on Sunday.
Fewer teams. Louder crowds. The energy was tighter, more electric. Every cheer echoed. Every whistle cut through the air like a blade.
Westbrook's opponent for the final was Central Catholic—the top seed, undefeated all season, a private school with a volleyball budget that could have funded Westbrook's entire athletic department for a decade. Their roster averaged six-two. Their setter was a senior committed to a Division One program. Their libero had been named conference player of the year two seasons running.
“They're giants,” Kevin said, staring across the gym at Central Catholic's warm-up.
“Giants fall,” Leo replied.
“Do they? Have they?”
“Everyone falls eventually.”
Jake limped up beside them. His knee was wrapped in a thick brace, and his face was pale. “I watched their film last night. They don't have a weakness. Their passing is perfect. Their sets are perfect. Their hitters don't make errors.”
“Then we force errors,” Ethan said. He'd appeared behind them, silent as always. “No team is perfect. They just haven't been pressured enough.”
“And we're going to pressure them?” Kevin asked.
“We're going to choke them.”
---
The warm-up was a study in contrast.
Central Catholic ran choreographed drills. Every player knew exactly where to stand, when to move, how to hit. Their balls landed in the same spots every time. Their libero passed ten balls in a row to the setter's exact hand position.
Westbrook ran their usual warm-up. Passing lines. Serving to zones. A few chaotic hitting reps. It looked sloppy. It looked unprepared.
But Leo noticed something. Central Catholic's players weren't watching Westbrook. They were watching themselves. They were so focused on their own perfection that they hadn't bothered to scout the team that had beaten Northridge and Monroe.
Arrogance, Leo thought. That's their weakness.
---
The referee called for captains. Leo walked to the net. Central Catholic's captain was their setter—a tall, clean-shaven kid with perfect posture and a calm smile.
“Westbrook,” he said. “I read about you. The short spiker.”
“That's me.”
“You're not short. You're just not tall.” He extended his hand. “Good luck.”
Leo shook it. “We won't need luck.”
The setter's smile flickered. Then he walked back to his team.
Leo returned to his huddle. “They're arrogant. They think they've already won. Let's show them they haven't.”
---
The first set began.
Central Catholic served first—a jump floater from their six-four opposite. The ball drifted, dipped, and landed exactly on the line. Kevin passed it clean, but the serve had done its job: Westbrook's offense was starting off the net.
Ethan set high to the outside. Leo approached. The block rose—four hands, two players, a wall. Leo didn't have the power to hit through them. He tipped. Central Catholic's libero read it and dug.
The rally continued. Back and forth. Central Catholic's passing was perfect. Their sets were perfect. Their hitters swung with mechanical precision.
Westbrook scrambled. Kevin dove. Jake lunged. Tyler's block was late.
Central Catholic scored the first point. Then the second. Then the third.
3–0.
Leo called a quick huddle. “We're playing their game. Slow. Mechanical. We need to speed up.”
“My sets are fast enough,” Ethan said.
“Then we need to pass faster. Kevin, can you get the ball higher? Give Ethan more time to read?”
“I can try.”
“Don't try. Do.”
---
Westbrook's next serve was an ace. Derek, of all people, floated a serve that died on the line. 3–1.
Then Kevin passed a rocket to Ethan—high, fast, perfect. Ethan set Leo on a quick. Leo approached before the block was set. His swing was pure. The ball hit the floor.
3–2.
Central Catholic's setter called a timeout. His calm smile was gone.
“They're rattled,” Jake said. “Keep pushing.”
---
The first set turned into a war.
Every point was a battle. Central Catholic's perfection clashed with Westbrook's desperation. The score seesawed: 8–8, 12–12, 16–16.
At 18–18, Leo's shoulder screamed again. He'd been swinging carefully—tipping, wiping, rolling—but the pain was building. His arm felt heavy.
He called for a set anyway. Ethan gave him a high outside ball. Leo approached. The block rose. He saw the seam on the line side and swung with everything he had.
The ball hit the blocker's fingertips and spun out of bounds.
19–18 Westbrook.
Leo landed and grabbed his shoulder. The pain was white-hot. He couldn't hide it.
Ethan walked over. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
“Can you finish the set?”
“I have to.”
“Then stop swinging hard. Tip every ball. Let Jake and Samir carry the kills.”
Leo wanted to argue. But Ethan was right. His shoulder was done. He couldn't be the weapon anymore. He had to be the decoy.
---
Westbrook won the first set 25–23.
The final point was a tip from Leo—soft, over the block, landing in the exact spot where Central Catholic's libero had been standing a moment before. The libero dove. Missed.
The Westbrook bench exploded. Leo walked to the sideline and sat down hard. His arm was shaking.
Coach Harris appeared beside him. “You're done.”
“No, I'm not.”
“Your shoulder is done. If you play another set, you'll tear something.”
“Then I'll tear something.”
Coach Harris knelt in front of him. His tired eyes were sharp for once. “I watched a player do that once. Tore his rotator cuff in a championship match. Played through it. Won the match. Never played again. Couldn't lift his arm above his shoulder for two years.”
Leo stared at him.
“That player was me,” Coach Harris said. “Don't be me.”
Leo's throat tightened. “What do I do?”
“You trust your team. You stand on the court and you draw the block. You don't swing. You don't serve. You just exist. And they win without you.”
Leo looked across the court. Kevin was bouncing on his toes. Jake was icing his knee. Tyler was adjusting his goggles. Ethan was setting to Samir, calm as always.
They didn't need him to kill. They needed him to stand.
“Okay,” Leo said. “One more set.”
---
The second set started without Leo's right arm.
He played opposite hitter, but every time he approached, he faked the swing and tipped. Central Catholic's block jumped with him every time, because they didn't know he couldn't hit. They were afraid of him.
That fear created space.
Jake scored four kills in the first eight points. Samir added three. Kevin served two aces. Tyler blocked a ball so hard it bounced back to Central Catholic's setter's face.
10–5 Westbrook.
Central Catholic called timeout. Their coach was screaming. Their players were looking at Leo with confusion. He wasn't hitting. Why wasn't he hitting?
Leo stood at the net, his right arm hanging at his side, and smiled.
“He's hurt,” someone on Central Catholic's bench said.
“Then why are we losing to him?” another voice answered.
---
The second set was uglier than the first.
Central Catholic started targeting Leo's position, thinking he was a hole in Westbrook's defense. But Kevin shifted to cover. Jake rotated. Tyler stretched. Every ball that came to Leo's side was dug, passed, and set to someone else.
Westbrook's offense flowed through Jake. He was everywhere—outside, middle, back-row. His knee was screaming, but he didn't stop. He swung harder with every point.
At 20–15, Central Catholic's setter tried a dump. Tyler read it. His block was there. The ball rebounded. Kevin dug. Ethan set Jake.
Jake swung. The ball hit the floor.
21–15.
Central Catholic's captain—the tall setter with the perfect posture—was arguing with his coach. His calm was gone. His face was red.
“They're breaking,” Kevin said.
“Then break them,” Leo replied.
---
Westbrook won the second set 25–18.
The final point was an ace from Kevin—a jump float that died on the line, just like Derek's earlier. The referee's arm went up. The whistle blew.
Westbrook had won the tournament. Undefeated Central Catholic had lost.
The gym exploded. Kevin ran to Leo and hugged him. Jake fell to his knees, crying. Tyler stood at the net with his arms up, still blocking no one. Ryan and Derek were jumping up and down. Samir was already on his phone, calling his father.
Leo stood in the middle of it all, holding his right arm, tears running down his face.
He'd barely touched the ball in the second set. He'd tipped. He'd faked. He'd drawn the block. But he hadn't swung.
And they'd won.
Ethan walked over. “Seventy-five percent?”
“I didn't swing enough to have a percentage.”
“You drew the block on twelve of Jake's kills. That counts.”
Leo looked at him. “You're counting that?”
“I count everything.”
Leo laughed—painful, joyful, exhausted. “What's the percentage?”
“One hundred. You did your job.”
They stood there, two captains, one championship.
“We're not done,” Leo said.
“I know. Regionals in two weeks.”
“Then we rest. Then we train. Then we win.”
Ethan nodded. “Together.”
---
The awards ceremony was quick. A trophy. A banner. A photo that would hang in Westbrook's ghost gym, next to the 2009 champions.
Leo stood on the podium, holding the trophy with his left arm. His right arm was in a makeshift sling—Kevin's grandmother's knot again. His shoulder was throbbing. His legs were jelly. His core was on fire.
But he was smiling.
Dana Meeks was in the crowd, notepad out, writing furiously. Marcus Cole, Leo saw with a shock, was standing in the back corner of the gym, arms crossed, watching. He didn't wave. He just nodded.
Leo nodded back.
---
The bus ride home was the loudest of Leo's life.
Kevin sang off-key. Jake replayed every kill. Tyler kept saying “I blocked their setter” over and over. Ryan and Derek were already talking about regionals. Samir was asleep against the window.
Leo sat in the back, his arm in the sling, and watched his team.
They weren't the same team that had lost to Northridge. They weren't even the same team that had beaten Eastlake. They were champions.
He pulled out his notebook with his left hand—awkward, slow—and wrote:
Tournament champions. Beat Northridge (2–0). Beat Monroe (2–1). Beat Central Catholic (2–0).
What went right:
- Kevin is the best libero in the conference.
- Jake played through pain. His knee held.
- Tyler didn't flinch. He blocked.
- Ethan set like a demon. Counted everything.
- The team won without me swinging.
What went wrong:
- My shoulder is wrecked. Need to rest. Need to heal.
- I can't carry the team alone. I don't have to.
Next goal: Regionals. Two weeks. Heal. Train. Win.
He closed the notebook and looked out the window. The sun was setting. The sky was orange and red and purple.
Two weeks until regionals. Two weeks to fix his shoulder. Two weeks to become the spiker Marcus Cole was training him to be.
Leo leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes.
He dreamed of flying.
- Writer
