The Night Before
1880 Words
The tournament bracket arrived at 4:37 PM on a Thursday, and Leo's heart stopped for three full seconds.
Kevin had printed it from the conference website and tacked it to the locker room bulletin board. The team gathered around, silent, staring at the path ahead. Sixteen teams. Four rounds. Two days. Win twice on Saturday, and you play Sunday. Lose once, and you go home.
Westbrook's first match: against Northridge.
The same Northridge that had served them off the court three weeks ago. The same python-armed senior. The same choreographed warm-ups. The same bus.
“You've got to be kidding me,” Jake said.
“It's not a joke,” Kevin said. “It's the bracket.”
Leo stared at the name. Northridge. The team that had made him feel like a beginner again. The seven aces. The triple block. The way they'd looked through Westbrook like they weren't there.
“Good,” Leo said.
Everyone turned.
“Good?” Tyler repeated.
“We owe them.” Leo looked at his team. “We're not the same team that lost to Northridge. We've trained. We've learned. We've beaten Eastlake and Jefferson. We're ready.”
Ethan, standing apart from the group, said nothing. His face was blank—the robot mask fully engaged.
“Ethan?” Leo prompted.
“We're ready,” Ethan said. His voice was flat.
Leo wanted to push. But not here. Not now.
---
Practice that afternoon was tense.
Mistakes multiplied. Ryan shanked three passes in a row. Derek served into the net twice. Tyler's timing was off—he was late on every block. Even Kevin, usually reliable, overran a dig and sent the ball into the bleachers.
“Everyone stop,” Leo called.
The team froze.
“What's going on?” Leo asked. “We've run these drills a hundred times.”
No one answered.
Jake limped forward. “They're scared. I'm scared. Northridge destroyed us. And now we have to face them again, first match, with everyone watching.”
“We're not the same team.”
“We know that in our heads. But our bodies remember.” Jake tapped his knee. “Mine remembers every time I land wrong. Theirs remember every ace.”
Leo looked at his teammates. Kevin was bouncing on his heels—not energy, nerves. Tyler was adjusting his glasses obsessively. Ryan wouldn't make eye contact. Derek was staring at the floor.
Ethan stood at the net, alone, setting a ball to himself. Toss. Set. Catch. Toss. Set. Catch. The rhythm was mechanical, cold.
Leo walked to the center of the court. “Everyone circle up.”
They formed a loose circle, shoulders touching.
“I'm scared too,” Leo said. “Every time I jump, I'm scared I'll come down wrong. Every time I swing, I'm scared my shoulder will explode. Every time I look at Northridge's side of the net, I remember seven aces.”
He paused.
“But I'm not going to let scared stop me. And neither are you. We didn't spend three weeks running drills until we puked just to fold before the first whistle.”
Kevin snorted. “You puked once.”
“Once is enough.” Leo looked at each of them. “We're going to walk into that gym on Saturday, and we're going to play our game. Not theirs. Ours. Fast, smart, together. If we lose, we lose. But we're not losing because we were scared.”
The circle was quiet. Then Tyler spoke.
“I didn't flinch against Eastlake.”
“No, you didn't.”
“I won't flinch against Northridge.”
Leo nodded. “I know.”
Jake put his hand in the center of the circle. “One team.”
Kevin added his hand. “One fight.”
Samir added his. “One match at a time.”
Ryan, Derek, Tyler, and finally Ethan—his hand went in last, cold fingers brushing Leo's.
“One win,” Ethan said.
Leo looked at him. The robot's mask cracked—just a little.
“Let's practice,” Leo said.
---
The rest of practice was different.
Not perfect. But different. Ryan passed cleanly. Derek's serves stayed in. Tyler's timing improved—not fixed, but better. Kevin stopped overrunning.
And Ethan—Ethan started setting like the old days. Perfect arcs. Unreadable placements. He found Jake for a quick middle that nobody blocked. He found Leo for a back-row attack that landed exactly on the line.
By the end of practice, the team was breathing hard but smiling.
“We might actually do this,” Kevin said.
“We will do this,” Leo replied.
---
After practice, Leo found Ethan in the equipment closet, alone, organizing balls.
“You've been quiet,” Leo said.
“I've been thinking.”
“About?”
Ethan didn't answer immediately. He lined up the balls in neat rows, the way he always did. “Northridge. Their setter is good. Not great, but good. He runs a predictable offense—outside, middle, opposite, repeat. If we can disrupt his rhythm, we win.”
“That's tactical. I meant what are you thinking about emotionally.”
Ethan's hands stopped moving. “I don't do emotions.”
“You did at Eastlake. You told me you felt empty.”
“That was a mistake.”
“It wasn't a mistake. It was honest.” Leo leaned against the doorframe. “What's going on?”
Ethan was silent for a long moment. Then: “I've been watching film of Northridge's setter. He reminds me of myself. Two years ago. Cold. Efficient. Alone.”
“He's not alone. He has a team.”
“He has hitters. That's not the same thing.” Ethan turned to face Leo. “I used to think that setting was about control. Put the ball in the exact right spot, and the hitter will do the rest. But that's not volleyball. That's engineering.”
“What's volleyball?”
“Trust. I have to trust that you'll be there. You have to trust that I'll put the ball where you can hit it. Without trust, we're just six people on a court.”
Leo had never heard Ethan talk like this. “And you trust us?”
Ethan looked at him. “I trust you. The rest… I'm learning.”
“That's all anyone can do.”
Ethan nodded. He picked up the last ball and placed it on the cart. “Saturday. We beat Northridge.”
“We beat Northridge.”
---
Friday—the day before the tournament—Coach Harris showed up.
He walked into the gym during serving practice, sat in his usual chair, and watched. For once, he wasn't on his phone. His eyes tracked the ball, the players, the rotations.
After practice, he called Leo over.
“You've changed,” Coach Harris said.
“We've been training.”
“I can see that. Your form is different. Your shoulder?”
“Better.”
“Good.” He stood up, wincing—his own knee, maybe. “I'll be at the tournament tomorrow. On the bench.”
Leo blinked. “You're coaching us?”
“I'm sitting on the bench. There's a difference.” He walked toward the door, then stopped. “You don't need me to tell you how to play. You've figured that out yourselves. But you might need me to talk to the refs. Call timeouts. Deal with the parents.”
“That would help.”
“Then I'll be there.” He walked out.
Leo turned to his team. Kevin was staring after the coach. “Did he just… volunteer?”
“He did.”
“Hell freezes over.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he's finally paying attention.”
---
That night, Leo couldn't sleep.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, running through every scenario. Northridge's serves. Their block. Their setter's rhythm. He'd watched so much film that he dreamed in slow motion.
At 2 AM, he gave up on sleep and opened his notebook.
Tomorrow. First match: Northridge.
Their weaknesses:
- Predictable offense (outside, middle, opposite, repeat).
- Libero struggles with hard-driven balls to the left shoulder.
- Their setter tilts his hands before a quick set. Ethan noticed it on film.
Our strengths:
- Speed. We're faster than them.
- Kevin. He's the best libero in the conference.
- Trust. We have it. They don't.
He closed the notebook and looked at the Marcus Cole poster on his wall—the one his mom had found online, Marcus mid-swing, body parallel to the floor.
Tomorrow, Leo thought. I jump.
---
Saturday morning came cold and gray.
Leo arrived at the tournament gym an hour before check-in. The parking lot was already half full—buses from a dozen schools, parents carrying coolers, players in matching warm-ups.
Westbrook's bus was the oldest. Their warm-ups were mismatched. But Leo didn't care.
He walked into the gym. The lights were bright. The courts were clean. The scoreboards glowed. This wasn't a dusty practice gym. This was where volleyball mattered.
The team filtered in behind him. Kevin was quiet for once. Jake was limping slightly but hiding it. Tyler had new glasses—safety goggles, practically. Ryan and Derek were whispering to each other. Samir looked calm. Ethan looked like a statue.
And Coach Harris was there, sitting at the end of the bench, wearing an old Westbrook polo shirt.
“You showed up,” Leo said.
“I said I would.”
“You've never said you would before.”
Coach Harris shrugged. “There's a first time for everything.”
---
The warm-up was chaotic. Dozens of teams, three courts, balls flying everywhere. Westbrook found their assigned court and started their routine. Passing lines. Serving. Hitting against a blocker.
Leo watched Northridge warm up on the other side of the net. The python-armed senior was there, hitting balls so hard they rattled the bleachers. Their setter was calm, efficient. Their libero was shagging balls with robotic precision.
They looked exactly like they had three weeks ago.
But Leo looked different. His shoulder was loose. His core was warm. His mind was clear.
Ethan walked up beside him. “Nervous?”
“Terrified.”
“Good. Terror sharpens the senses.”
“Did you read that somewhere?”
“No. I made it up.”
Leo almost laughed. “You're weird.”
“I'm effective.”
The referee called for captains. Leo walked to the net. Northridge's captain—the python-armed senior—was already there.
“Westbrook,” he said, same as before. “I heard you beat Eastlake.”
“We did.”
“Eastlake isn't us.”
Leo looked him in the eye. “I know.”
They shook hands. The referee flipped a coin. Northridge won the toss and chose to serve.
Leo walked back to his team. They huddled.
“Remember,” Leo said. “We're not the same team. We're faster. We're smarter. We trust each other.”
He looked at Ethan. Ethan nodded.
“One point at a time,” Leo said. “Let's go.”
The whistle blew. Northridge's server stepped to the line.
The python-armed senior tossed the ball.
And the match began.
- Writer
