The Morning After
2507 Words
Leo woke up at 4:47 AM with his shoulder screaming and his pride in worse shape.
The Northridge loss had followed him into sleep. He'd dreamed of serves—floaters that dipped at the last second, aces that painted the lines, the sound of the ball hitting the floor again and again. In the dream, he couldn't move. His feet were stuck in cement. The python-armed senior kept serving, and Leo kept watching the ball die on his side of the net.
He sat up in bed, breathing hard. The clock glowed red. 4:48.
Practice wasn't until six. He had an hour and twelve minutes to sit with the loss.
He didn't sit.
Leo pulled on his training clothes—sweats, a faded t-shirt, the same worn court shoes—and walked out of the house before the sun was up. The streets of his neighborhood were empty. A single streetlight flickered. His breath fogged in the cold morning air.
He walked fast. Then he jogged. Then he ran.
By the time he reached the Westbrook gym, his lungs were burning and his shoulder had stopped complaining. The door was locked. He sat on the steps, pulled out his notebook, and started writing.
Things I did wrong against Northridge:
1. Approached early on six of my eight kill attempts.
2. Forgot to cover after spiking. Left the net open twice.
3. Didn't communicate on defense. Kevin and I crossed paths three times.
4. Let their server get in my head. Seven aces. Unacceptable.
He stared at the last line. Seven aces. He'd counted every one.
Things I did right:
1. Didn't quit.
2. Trusted Ethan's set on the seam kill.
3. Kept jumping.
He closed the notebook. The sky was turning gray. Somewhere inside the school, a janitor's radio played old rock music.
Leo stood up, stretched his hamstrings, and started serving against the gym wall. The ball cracked against the brick. He retrieved it. Cracked it again.
By the time Ethan Shaw walked up fifteen minutes later, Leo had served ninety-seven balls.
Ethan didn't say good morning. He just dropped his bag, pulled out his own ball, and started serving next to Leo. c***k. c***k. Two rhythms, slightly off, slowly syncing.
They served in silence for ten minutes. Then Ethan spoke.
“You were up early.”
“Couldn't sleep.”
“Neither could I.” Ethan served. The ball hit a window frame and ricocheted into the bushes. He didn't chase it. “I replayed the match. Every set. Every pass. Every mistake.”
“How many did you count?”
“Forty-three.”
Leo stopped. “Forty-three mistakes?”
“Forty-three things I could have done better. Not counting the plays where someone else made the error.” Ethan retrieved his ball from the bushes and returned to the service line. “I've never lost that badly before. Not since junior school. Not since you.”
“You beat me in junior school.”
“I beat your team. I didn't beat you. You kept swinging.” Ethan tossed the ball and served. This one screamed over the net and hit the back wall. “I stopped swinging years ago. I just set. It's safe. No one blames the setter when the hitter gets blocked.”
Leo turned to look at him. The gray morning light made Ethan's face look older. Tired.
“You blame yourself,” Leo said.
“Someone has to.”
---
The rest of the team arrived in pieces.
Kevin came first, yawning, still in his track warm-ups. He'd run three miles before coming to the gym. “Figured I needed the cardio,” he said. “My legs gave out in the third set.”
Tyler came next, carrying a new pair of volleyball shoes. “My mom bought me these,” he said, holding them like they were made of glass. “She said if I'm going to get hit in the face, I should at least look good doing it.”
Jake limped in, knee brace tight, his jaw set. He didn't say anything. He just walked to the passing line and started warming up.
Ryan and Derek arrived together, both carrying energy drinks. Samir came last, his beach tan already fading, a volleyball under each arm.
Eight players. One gym. Zero coaches.
Leo called them to the center of the court.
“Yesterday was embarrassing,” he said. “We lost every set. We got served off the court. We looked like we'd never played together.”
No one argued.
“But we're not that team anymore. That team existed yesterday. Today we're a different team. Tomorrow we'll be different again. Every day we get better, or we get out.”
He looked at each of them.
“We have eleven weeks until the regional qualifier. That's seventy-seven days. We're going to use every single one.”
Ethan stepped forward. “I've mapped out a training schedule. Six days a week. Mornings and afternoons. Passing, setting, hitting, blocking, serving, conditioning. We don't have a coach, so we coach each other.”
“Who's in charge?” Kevin asked.
“Leo and I are. Together.”
Kevin looked at Leo. Leo nodded.
“Then let's stop talking,” Kevin said, “and start moving.”
---
The first drill was passing. Ethan's idea.
“A hundred perfect passes each,” he announced. “If anyone shanks, the whole team starts over.”
“That's insane,” Derek said.
“That's accountability.”
They lined up. Ryan tossed. Kevin passed. Clean. Jake passed. Clean. Samir passed. Clean. Tyler passed—the ball wobbled, hit his forearm wrong, and flew into the bleachers.
“Reset,” Ethan said.
Tyler's face went red. “That wasn't a shank.”
“It was off-platform. Reset.”
They started over. Twenty passes in, Derek's pass went long. Reset. Thirty passes in, Ryan's pass hit the net. Reset. Forty passes in, Leo's own pass—he'd been so focused on everyone else—sailed high and left.
“Reset,” Ethan said.
Leo clenched his jaw. “I know.”
They reset. And reset again. And again.
It took ninety minutes to get a hundred perfect passes. By the end, Leo's forearms were purple, Kevin's hands were shaking, and Tyler had stopped apologizing.
But they'd done it.
“Now we serve,” Ethan said.
---
The serving drill was worse.
Ethan had drawn a grid on the court using masking tape: six zones, each worth different points. Zone one: deep left corner. Zone two: deep right corner. Zone three: short left. Zone four: short right. Zone five: the seam between passers. Zone six: the center of the court, the hardest to score because it's where the libero stands.
“Fifty serves each,” Ethan said. “You call your target before you toss. If you miss the zone, you do ten push-ups and serve again.”
Samir went first. He called zone one—deep left. His jump serve was smooth, beach-trained, and the ball landed exactly on the line.
“One,” Ethan said.
Samir served forty-seven more. He missed eleven times. He did one hundred ten push-ups.
Kevin went next. His jump float was ugly—no spin, unpredictable—but it worked. He hit zone three five times in a row. By the end, his shoulder was drooping, but he'd made thirty-eight of fifty.
Jake went last. He called zone five—the seam between passers—and served a line drive that never rose more than a foot over the net. It dropped right where he'd aimed.
“You still have it,” Leo said.
Jake didn't answer. He served again. Again. Again.
By the time they finished serving, the sun was high and Leo's stomach was growling. They'd been in the gym for four hours.
“Lunch,” Leo said. “Back here at two.”
---
Lunch was quiet. Leo sat on the bleachers, eating a peanut butter sandwich his mom had packed. Kevin sat next to him, scrolling through his phone.
“You really think we can do this?” Kevin asked. “Eleven weeks isn't a long time.”
“It's long enough.”
“Northridge had two years together. We have two months.”
Leo chewed his sandwich. “Marcus Cole—the guy I watched on TV—he didn't have two years. He had a coach who believed in him and a gym that stayed open late. That's what we have.”
Kevin put his phone down. “You really believe that short guy is your proof?”
“He's not proof. He's evidence. There's a difference.” Leo finished his sandwich. “Proof is what you make yourself.”
Kevin was quiet for a moment. Then he stood up. “I'm going to run lines. My footwork is slow.”
Leo watched him go. Then he pulled out his notebook.
Day after Northridge:
· 100 perfect passes – complete.
· 50 serves each – complete.
· Kevin ran extra lines without being asked.
· Jake served like his old self.
· Tyler didn't flinch once during passing drills.
He wrote one more line:
We're not there yet. But we're moving.
---
Afternoon practice was hitters versus blockers.
Ethan set. Leo, Jake, and Samir hit. Tyler, Derek, and Ryan blocked. Kevin played libero behind them.
The drill was simple: ten swings each, rotate, keep score. Blockers got a point for a stuff. Hitters got a point for a kill. Libero got a point for a dig that led to a transition.
Leo went first.
Ethan set him outside. The ball was perfect—high, clean, two feet off the net. Leo approached. Tyler was in front of him, arms up, eyes open. No flinch.
Leo swung cross-court. Tyler's hands were there. The ball bounced off his palms and dropped at Leo's feet.
“Stuff,” Ethan said.
Leo's jaw tightened. He'd been blocked by Tyler Brooks. Tyler, who'd closed his eyes yesterday.
“Again,” Leo said.
Ethan set again. Same spot. Leo approached again. This time he waited—half a second, a full heartbeat—and watched Tyler's hands shift. Then he swung line. The ball screamed past Tyler's right ear and hit the floor.
“Kill,” Ethan said.
Tyler turned around, watching the ball roll. “I almost had that.”
“Almost doesn't count,” Leo said.
“It counted yesterday.”
“Yesterday is gone.”
They went through the rotation. Jake hit three kills, got blocked once. Samir hit two kills, got blocked twice. Kevin dug two balls—one from Jake, one from Leo—and both times, his passes were clean.
By the end of the drill, Leo had eight kills, two errors. Jake had six kills, three errors. Samir had four kills, four errors.
Tyler had three stuffs.
After practice, Leo pulled Tyler aside. “You didn't flinch.”
Tyler looked down at his hands. “I was too tired to flinch.”
“That's not how it works.”
“Maybe that's exactly how it works. Maybe flinching is just thinking too much. When I'm exhausted, I don't think. I just react.”
Leo filed that away. It was the smartest thing Tyler had said all week.
---
The second week of training was harder than the first.
Ethan added morning conditioning: sprints, lunges, box jumps, agility ladders. Kevin led the warm-ups—track drills that left everyone gasping. Jake's knee held up, but his face was pale after every session.
Leo's shoulder ached constantly. He iced it after every practice, wrapped it before bed, and woke up stiff. But he didn't complain. Complaining was for people who had options.
On the eighth day, Coach Harris showed up.
He walked into the gym during a serving drill, watched for five minutes, and sat in his usual chair. He didn't say anything. He didn't offer advice. He just watched.
After practice, Leo walked over to him.
“Coach, we need a schedule. We need tournament registration. We need—”
“You need to figure it out yourselves,” Coach Harris interrupted. He didn't look up from his phone. “That's what I did when I was your age. No one held my hand.”
“You made nationals?”
He looked up then. Something flickered in his eyes—old pain, old pride. “We made regionals. Lost in the final. The coach quit the day before. We ran the match ourselves.”
“Then you know we can do it.”
“I know you can try.” He stood up, tucked his phone in his pocket, and walked out.
Leo stared after him. Ethan came up beside him.
“He's useless,” Ethan said.
“Maybe. Or maybe he's waiting to see if we're serious.”
“We're serious.”
“Then we don't need him.”
---
On the tenth day, Leo's shoulder gave out.
He was serving—his new jump serve, the one he'd been practicing for weeks—when a hot needle of pain shot from his rotator cuff to his neck. His arm went limp. The ball dropped at his feet.
He didn't scream. He didn't fall. He just stood there, holding his arm, breathing through his teeth.
“Leo?” Kevin called.
“Fine,” Leo said. “Just a twinge.”
Ethan walked over. “Let me see.”
“I said I'm fine.”
“You're not fine. Your arm is hanging differently. You're protecting it.”
Leo wanted to argue. But Ethan was right. His right arm was slightly bent, slightly closer to his body. He hadn't even noticed.
“Sit out the rest of practice,” Ethan said.
“No.”
“Sit out or I won't set for you tomorrow.”
Leo looked at him. Ethan's face was unreadable, but his eyes were hard.
“Fine,” Leo said. “One day.”
He sat on the bench and watched his team practice without him. Kevin dove for everything. Jake's spikes were getting louder. Tyler didn't flinch once. Samir started calling out rotations. Ryan and Derek ran passing drills on their own, correcting each other's form.
They don't need me, Leo thought. Not the way I thought they did.
It was the best thing he'd seen all week.
---
That night, Leo iced his shoulder and opened his notebook.
Day 10: Shoulder pain. Sat out practice. Team ran without me.
Things I learned:
- Tyler is right. Exhaustion stops overthinking.
- Coach Harris made regionals without a coach. So can we.
- Ethan is not just a setter. He's a captain.
Tomorrow: Back on the court.
He closed the notebook and looked at the ceiling. His shoulder throbbed. His legs ached. His pride was still bruised from Northridge.
But for the first time in ten days, he wasn't replaying the loss.
He was thinking about the next match.
- Writer
