The Target on Their Backs
2149 Words
The first day of tryouts for Leo's senior year began with a fire alarm.
Leo was in the locker room, lacing his shoes, when the shrieking sirens cut through the morning silence. He looked up. Kevin was frozen mid-stretch. Tyler dropped his goggles. Maya had her hands over her ears.
“Everyone out,” Coach Harris barked from the doorway.
They filed into the parking lot, joining a stream of confused students and irritated teachers. No smoke. No fire. Just a faulty sensor.
But Leo couldn't shake the feeling that it was an omen.
---
The tryout was delayed by forty-five minutes. By the time they got back into the gym, the energy was shot. Freshmen who'd shown up nervous were now jittery. Returning players were annoyed. Coach Harris looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
Leo took charge.
“Circle up,” he called. The team gathered. Twenty-three players—the most they'd ever had. The banner on the wall had done its work.
“We have two state championships,” Leo said. “That's the past. This year, we go for three. But we don't get there by resting on what we've done. We get there by working harder than anyone else in this gym.”
He looked at the freshmen. “You're not here to fill space. You're here to compete for spots. Some of you will make varsity. Some of you won't. Either way, you'll leave this gym better than you entered it.”
A freshman in the back—tall, lanky, with nervous eyes—raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Is it true you played with a separated shoulder?”
Leo nodded. “It's true.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Every day.”
“Why didn't you stop?”
Leo looked at the banner. “Because stopping wasn't an option.”
---
The first cut came after three days.
Leo stood at the net with his clipboard, calling out names. Twelve players made varsity. Eight made JV. Three were cut.
The tall freshman—his name was Aaron—made varsity as a backup middle. He had no technique, but he was six-five and willing to learn. Liam, now a sophomore, had grown another inch and gained twenty pounds of muscle. He wasn't awkward anymore. He was imposing.
Maya was a junior now, faster and sharper than ever. Kevin was a senior, same as Leo. Tyler was a senior. Ethan was a senior. Ryan and Derek were seniors. Devon was a junior.
The core was intact. But the pressure was new.
“Everyone expects us to win,” Kevin said after practice. “Last year, we were defending champs. This year, we're two-time champs. People are gunning for us.”
“Let them gun,” Leo replied. “We've been gunned for before.”
“Not like this.”
Leo knew he was right. The target on their backs had never been bigger.
---
The first practice match of the season was against a team from the next prefecture—a school called Oak Ridge that had never made state but had recruited heavily in the off-season.
Their roster was stacked. Two transfers from a private school. A setter who'd been training at a national youth camp. A libero who'd been clocked as the fastest in the region.
“This is a trap,” Ethan said during warm-ups.
“It's a test,” Leo replied. “And we're going to pass it.”
---
Oak Ridge served first.
Their server was their setter—a lefty with a jump serve that screamed. Kevin read it, moved, passed. The ball flew to Ethan. Ethan set Leo on the outside.
Leo approached. The block was there—two hands, fast. He swung right-handed. The ball caught the blocker's fingertips and spun out of bounds.
1–0 Westbrook.
Leo landed and flexed his right shoulder. It was fully healed now. Both arms were weapons.
Oak Ridge's setter glared at him. Leo smiled.
---
The first set was a statement.
Westbrook played with a precision they hadn't shown in the preseason. Ethan's sets were surgical. Kevin's digs were routine. Maya's spikes were untouchable. Tyler's block was a wall. Liam's footwork had finally caught up to his height.
Oak Ridge fought hard, but they were outclassed. Westbrook won the first set 25–16.
The second set was worse. Oak Ridge's players started arguing with each other. Their setter blamed the libero. The libero blamed the hitters. The coach called two timeouts in five points.
Westbrook won the second set 25–12.
Leo walked off the court, not breathing hard. Kevin was grinning. Maya was shaking her head.
“That wasn't a test,” Kevin said.
“That was a message,” Leo replied.
---
The message was received.
The next week, Dana Meeks published an article titled: Westbrook Looks Unstoppable – Can Anyone Challenge the Two-Time Champs?
Leo read it in the locker room before practice. His face was on the front page of the website—mid-swing, left-handed, eyes locked on the ball.
“You're famous,” Kevin said.
“I'm a target.”
“Same thing.”
Leo put down his phone. “We need to be careful. Articles like this make teams play harder against us. They've got nothing to lose.”
“Then we play harder back.”
---
The regular season was a grind.
Westbrook won their first ten matches. Then twelve. Then fifteen. By the midpoint of the season, they were ranked number one in the state.
But the matches were getting closer. Teams had studied their film. They knew Ethan's tells. They knew Maya's favorite angles. They knew Kevin's passing tendencies.
Leo called a team meeting after a narrow 25–23, 27–25 win against a team they'd beaten by twenty points the year before.
“We're predictable,” he said.
“We're winning,” Kevin countered.
“We're winning ugly. Barely. That's not going to work in the tournament.”
“What do you suggest?” Ethan asked.
Leo looked at Devon. “It's time for the two-setter offense. Full time.”
The room went quiet. Ethan's face was unreadable.
“You and Devon rotate every set,” Leo continued. “Ethan starts. Devon comes in at the halfway point. The other team never gets comfortable.”
Ethan was silent for a long moment. Then: “It could work.”
“It will work.”
Devon nodded. “I'm ready.”
---
The two-setter offense debuted against Jefferson—the same fast team they'd faced in regionals.
Ethan started the first set. Westbrook played their usual game—precise, controlled, efficient. Jefferson struggled to keep up. Westbrook won the first set 25–20.
Devon started the second set. The chaos offense was back. Jefferson's block was late on every play. Their libero was guessing. Their setter was frustrated.
Westbrook won the second set 25–15.
Leo walked off the court, grinning. “That's how we do it.”
“That's dirty,” Kevin said.
“That's championship volleyball.”
---
The conflict came from an unexpected place.
Aaron, the tall freshman backup, pulled Leo aside after practice.
“I want to start,” he said.
Leo blinked. “You're a freshman.”
“I'm six-five. I can block. I can hit. I've been watching Liam. I'm better than he was at my age.”
Leo studied him. Aaron wasn't wrong. His footwork was raw, but his instincts were sharp. He read the setter's hands better than Liam did.
“You'll get playing time,” Leo said. “But you have to earn it.”
“I have been earning it.”
“Then keep earning it.”
Aaron walked away, his jaw tight. Leo watched him go and felt a flicker of something unfamiliar.
Jealousy? No. Recognition.
Aaron reminded him of himself.
---
The regional tournament arrived faster than anyone expected.
Westbrook was the top seed. They'd cruised through the regular season with a 22–2 record, their only losses coming to out-of-state teams in preseason tournaments.
The bracket was favorable. Their first match was against a team they'd beaten twice already—a school called Lincoln that had never made it past the second round.
“Don't get complacent,” Leo warned before the match.
“We won't,” Kevin said.
“I mean it. One match at a time.”
---
Westbrook won their first match 25–9, 25–11.
The semifinal was against Eastside—the team they'd beaten in the quarterfinals last year. Eastside had a new coach and a new attitude. They played with a desperation that Westbrook hadn't seen before.
The first set went to deuce. 27–25 Westbrook.
The second set was worse. 25–23 Westbrook.
Leo walked off the court, his jersey soaked, his arms heavy. They'd won. But it hadn't been easy.
“We're not playing our best,” Maya said.
“We're playing good enough,” Kevin replied.
“Good enough won't win state.”
Leo knew she was right.
---
The regional final was against South Bay—the team they'd beaten for the championship the last two years.
South Bay was different this season. Their star setter had graduated. Their libero had graduated. Their coach had retired. They were a shell of the team that had pushed Westbrook to the limit.
But they played like they had nothing to lose.
The first set was a shock. South Bay's new setter—a sophomore with nothing to lose—ran an offense that Westbrook hadn't scouted. Quick sets. Back-row attacks. A jump serve that curved like a snake.
South Bay won the first set 25–22.
Leo called a timeout. The team gathered, breathing hard.
“We underestimated them,” he said. “Stop it. They're not the same team from last year. They're better than we thought.”
“What do we do?” Kevin asked.
“We adjust. Ethan, you're in. Devon, you're out. We need control, not chaos.”
Ethan nodded.
“Kevin, shift deeper. They're serving long.”
“Got it.”
“Maya, stop trying to kill every ball. Tip. Roll. Keep them guessing.”
Maya wiped sweat from her forehead. “Okay.”
---
The second set was a different match.
Westbrook played with the precision of a two-time champion. Kevin passed everything. Ethan set perfectly. Maya found the corners. Tyler blocked three balls in a row.
Westbrook won the second set 25–18.
The third set—the tiebreaker—was a formality. South Bay had spent everything they had in the first set. Their sophomore setter made four errors in a row. Their hitters were exhausted.
Westbrook won the third set 15–7.
Regional champions. Three in a row.
Leo stood on the court, holding the trophy, and felt something he hadn't expected.
Not joy. Not relief. Just a quiet sense of purpose.
One more tournament. One more championship.
---
The bus ride home was quieter than usual.
Kevin slept. Maya stared out the window. Tyler read a book. Ethan sat in the back, alone, setting a ball to himself.
Leo sat next to him. “You okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You've been quiet.”
“I'm always quiet.”
“More than usual.”
Ethan caught the ball and held it. “I've been thinking about next year. College. What comes after.”
Leo hadn't thought that far ahead. “You've got offers?”
“Three. Division Two. Nothing major.”
“That's still something.”
“It's not what I wanted.” Ethan looked at Leo. “I wanted to play at the highest level. But I'm not tall enough. Not fast enough. Not strong enough.”
Leo had never heard Ethan doubt himself. “You're the best setter I've ever played with.”
“That's not enough.”
“It was enough for two championships.”
Ethan was silent. Then he nodded slowly. “Maybe.”
Leo leaned back. “We have one more run. Let's make it count.”
Ethan looked at him. “Together.”
“Together.”
---
That night, Leo sat in his room, his notebook open on his desk.
He wrote:
Regional champions. Three in a row.
What went right:
- The two-setter offense is working.
- Aaron is pushing Liam. Competition is good.
- Kevin is playing his best volleyball.
What went wrong:
- South Bay almost beat us. We can't afford complacency.
- Ethan is thinking about the future. Need to keep him focused.
Next goal: State. Three-peat.
He closed the notebook and looked at the Marcus Cole poster on his wall.
One more tournament. One more chance to fly.
He turned off the light and closed his eyes.
- Writer
