"Okay, teams discuss strategy, then let's get this game going!"
The teacher's voice echoed through the gym, setting off a ripple of movement. My team peeled away toward the far end near the stage, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. The air smelled like waxed wood and old gym shoes familiar, grounding.
I clapped my hands once, drawing them in. "Alright. You three take the first line." I pointed quickly. "I'll anchor the middle of the second. Joe, you're serving. Ten and Three, last line behind him."
Then I looked at her.
"Portia," I said, softer without meaning to, "you'll be second line too. Right in front of Joe."
She met my eyes immediately.
"All you have to do," I added, keeping my voice steady, "is pass the ball to Joe when it comes to you. That's it."
Her chin lifted. "Okay."
No hesitation. No nerves showing. Just resolve.
We put our hands together in the center of the huddle. For half a second, I was painfully aware of hers brushing mine warm, solid and then we broke, each of us moving into position.
⸻
The game started fast.
Serves rotated. Feet shuffled. Voices called out.
Portia did exactly what I'd asked every pass clean, controlled. Each time the ball came her way, she sent it where it needed to go. Once, when I stepped in to help, her fingers brushed mine during the pass.
It was nothing.
And somehow everything.
As the match built toward its peak, a voice rang out from the other team.
"Portia hasn't served yet."
I turned instinctively.
She didn't look flustered. Didn't look embarrassed. She just glanced at the teacher, then at me.
Before I could say anything, she walked over calm, deliberate right as I was lining up to serve.
Twice.
Once for me.
Once for her.
I blinked, then smiled despite myself and handed her the ball, switching places with her.
"Well," I said, loud enough for both teams to hear, "now I know we're about to win."
Laughter rippled from the other side of the net.
She rolled her shoulders, taking her stance.
I met her eyes for a split second and gave a small nod.
You've got this.
The whistle blew.
She served.
The ball snapped off her hand, slicing through the air and clearing the net but just barely. It wobbled, hesitated, then tipped back toward our side.
My breath caught.
Front line moved instantly.
Three jumps. Three spikes. The ball rocketed back.
And then
Portia dropped low, muscles coiling, and swung.
Time slowed.
The ball launched like a comet, a brutal arc of motion and sound, and slammed straight into their server's chest. He flew backward, crashing into the goal with a thud that echoed through the gym.
Silence.
Then
Chaos.
Cheers erupted from our side. Someone whooped. Joe nearly tackled me in celebration. I stayed rooted, eyes locked on her.
She stood there, breathing hard, a slow, satisfied smirk curling across her lips.
When she turned to me, I finally understood it.
That look wasn't surprise.
It was pride.
"We might've lost," she said casually, almost teasing, "but I served my first ball, I spiked it, and I knocked his ass out all in one swing."
I laughed short, breathless, full.
"Remind me," I said, shaking my head, "to never be on the other team."
Her smile widened.
And in that moment, watching her stand tall in the middle of the court unapologetic, powerful I knew one thing with painful clarity:
I didn't want to protect her because she was fragile.
I wanted to protect her because the world didn't deserve to dull that fire.
