Summer's Last Breath

Part 13

I was having the worst game of my life.


Warm-ups were all good. I was relaxed. I smiled at my teammates when we went through our pre-game ritual of circling up in the center of the court, arms linked around each other's shoulders and chanting our way through ten cheers. We closed it out with a collective, "Teamwork," then headed to the bench for a final drink before taking the court. That's when I turned around and saw Noah walk through the gym doors, which was all well and good. He often came to my games, but this time, Jamie was with him and Donovan and Tate and Lassiter. And it was as if they sucked all the air out of the already stifling gym. I watched, a little shell-shocked, as they climbed the bleachers to where my dad sat and offered a him series of fist bumps.


Girls varsity volleyball didn't exactly draw a big crowd, so there was plenty of room in the bleachers. They took advantage of it, each taking up several rows as they spread out around my dad like he was the alpha leader of their wolf pack. It was a little disruptive and the few people who were in attendance—especially the moms—all watched with open curiosity and no small amount of appreciation. Both teams paused in the middle of their warm-ups. Ally tossed me a ball, practically drooling and said, "You are so freaking lucky."


My eyes were glued to Jamie's back. He took a seat to my dad's right, leaving a good two feet between them, and lounged back on the seat behind him, legs spread over the seat below him. His eyes found mine and he gave me a barely perceivable nod. He had cut his hair sometime during the last couple of days. His eyes were bright under the suggestion of dark hair and the shorter length made his jaw and cheekbones stand out sharply.

My heart fell somewhere in the pit of my stomach and stayed there while I forced my stiff legs to carry me to the bench where I swiped a quick drink.
My heart was still in my stomach when Ally gave me the perfect set after receiving a serve that I completely duffed, nearly knocking the referee off her stand. 


Things only got worse from there. I couldn't stop this downward spiral no matter how many deep breaths I took, or how hard I tried not to look over at Jamie and "the guys," but ended up looking anyway. Oh, they were encouraging, offering me fist pumps and "atta girls" and "you got this," when clearly I didn't. I was totally embarrassing myself in front of these guys, whose motto was, "Never give up." They understood winning. For them, success was the only option. I wanted Jamie to think I was good. I wanted him to be impressed with me the way I was with him.


Not after today.


The hole was getting deeper. We were down 6-17 and on our way to getting our asses kicked in the first game of the match, all because I was distracted by a pair of pale green eyes and a set of wide shoulders. But it was more than that. I'd spent the last year believing volleyball was the most important thing to me, but since Jamie had come into my life I wasn't sure anymore.


Frustrated by our performance, Coach Hall called a timeout. I was the last one off the court, struggling to catch my breath. I was never out of breath. It was as if I had cement in my shoes and a cinder block for lungs. Coach kept her talk positive, her instructions basic, repeating all those things that usually came easy for me: Stay low. Move toward the ball. Keep your hands in front of your body. She addressed the whole team but her eyes kept coming back to me, pointed with meaning.


"Get your head in the game, Shaw," my dad called when we took the court. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He was usually pretty quiet during my games, doing no more than occasionally clapping. But then I didn't usually suck.


"Erin." Ally pinched my back, pulling on the strap of my sports bra. She let go and it snapped against my sweaty skin. "Focus. Forget Jamie. Relax and do your thing."


Forget Jamie? How could I? I could smell him from here. His presence took up the entire gym and it wasn't a small gym. 


Ally set the ball in the perfect spot. We'd practiced this so many times before. She was holding up her end of the set up, putting the ball right in my sweet spot. I went up for the spike, and once again, the ball clipped the top of the net and sailed out of bounds. My timing was off. My stomach rolled. I was usually a little queasy before a game, but after a few points, I would relax. But not today. I thought I might hurl at any minute. And wouldn't that be great? 

Jamie got up and made his way down the bleachers, and I thought, with a sinking feeling, he was leaving. I was only half listening to Coach, trying to keep Jamie in my peripheral as he walked out into the hallway. He stooped over the water fountain and took a drink. 

The other team had the ball, and one of the seniors on our back line made an impressive dig, bumping the ball to Ally. Instead of setting it, she dumped it over the net, catching the Lady Raiders off-guard, giving us the point and the serve back. 

Oh goody. I was up in the service rotation and well aware I hadn't hit a single serve over the net this whole game. We'd scored fifteen points straight off my serve against a team last week, but for some reason, the ball felt too big and I was plain clumsy today.


I walked back to the service line just as Jamie reentered the gym.


"This is what you do, baby," Jamie told me as he walked by on his way to his seat. It's what the team said to each other when one of them was down and underperforming, when one of them lost their mental edge. "This is what you do." They didn't call each other baby, though. That had been all for me.


Something about Jamie's tone, his endearment, made me smile inside and lifted the brick that had settled in my stomach when he'd walked in. He expected me to figure out a way to turn this around, to turn myself around. This is what I did. I played volleyball. And I was good. Didn't matter who was watching or the stakes. It only mattered that I played. The thought shifted something in my brain. I dared a look at Jamie as he sat between Noah and Donovan. He winked, exuding complete confidence, not in himself, but in me.


The whistle blew. We won ten points off my serve. It wasn't enough to win that game, but we won the next three and took the match. It was the best comeback of my short career.