Hearts On Three (Satan x Reader)

Chapter 1

Volleyball is far from a quiet sport.

No matter what's happening, there's always noise: the sound of a hand colliding with a ball during a serve, the sound of shoes squeaking against the floor in preparation for a receive, the sound of hoarse shouts and strained calls whenever someone is open, ready to take the next touch.

The sport is built out of the fabric of communication, players constantly shouting to claim balls, ask for a toss, ready the team for defense.

Add in the cheers of the audience, and then it's as if the noise never stops.

"Game point, girls!" Your coach's words are almost inaudible, hovering under the roars of the audience who are still cheering for the last point. "Keep it up and we end this here!"

You echo similar words of encouragement to your team before finding your position, staring straight ahead as someone serves the ball over.

Your feet move the moment you hear the slap of the serve, darting to your defense position as you bend your knees and crouch low. You can tell that the ball is going to soar back onto your side of the court as soon as you see the way the opposing team's libero has positioned her arms—the limbs perfectly parallel but far too deep for the ball to go anywhere but back to you after one touch.

"Freeball!" You shout, stepping away from defense to back into your approach line, but by the time you're ready to call for the ball, your setter has already tossed to the right-side hitter.

Inwardly, you can't help but feel a pang of jealousy at that. You know it's stupid, that you're the one person on the team who's probably touched the ball more than anyone else, but your fingers ache for more. Adrenaline runs through your veins thicker than blood at this point, and all you know is that you want it to be you who ends this match.

"Back, back!" The team's libero calls the ball as she positions herself under it. This time, it bounces off her arms and sails straight into the hands of the setter, who tosses it to the outside hitter.

But then, the team sends the ball flying straight toward your defense specialist.

It's the worst mistake they can make, with match point weighing against them.

You lock eyes with your team's setter the second you sense the trajectory of the ball, mirth coloring both your expressions as you collectively realize that the match is as good as won. As expected, the ball arches into the setter's hands within seconds, and then you've begun your approach, your feet tracing the familiar left-right-left pattern before you jump up, flying high.

You don't bother calling for the ball, seeing no need to alert the setter of your readiness. You already expect her to toss to you—the look in her eyes earlier was practically screaming it.

What you don't expect is for your silence to reward you with an empty defense, the entire court diving to block the other hitter as the girl on the other side of the court calls for the ball at the top of her lungs, none of them realizing that the ball is being delivered to you until it's too late.

Another mistake.

The last one they'll make in this game.

The ball connects with your hand at the peak of your jump, when you're so impossibly high above the net that you can see the disbelief on your opponents' faces even as you jerk your arm down and slam the ball into the ground, letting it fall with enough force to make every one of them flinch.

The cheers begin before your feet have even landed on the ground.

You don't hear the referee when he blows the whistle, the sound of it drowned out by the whooping and hollering of your school in the bleachers, all of them screaming in support for what was definitely one of the most intense matches you've had thus far.