Port Osea Divers' bench during the break was dead silent.

  Usually, the atmosphere around the Port Osea Divers vibrated with noise given that they were winning or losing. Jules would be shouting encouragement, slapping backs of the girls until they stung. Sarah would be offering steady, veteran observations. Coach Elena would be manic, her voice rising high as she drew wild abstract scribbles.

  But now, the only sounds reaching the Divers' circle came from outside: the murmur of the crowd, chatter from the Wolves' bench, and perhaps the squeak of someone cleaning the floorboards.

  Even Coach Elena Vance - the woman who always found a reason to talk just about anything, stood mute.

  She held her whiteboard marker in a loose grip, the tip hovering over the plastic surface. She stared at the diagram of the court, at the red circle representing Jennifer Annista. She drew a line, then erased it with her thumb. Drew another, erased that too.

  For the first time in a long time, the tactical well was dry. Elena knew it, and the team knew it - strategy wasn't the problem. They were simply being bludgeoned by a monster that exceeded their pay grade.

  Himeko sat at the far end of the bench, isolated by her own thoughts.

  She had a towel draped over her head, cocooned in darkness. In that private space, she stared at her knees.

  Invisible.

  Against the Tarin Herons, she had been ghosted by a rookie who refused to engage with her. Tonight, against the Nordvic Wolves, she was engaging... and it didn't matter one bit.

  She was a grain of sand on the road. A minor speed bump that Jennifer Annista rolled over without a second glance.

  Himeko squeezed her eyes shut. Cold, dark fluid of self-doubt began to fill her chest, rising up her throat, threatening drown her.

  What am I doing here?

  She thought of the years of discipline: The early mornings, the skipped meals, the refusal to have a social life. She had sacrificed everything to build this wall, to become who she was today. And now, faced with the true peaks of the league, people that would easily surpass her with their sheer natural talent alone; her wall was crumbling into dust.

  Maybe she had reached her ceiling. Maybe the gold medal she won from the bench was the closest she would ever get to a first-place finish.

  Give up, a voice whispered. Just endure the loss. Go home. Hide.

  ...

  Then, abruptly, a memory flickered in the darkness.

  BOP. BOP. BOP.

  Volleyballs, rhythmic and melodic, burying themselves onto the floorboards of Facility B. Himeko, alone on her side, was catching her breath, using the back of her hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead.

  She looked up across the net. She saw the red jersey that had grown familiar.

  Him. Kevin Marvant.

  He was standing on the other side, sweat dripping from his nose, chest heaving. He was smiling at her, yet his eyes were somehow serious. It was as if he genuinely savored the mundane, repetitive routine they shared.

  Again.

  Damian set, Kevin jumped and she jumped alongside him.

  She replayed the tape of those two months over and over. So much of it hadn't made sense at the time. And yet now, sitting here in the dark, all of it did.

  Why?

  He was practically the strongest player in the world. He could have trained with anyone. With Damian, with peers of his own caliber, with volleyball machines even. But he came back to Facility B every morning. He challenged her to stop him and kept going for hundreds, thousands of times. He drove three hours to a tier-three stadium just to watch her play a preliminary match in a ridiculous disguise.

  Why did he stay?

  Even when she was falling on her face looking pathetic. Even when she made the grind joyless for him past the point of reason. Even when she was yelling at him to leave her alone... All she ever received in return was a smile so carefree, so genuinely contented, that it was as if he wanted them to keep going forever.

  Because he was bored? Because he wanted to flirt?

  No. Himeko knew volleyball players. You didn't grind for eight hours a day, sweating until you couldn't stand, just to kill boredom or chase a girl. You did that because you respected the game... and respected the person across the net.

  Kevin Marvant... Have you always believed in me?

  The realization was so annoying and yet so utterly sweet. Here she sat, telling herself there was no hope against a top-caliber player. Yet back then, at Facility B, she had kept going, going and going as if she hadn't realized he was the Men's Final MVP. She'd chased him, jumped with him, and eventually matched him rally by rally. Kevin hadn't slowed down for her one bit; he'd dominated every single exchange until the final stretch of their challenge. And yet the thing that kept them both going was his belief in her ability to overcome any wall placed in front of her.

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  And overcome it, she did.

  Jennifer Annista was a monster, yes. Her physical specs were generational. In terms of pure physical power alone, she was ahead of Kevin.

  But Kevin was deceptive, possessing of a game sense that rose above all others and serves that shook the earth. To have matched him fifty-fifty wasn't so bad after all.

  Slowly, Himeko reached up. She gripped the edge of the towel.

  She pulled it off her head.

  The harsh lights of the Nordvic Arena flooded her vision. The noise of the crowd rushed back in.

  She took a deep breath of the cool air.

  TWEEEEEEEEEEEEET!

  The whistle cut through the arena.

  Coach Elena Vance flinched. She looked down at her clipboard full of crossed-out diagrams and circled dead ends.

  Nothing on the page could solve a 6'5" athlete who played like rules of physics were optional. She opened her mouth to shout something about rotation shifts, anything to sound like she still had a plan.

  Then, a shadow passed over her.

  Himeko Nakamura walked past the bench. She tossed her towel onto the seat and adjusted her kneepads as she stepped onto the hardwood. There was something different about the way Himeko moved. Her stride was long, bold, and unnervingly calm, the hunch of defeat from minutes ago was gone.

  Elena's mouth closed, set the clipboard down to her side. The panic in her chest went quiet. A strange, quiet intuition settled over Elena, of an inexplicable certainty.

  It’s going to be okay.

  Himeko stepped into the huddle on the court. She scanned her teammates' faces. Their eyes anxious, still reflecting the trauma of the 25-5 set. Willow was chewing her lip; Jules was bouncing nervously on her toes; Sarah looked grim.

  She stepped closer, lowering her voice so only the six of them could hear.

  "Set the offense," she whispered. "Don't worry about the block. Don't worry about covering me."

  She turned to Jules and Sarah.

  "You hit. I'll handle the net."

  The team stared at their captain. Then, one by one, the nervousness drained. Jules blinked, and the tension left her neck and shoulders. Sarah exhaled slowly, a small smile returning to her lips. Willow pushed her glasses up her nose, her hands steady for the first time in a set.

  Himeko turned to the net and walked to her position at center. She faced the opponent.

  Across the white tape, the Nordvic Wolves looked bored. Jennifer Annista stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the ceiling lights. Naomi Banks was smiling at a fan in the front row.

  Himeko narrowed her eyes.

  It would be arrogant trying to stop Jennifer immediately. She needed to repeat what she did in Facility B. She needed to observe, analyze and slowly adapt. She needed to play with patient, build a house with her reads and capabilities, and if it got torn down, build it again.

  Just like with Kevin. The first five jumps were for calibration. The next ten were for pattern recognition. The final ten were for the kill. She would watch Jennifer’s shoulder. She would track the elbow. She would memorize the breathing pattern before the jump. She would digest the monster piece by piece until it was just another player.

  She dropped into her stance. Ready.

  "Service!"

  Scout Cinster stood at the end line. She tossed the ball high, put her whole back into the approach.

  BOOM.

  A heavy jump serve, hunting for a weak link.

  It found none.

  Lisa Denire stepped into the path. She built a clean platform and absorbed the velocity with a short grunt.

  Pop.

  The ball rose high, floating perfectly toward the attack line.

  "G-got it!" Willow called.

  The setter stepped under the ball. The anxiety that had plagued her in the first set was gone, replaced by the clarity of her captain's command: Set the offense.

  She saw Jules making her run from the left. Aggressive approach, steps eating up the floor. Jules picked her spot early - a slight drift in the Nordvic blockers, a seam she could exploit.

  Willow fired the set.

  Jules exploded off the floor.

  Across the net, Naomi Banks rose to meet her. The giant middle blocker extended her arms, looking to smother the attack with her signature absorption block: hands soft, ready to deaden the ball on contact.

  Jules saw the soft block and decided to ignore the implications.

  She swung with everything she had, driving her hand through the ball, aiming for the further edge of Naomi's palms.

  THWACK.

  The ball collided with the giant's hands, but the force was too great, the angle too sharp. Naomi couldn't fully absorb it. The ball skidded off her fingers, still carrying its violent spin, and shot toward the backcourt on a dipping trajectory.

  The Nordvic defender scrambled, diving left, but the ball hit the floor inches from her outstretched hand.

  "Point, Port Osea Divers! One-zero."

  Jules landed. She stared at the ball on the floor. Then she threw her head back.

  "YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

  She screamed, pumping both fists into the air. The sound was defiant, echoing through the arena.