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EIGHT

ARDEN

“Serve’s up!” I yell as one of our backup hitters sends the ball over the net. We’re scrimmaging against our second-string players, although they’re not playing like that’s what they are. They won the first set, twenty-five to seventeen, and now we’re struggling to keep up. You’d think that after almost two months of playing together, we’d be falling into a rhythm. However, with so many strong personalities from all over the world who’ve played at different levels, we’re still working out the kinks. Most days are good, but today isn’t one of them. The passing has been messy, there’s been some minor miscommunication with my set signals, and hits are going out of bounds. Players are running into each other while switching positions—it’s just been rough .

The serve goes to Zara, and she puts it up in the air, a loud smack echoing through the court as the ball bounces off her arms. It’s right over my head and tight to the net, which makes it the perfect pass. My left outside hitter, Alaina Reeves, is ready and waiting, but I see a big opening in the middle of the floor that the other team has left unguarded, so I decide to change the plan to ensure we get the side-out.

I call for the four set, which is a high one to Alaina, but instead, I wait until the ball is almost at my fingertips before launching myself up and using my right hand to tip it directly into the large, vacant space behind the blockers. Their back row catches on a little too late, diving for it but missing as it bounces off the floor.

“Yes!” I shout as my teammates run in to celebrate, returning high fives and smiles. Everyone is cheering loudly, a new fire lit under us to close the two-point deficit we’re currently working with as the ball rolls under the net for us to serve.

“Levine!” Dahlia screams, blowing her whistle loudly as she storms onto the court. “Want to explain to me why you dumped the ball instead of setting Alaina while she’s hot?” She’s been on my ass all day, stopping the plays to point out what I’m doing wrong, when that’s not the case at all. Just because I’m not doing things exactly her way doesn’t mean they aren’t working.

“There was a hole,” I reply, trying not to show how fucking annoyed I am. I know she’s my coach and I need to treat her with respect, but I swear she has it out for me. The team voted me captain last month because I’m a good leader and I know this game like the back of my hand. I just wish she’d let me run things the way I need to in the middle of a play. “I got the point. Why does it matter how it happened?”

Her eyes go wide and her nostrils flare as she steps closer, lowering her voice so the rest of the team, who’ve stopped cheering and are standing wordlessly while watching the exchange, can’t hear. “Watch your fucking mouth, Arden. You may think you call the shots inside these lines, but you’re wrong. Either you run the plays the way I tell you to, or your ass will be on a plane back to Pennsylvania.” A devious smile curves her lips and she lowers her voice even more. “The owner and general manager may see something in you, but you aren’t fooling me. You’re expendable, and I have no problem benching you if you don’t get your shit together. Understood?”

I swallow, nodding as I feel my cheeks heat. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I can feel the anxiety as it snakes its way through my body, slowly beginning to wrap itself around my lungs. I need to stay calm, but it’s hard when her threat hit as hard as it did. Volleyball is my life. It’s where I feel the most at home. Playing at a professional level is something I’ve dreamed of since the first time I touched the court, and the pressure to be perfect so it doesn’t get taken away from me is almost more than I can handle at times. I felt the same way in Argentina, but even though I did everything I could, I still failed. I can’t lose this again.

“Good. Now show me that drafting you wasn’t a fucking mistake.” She flips her long dark hair over her shoulder and struts back to the sideline as I try to pull myself away from the edge of the panic attack that’s threatening to suck me in. I can’t do that here—not in front of my team. Not in front of her . I need to put on my mask and pretend I’m okay until I get home. Then I can break down and feel my emotions alone where nobody else can see, just like I always do.

The rest of practice goes by in a blur. I focus on not straying from the plays Dahlia wants, instead of reading the court and doing what I think is best. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice grip every time the ball comes my way, but I somehow manage to avoid fucking up, even though my brain is trying to convince me that I don’t have what it takes to be here—that it’s only a matter of time before I’m cut from the team and living back in Tinsville, wishing I could’ve just been good enough.

As soon as my shoes are changed and all my gear is in my bag, I toss it over my shoulder and wordlessly walk out of the facility, not even bothering to shower or stick around while the others pack up. As the team captain, I make it a point to be the first one here and the last one to leave every day, but today…I just can’t. I need to get out of here before anyone sees how fucking weak and unstable I really am, especially when I do everything I can to fool them into thinking the exact opposite.

I’m on autopilot as I make the long drive home, my mind going a million miles a minute with so many intrusive thoughts that I can barely register one before the next barrels toward me. My eyes are filled with unshed tears, and I hold them back for as long as I can until there’s nowhere else for them to go but down my cheeks. But I refuse to break down until I’m locked in my room, where nobody can see me. Where I can let my anxiety consume me, take from me, and eventually leave me alone until the next time.

The elevator ride from the lobby seems to go on for hours, and I barely even take a breath because I’m still holding everything inside. My chest is unbearably tight, and if I hadn’t been through this thousands of times over the years, I’d swear I was having a heart attack. The pit in my stomach is like a hundred-pound weight, the pressure inside me so intense that I feel like I can barely move as the suffocating metal box opens and I mindlessly make my way to the door of our condo. Placing my fingertip on the keypad, I watch as it blinks green before pushing the lever and entering the dark space.

The moment I know I’m inside and alone, with the guys still not back from their away trip, I break down. My bag falls from my shoulder, dropping to the floor with a thud as I take a few steps back, only stopping when the thick wood of the door presses against me. I lean on it as heavy tears spill over, running down my cheeks and soaking the fabric of my shirt. My legs wobble violently as I let go, dropping to my hands and knees because I can no longer bear the weight of my own body.

“No. No, no,” I whisper over and over through sobs. I can’t do this right here in the entryway. If Jackson and Hawk come home and find me like this, they’ll know how bad things are, and I don’t want them to see what a weak, pathetic girl I’ve become. So, I crawl. I do everything I can to move myself toward the stairs, knowing that if I can just get to my room and into the shower, I’ll be able to ride this out by myself and act like nothing ever happened.

“You can do it. Leg, arm, leg, arm,” I say on broken breaths, willing my limbs to do what I want and get me out of the main area of the house. But they’re heavy and I can’t breathe—and the stairs are so far away, I don’t think I can make it.

When it becomes too much, and I feel like every movement is depleting my oxygen supply, I give up, curling into the wall beside me, hugging my knees to my chest, and letting my anxiety pull me under…alone.