Page 28 of Under the Lights (The Big Boys of BRU #2)

Twenty Two

Sierra

If I wouldn’t have already known they meant business in this place, I’d be a little intimidated.

This wasn’t just any gym; it was a state-of-the-art volleyball training center equipped with digital scoreboards, motion-tracking cameras, and equipment that looked like it belonged in a futuristic lab.

Everything about it screamed money and precision. The lighting alone made everything look sharper, clearer, more intense. As if I hadn’t been on the edge already.

“Damn,” one of the girls muttered beside me. “I feel like I’m about to perform surgery, not volleyball.”

I huffed a laugh under my breath but didn’t respond. The polished floor looked immaculate, smooth as a fucking mirror. Who knew, maybe I could even check out my reflection in it.

“Do you think they wax this daily?” another voice asked. “Like — is this real life?”

Off to the side were a couple of scouting booths, and the coaches stood huddled together on the edge of the court, likely discussing the lineups. The gym was buzzing with energy, as was I.

My skin felt too tight, as though I was about to burst right out of it, and the prickling in my neck told me I was already being watched.

The other girls were spread out, warming up, and stretching. Light chatter filled the air, along with the sound of feet hitting the floor.

“You ready for this?” The voice behind me belonged to Alexis, one of the girls I’d been paired with often.

I didn’t look back. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

The stakes were even higher with this being the second phase of the camp. Everyone wanted to impress, everyone wanted to be unforgettable.

Our nervous energy and determination were tangible because we all knew this scrimmage would be watched closely by people who could make or break our chances of playing professionally.

“Game faces, ladies,” someone called out, a bit too cheerfully.

I schooled my features, making sure they were unreadable. The only expression I’d allow was focus or cool confidence. Scratch that, we were going for focus.

My twisting insides and the slightly queasy feeling would probably prevent me from pulling off anything close to confidence right now.

Taking a deep breath, I rolled my neck from side to side while my fingers were flexing at my sides. This was just another game. Big moments were my thing. My position on the court demanded nerves of steel.

I could do this.

The pressure was mounting, but I would not succumb, not under any fucking circumstances.

My gaze was wandering through the gym, catching the eye of one of the other players. Teagan Clarke, the rumored star player of this whole event, stared back at me, one eyebrow raised, a smirk playing around her lips.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about her yet. The vibe I was getting was that we’d either hate each other or make the best team — no in-between.

We went through the warm-ups, practiced movements we’ve all been doing for years, and stretches we’ve been hitting hundreds of times.

“Feels weird doing the basics in a place like this,” one girl said, exhaling as she touched her toes. “Like, do they want me to stretch or run a diagnostics check?”

A few quiet laughs circulated, but we kept moving.

A quick round of passing drills was followed by some targeted hitting practice, with one of the coaches tossing high balls for the other outside hitters and me to attack.

Every single one of us was pushing their limits, going faster, jumping higher, hitting the ball stronger.

I was locked in, hitting my stride. Gone were any jitters; my nerves were settling.

The coach tossed the ball high for me, and I timed my approach, never once taking my eyes off it. As I made contact, I took extra care in ensuring my wrist snap was sharp as a whip.

“Damn, Sierra,” someone behind me muttered. “Leave some power for the rest of us.”

I didn’t answer. Lining up for hitting drills, some of the other girls were exchanging banter, but I didn’t engage. I didn’t want my focus to shift.

After wrapping up warm-ups, we’re divided into teams and lined up for the first rotation.

The coaches placed me in the front row, the natural spot for an outside hitter. They signaled for the first serve, and taking a deep breath, I got into position. It was time to prove myself, to show them what I was made of.

The opposing team’s setter was setting up a play on her side, and my muscles tensed as I readied myself for the ball coming at me, fast, high, and with a lot of pace. Squatting slightly, I leapt into the air, timed it perfectly, and smacked the ball over the block for a clean point.

“Let’s go!” a teammate yelled beside me, holding up her hand.

Cheers sounded around me, and I high-fived the girl next to me as we pumped ourselves up on an early lead. All of us knew that every point counted, and I was just getting started.

The first half was over in a flash, and as we started into the second half of the scrimmage, the other team started targeting me. The ball was coming at me fast, putting me under pressure, and the setter kept purposely sending difficult balls my way, trying to test my skills.

“Looks like they’ve got your number now,” someone said quietly at the rotation.

Receiving my first tough serve, I was forced to pass low and smoothly into the setter’s hands. The ball went high, but I hadn’t been able to place it how I would’ve wanted, and the setter had to adjust the play quickly. I managed a quick set, just barely, but my timing was off.

Fuck! Forced to back up in quick steps, I had to take the ball on the outside and reach for it at an awkward angle. My focus wavered for the fraction of a second, and I fucking missed the hit.

Clenching my teeth, I refrained from cursing out loud. An unforced error with all eyes on me didn’t look good at all.

“Shake it off,” a voice came at my side. “Next one’s yours.”

With a slap against my thigh, I forced myself to shake it off.

I kept on grinding, taking chances as much as I could, until the chance to redeem myself finally came. Two points behind, everything hinged on what happened next.

With another slap on my thigh to focus, I locked in.

The setter delivered a fast, high ball, and this time I was fucking ready — taking off, my jump timed perfectly, I met the ball mid-air. With a powerful cross-court attack, I managed to fool the blockers completely, resulting in the ball slamming into the open court with a satisfying smack.

My teammates’ reaction was instantaneous, as whooping and shouts of, “That’s what I’m talking about!” surrounded me.

“Finally!” one of the middles grinned, jogging backward into formation. “They didn’t see that coming.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught quite a few of the scouts making notes, and hope curled in my belly, sharpening my focus, giving me new energy. A couple of the players on the other side of the net, including Teagan Clarke, exchanged looks of surprise.

That’s right, counting me out was never a good idea.

As the scrimmage progressed, I felt more and more like myself, more and more comfortable under pressure — every hit was executed with control, every pass was precise.

The game had more of a smooth rhythm now, giving me the confidence I was used to feeling behind the net.

“Way to settle in,” one of the girls said as we rotated again. I nodded, still breathing hard, but steadily.

Shaking off any tension, I readied myself, knowing that the next few plays would determine if I’d be able to make a lasting impression.

The score was tied, and this next serve was all it would come down to. Positioned in the front row, my muscles tensed, and my eyes followed the ball. My team had just served to the opponent, and I was certain they’d set up for an outside attack.

“They’re gonna go wide,” a teammate warned quickly. Springing into action, I reacted, enabling my team to dig the ball and passing it high to the setter.

Hell yeah. This was my moment.

Taking the ball from the set, I approached with perfect form and launched a spike. It was placed just right, down the sideline, catching the blockers off guard. The ball slapped against the floor with a hard, satisfying smack and won the game for my team.

They lost their shit — arms were thrown around me, and hands slapped my back in a joyous celebration.

“YES! Let’s fucking go!” My mask slipped, and I couldn’t suppress the smile curling the corners of my mouth any longer. The adrenaline still coursing through my body made the thrill of this victory even sweeter.

After the game, the coaches gathered everyone in a loose half-circle near the benches. Sweat still clung to my neck, my pulse not quite settled, but I kept my chin up, hands on my hips, trying not to fidget.

They moved down the line, offering quick feedback to each girl. When they got to me, one of the coaches flipped a page on her clipboard and gave me a look that made my stomach clench.

“You’ve got the physical tools,” she said, tapping her pen against the edge of her notes. “Now we just need to see that consistency. Keep doing this, and you’ll have a shot at the next level.”

Holy fucking shit.

I felt the breath leave my lungs like I’d taken a hit straight to the chest — in the best possible way.

Someone behind me smacked my shoulder, and a couple of the girls gave me high-fives as they moved past, murmuring things like, “That was clutch,” and “You earned that.”

Teagan Clarke stepped in front of me, twisting the cap off her water bottle. She lifted her chin, her eyes sharp but not unfriendly.

“Nice hit,” she said, nodding once. “You’ve got some serious power.”

A surprised laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.

“Thanks,” I said, my breath catching at the edges of my words.

Another smile threatened to curl my lips as I turned away, grounding myself with a deep inhale. I hadn’t just survived out there — I’d earned something. Respect, maybe. A foot in the door.

Teagan’s words echoed in my head, softer than they were spoken but carrying more weight than they probably should have.

I’d always loved my public relations major and how it allowed me to be both strategic and creative. But this? This was the dream, the one I’d quietly tucked away under the label of too far-fetched.

Playing professionally had always felt out of reach. Something for someone taller, stronger, or just … more.

But not today.

The warm flicker in my chest wasn’t just pride; it was possibility. Real, tangible possibility. For the first time, it didn’t feel so far off. For the first time, I could actually see it.

I loved proving people wrong, showing them I was more than some girly blonde, that I had substance. But this wasn’t about them anymore.

This was about me — and I wasn’t done yet. Not even close.