Team Spirit

7. Sam Creates a Diversion

  7. Sam Creates a Diversion

The thud of my hip and my elbow against the gym floor doesn't sting half as much the slap of the ball hitting the floor a foot in front of me.

"Good... effort." Roman puts out his hand for me. Which is worse, the forced encouragement or hauling my ass off the floor for either the fifth or sixth time?

I lost count after bashing my head against the post of the net.

"Still want me on the team?" I mumble. Roman shrugs, but on the other side of the court, Zach looks less than impressed. I swear he's watching me. Every time I turn around, I get that feeling like somebody's eyes are boring into the back of my head. That might be the paranoia talking.

"Ah, we'll lose with or without you, man." Roman offers his classic crooked smile that can melt Lars in a split second, probably 'cause it brings out just one dimple.

It's probably the best thing he could've said. It's a whole lot better than lying to make me feel better.

Practice ends with me a lot blacker and bluer, my wrist throbbing a little. I broke the damn bone five months ago, thought it'd be healed up by now. Not enough for volleyball not to take a toll, apparently.

I wipe my palms against my shorts, the fabric weird against my hands. I don't feel much like myself out of jeans.

My chest gets tight filing into the locker room. The whole situation immediately gets the worst case scenarios going, like I might look the wrong way at the wrong time. I don't know, I just keep my head down and don't say a word. 

Not that I say that much anywhere else.

I try my best to fade into the background, dodging past people. Twist the lock, pull off my shirt, dig out my regular clothes. Just get in and get out. 

I look like I should belong in a locker room. I'm not gangly or awkward, really, except maybe for the braces I should have got in grade five instead of high school. Looking at me, I could be a sporty kind of guy. I guess I am, but rodeo isn't the same. I look part of team player, but there's something. There's something invisible they've all got—Zach and Roman and Brady—they have it and I don't. I don't even know what it is.

"Don't think anybody's ever got so many bruises on the very first day of practice before." Zach says behind me and I know he's talking to me 'cause nobody else hit the floor as hard or as often as I did. But why is he talking to me? Why does he need to?

I pull on my regular white t-shirt over my head, giving myself a proper excuse not to look at him.

"Yeah, well." I grit my teeth instead of thinking up something cleverer to tack on. My shirt rubs against a spot on my elbow where I lost a layer of skin to the floor. Goddamn. That skin would really be nice to have.

"Could be worse. He could not try at all," Roman offers, though I'm not sure that's actually helpful or true. I could probably do better not trying at all. It would be a lot less embarrassing than missing the ball by a foot.

"Well." Zach leans right into the locker next to me, making it basically impossible not to look at him, not to notice how he insists on taking his sweet time putting a shirt on. The thing about it isn't even his body. It's the confidence more than anything. Leo's got a way better body, but he's kind of oblivious about it anyway. The way Zach marches around, you'd expect the six pack and the pecs and all that. He's not that fit, but he almost makes me believe he is. There has to be some kind of mental science to it. 

I turn, staring down into my locker.

"You're going to feel it tomorrow. That's for sure."

Because he's way too close to my locker, that's exactly when my phone buzzes against the metal bank, right at the bottom of my locker. Zach grins, an electric look that as good as stops my heart.