Kill Shot
I’d been lying about my left leg since August, and I was very good at it.
For a Thursday, the crowd had no business being this loud. The bleachers shook every time Sierra Vista scored, and we were only halfway through the first set.
Gym A smelled like popcorn and floor wax. Castle Ridge had a small red section on the far side. We had everybody else.
The scoreboard read fifteen to twelve. We were up, and Roxie was already calling for the next ball.
Her set came off her fingers high and tight to the antenna, and I was already moving. Left. Right-left. Arms back. I pushed off the floor, and for one clean second I had the timing, the angle, and a clear view of Castle Ridge’s middle realizing she was late.
I hit it through her hands. The ball slammed down inside the ten-foot line. Sixteen to twelve.
I landed, and pain shot up my left leg, settling deep in my thigh. Same as yesterday. Same as all of September, ever since Courtney’s knee caught my thigh during a scramble drill in preseason. A bone bruise, I figured. It would heal eventually. Volleyball season wasn’t going to wait for it.
“Sloane!” Noelle shrieked from the stands.
I jogged back to my spot and rolled my right shoulder for the benefit of anybody watching. People understood sore shoulders. They didn’t ask questions about those.
Roxie slapped my hand on her way past. “You’re feral tonight.”
“I’m focused.”
“Feral,” she said with approval.
Castle Ridge’s coach called time. At the bench, I grabbed my water and avoided eye contact with the freshman sitting at the end. She was good, just nervous, and she would’ve been fine if Coach Mathieson put her in. I made sure he didn’t have a reason to.
While he walked us through their rotation, my eyes drifted to the stands. My friends had claimed the second row, dead center, minus the three who were stuck at work. Noelle had appointed herself their correspondent. She stood on the bleacher waving a poster that saidSloane’s Arm Is a Felonyin pink glitter, then ducked down to text them the score. Tinsley sat on the end in a black beanie, eating Takis. She’d been insisting she didn’t care about volleyball since freshman year, which didn’t explain why she hadn’t missed a home game in all that time.
Behind them, Dad leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees, his loosened tie hanging over his shirt. He’d left the office early, and his short ash-blond hair still looked combed for court. When he caught me looking, he lifted two fingers in a little wave.
Pops had sprung to his feet beside him, his broad shoulders blocking half the row behind them.
“Come on, Sunshine! You’ve got this!”
He threw both arms up, his dirty-blond hair sticking up where he’d run his hands through it, and nearly kicked over the tote bag at his feet. Dad stopped it with his shoe. When Pops dropped back onto the bench, Dad’s hand found his knee and stayed there. Neither of them looked at it.
Uncle Jake sat on Dad’s other side with a bag of popcorn balanced on his knee. The strawberry-blond hair at his temples had gone sandy, but he still had the same bright blue eyes as Chandler. He offered Dad a handful, then yanked the bag out of reach when Pops leaned across Dad for some. Pops said something I couldn’t hear over the crowd, and Uncle Jake gave him the same innocent shrug he’d been using on him since before I was born.
I shook my head at the three of them. Not a single adult among them, and somehow they were all responsible for raising us.
Down on the floor with the cheer squad was Tahni, her platinum ponytail so sleek it looked laminated. Between chants, she pulled her phone from the waistband of her skirt and held it sideways, aimed at our bench. She never filmed anyone else. Back when we were friends, she used to send me clips after every game, usually with her own commentary over the best points. Now she kept the videos to herself.
The gym doors banged open, and half the home bleachers turned. My brother had never entered a room at a normal volume in his life.
Soccer practice had ended at quarter to six, and our match had started at six-thirty. Half the varsity team had used the time in between to shower, grab food, and come cheer for us. They arrived with damp hair and enough energy to yell every time the ball crossed the net, no matter who hit it.
Stetson led the charge, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“That’s my sister! I was born first!”
“By three minutes,” I muttered into my water bottle.
He claimed the seat next to Noelle and stole the corner of her poster to wave it himself. She yanked it back.
The whistle sent us back out. We took the first set, twenty-five to twenty-one. I slapped hands with Roxie and told myself the worst of the ache had passed.
By the second set, the pain had sharpened. Every landing sent it through my thigh, and each time it took longer to fade. My spandex felt tighter on my left leg than my right, which made no sense, so I decided it didn’t. I started coming down more on my right foot and stuck every landing like I meant it.
We lost the set, twenty-two to twenty-five. On the bench, I took a long drink and kept my eyes on the bottle while Coach Mathieson laid out the next rotation. Nobody in the bleachers was going to ask about my leg, which was exactly how I wanted it.
We took the third set. By the time the scoreboard reached twenty-two all in the fourth, every rally felt twice as long.
I got above the block on a high set from Roxie and sent it cross-court. The ball dropped into the corner. Twenty-three to twenty-two, us.
Then I landed, and pain flashed through my thigh. My leg held, but barely. I straightened before anybody could notice and got ready for the next serve.
Our server floated one deep, and Castle Ridge sent it back soft. A free ball. The easiest ball in volleyball.
I saw it all the way in. I stepped under it, but my left leg didn’t follow, and the pass sprayed off my forearms into the bottom of the net. Twenty-three all.
“Shake it off, Sloane! Love the aggression!” Coach Mathieson clapped twice from the sideline.
He’d never once said anything negative out loud, which was how you knewlove the aggressionmeantwhat was that?
“It’s fine!” Noelle yelled. “The net had it coming!”
Half the bleachers laughed. I snorted before I could stop myself.
The next rally was short and ugly. Courtney dug the ball, Roxie sent a quick set to our middle, and the kill glanced off Castle Ridge’s block and landed out of bounds. Twenty-four to twenty-three. Match point.
The soccer boys were on their feet. Noelle stood on the bleacher with her poster over her head. Stetson was yelling something that was mostly my name with extra vowels. Pops had both fists in the air, and Dad was standing now, too, his hands braced on the railing.
Our server floated it in. Castle Ridge’s outside swung hard, and Courtney dug it off the floor. The pass hung in the air, perfect. Roxie got under it without even glancing my way.
Left. Right-left.
The takeoff was fine. The takeoff was always fine.
I got up and saw their middle shading inside, leaving the line wide open. I hit it straight down the line so hard the line judge flinched. The ball hit the floor before I did, and the whistle blew while I was still in the air. Twenty-five to twenty-three.
Then I came down on my left leg, and the whole world went white at the edges.
If anybody noticed, they didn’t have time to say so. The team was already on me. Roxie crashed into my side, Courtney jumped on my back, and somebody’s ponytail whipped me across the face. I was laughing, my thigh was screaming, and I let both happen.
“Felony!” Noelle howled. “Arrest her!”
From the bleachers, Uncle Jake’s voice rose above everybody else’s.
“That’s my baby girl!”
I didn’t have to look to know he was on his feet. I shut my eyes for half a second, trying not to grin like an idiot.
I would never ask him to stop.
My family was waiting at the rail after the handshake line. Uncle Jake stood beside Dad with his popcorn bag finally empty. Pops was waving both arms to get my attention, which was unnecessary considering he was approximately the size of a refrigerator. Noelle still had her poster, Tinsley had what remained of her Takis, and Stetson was jogging a victory lap with his arms stretched out like he’d personally scored the winning point.
Pops reached me first and pulled me into a hug that nearly lifted my feet off the floor. I shifted my weight onto my right leg before he could notice.
“Sunshine! That last one! Did you see that last one?”
“I was there,” I said into his shoulder.
He laughed and squeezed me once more before letting go. Dad reached over and straightened Pops’ collar without comment, then stepped forward himself, his expression more restrained, although the corners of his mouth gave him away.
“Fiorellina.” He squeezed my arm. “That was something.”
Uncle Jake grinned. “I think that ball’s still trying to get out of the gym.”
Stetson draped an arm across my shoulders. “I’d like it on the record that I yelled the loudest.”
“You’d like everything on the record.”
He leaned back far enough to look at me, and his grin faded a little. I straightened before he could ask anything. Noelle chose that moment to swat him with her poster, and he immediately turned to argue about who had cheered louder.
Noelle stepped into his place and wrapped her arms around me, poster and all. She held on longer than usual before laughing against my shoulder.
“I’m framing that poster. You know that, right?”
“You’re not hanging it in my room.”
“I wasn’t asking permission.”
She gave me one last squeeze before stepping away. Tinsley held out the bag of Takis, her fingertips stained red.
“Good kill. Your pass was garbage.”
I took one. “Love you too.”
“Somebody has to tell you.”
Uncle Jake tugged my ponytail. “Chandler’s going to be sorry he’s stuck stocking shelves for that. Great game, baby girl.”
Pops eyed the empty bag in Uncle Jake’s hand. “You didn’t save me a single piece.”
“You were busy cheering.”
“You stole that from my kitchen.”
“Allegedly,” Uncle Jake said.
Pops sighed. “Come eat, Jake. Pork’s been in the slow cooker since six this morning.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
Noelle and Tinsley went to find their moms, with Noelle already texting Maekynzie the final score as they headed toward the doors.
I made it to the locker room without limping. Mostly. I kept pace with the girls ahead of me and smiled whenever somebody called my name. Whatever had gotten me through the fourth set had decided its work was done, because the distance between the gym and the locker room felt twice as long as it had before the match.
I didn’t sit down. Sitting meant eventually having to stand again, and I wasn’t interested in testing that particular theory. I took two ibuprofen with a swallow of water, showered before the water had a chance to get warm, and pulled on black leggings and my oversized cream Bighorns hoodie. I tried not to look at my leg while I dressed, but the fabric dragged over the front of my thigh and stopped me halfway.
In the mirror beside the door, my wet ponytail hung crooked, and my cheeks were still flushed from the match. I planted both feet evenly, waited for the trembling in my left leg to settle, and practiced a smile. Anybody looking at my face would see a girl who’d just won a volleyball game. As long as nobody watched me walk, I could probably keep it that way.
Dad, Pops, Uncle Jake, and Stetson were waiting near the trophy case when I came out. Uncle Jake and Stetson were at the glass, arguing about the dates on a plaque, while Dad stood a few feet away talking to the athletic director’s assistant. Tahni leaned against the wall near the doors, still wearing her cheer uniform.
“Great game,” she said in the voice she reserved for teachers and adults she wanted to impress.
She gave my dads a sunny little wave across the lobby, the same one she used to give them through the Suburban window in middle school. Pops waved back automatically.
Then Tahni looked down at my leg.
“Oh, Sloane.” Her voice softened just enough to carry. “You’re hurting. You should tell somebody.”
I kept walking.
“Or I could.”
That stopped me for half a second, which was probably exactly what she wanted. Heat climbed into my face, and I made myself keep moving.
There had been a time when Tahni would’ve been the first person waiting for me after a game, demanding we stop for fries on the way home. I hated that I still remembered how that felt.
I passed her without answering. When I reached the trophy case, Pops was no longer looking at Tahni. He was looking at my leg.
“What was that about?” he asked, low enough that Stetson and Uncle Jake wouldn’t hear. “She said you’re hurting.”
“She likes to be dramatic.”
“Sunshine.” He waited until I met his eyes. “Are you?”
“I landed funny on the last one. It’s fine.”
“How funny?”
“Normal funny. Volleyball funny.”
He didn’t smile. Dad had finished with the athletic director’s assistant and was watching us, his keys in his hand. If I gave Pops anything more, he’d want to know how long my leg had been hurting. Then Dad would get involved, and we’d spend the evening discussing doctors instead of dinner.
Pops studied me for another moment. I adjusted the strap of my bag and tried not to shift my weight.
“If it’s still bothering you tomorrow, you tell me,” he said finally. “Before somebody else does.”
“I will.”
It wasn’t even a convincing answer, but it gave him somewhere to stop.
All five of us walked out to the parking lot together. Stetson’s Lexus sat two rows over from the Silverado. “I spent my entire evening supporting your athletic career,” he told me, unlocking it. “And now I’m the chauffeur.”
“Stetson, straight home,” Pops said. “No detours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Uncle Jake spun his keys around one finger. “Right behind you.”
Dad peeled off toward the Suburban with a last look at me over his shoulder, and Uncle Jake headed down the next row toward his Durango. Pops kissed the top of my head and kept me close a moment before letting go. I climbed into the Lexus while he headed toward the Silverado.
Pops had started the pork before he left for work, and I wasn’t about to let one stupid leg ruin dinner.
Stetson talked about soccer for most of the drive. He described the header he’d scored in practice off a corner kick three separate times, with each version becoming slightly more heroic. By the third telling, I was fairly certain he’d jumped over an entire defensive line and briefly achieved flight. Then he moved on to the senior Chandler had nutmegged so badly that the guy had sat down on the field and stayed there.
I let him talk. It was easier than coming up with things to say, and the streetlights passing across the windshield gave me somewhere to look besides my leg.
At the last light before our street, Stetson stopped in the middle of a sentence. My brother didn’t do quiet. Three seconds without commentary usually meant he’d fallen asleep or somebody had confiscated his phone.
I glanced over. His eyes dropped toward my knee before returning to my face. He opened his mouth, and I turned toward the passenger window.
With anyone else, that would’ve been enough to end the conversation.
Stetson closed his mouth. Instead of asking, he reached across the console and pressed the button for my seat warmer. When nothing happened immediately, he pressed it again, harder, as though the car needed convincing.
The light turned green, and he put his hand back on the wheel. For once, he let me have the silence.
Bernard met us at the front door, a blur of fluffy white enthusiasm with absolutely no regard for personal space. His tail swung so hard his entire back half followed it. I dropped my bag by the door and stuck my phone in my hoodie pocket, and he shoved his face into my hand. I rubbed his ears while Stetson stepped around us.
Then Bernard lowered his nose to my left leg and sniffed.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
He looked up at me, his tail slowing. I scratched beneath his chin and followed him down the hall, past the stairs, to the kitchen at the back of the house.
The slow cooker sat on the counter with the lid propped open, the pork steaming, a foil packet of rolls beside it. Pops stood over it with a spoon, and Dad reached past him for the plates. Pops tilted the spoon toward Dad without looking, and Dad tasted it.
“Needs salt.”
“It does not.”
“It needs salt,” Dad said, and wiped a drip of juice off Pops’ wrist with a napkin on his way past. Pops let him.
The back door in the living room opened without a knock, and a second later Uncle Jake strolled into the kitchen like the house owed him money. “Tell me you didn’t start without me.”
“We just got here,” Pops said.
“Then I’m right on time.”
What was left of our birthday cake sat near the stove under plastic wrap. Stetson had cut through his own name earlier in the week, leaving most of mine in the blue-and-gold frosting.
I piled pork onto two rolls and reached for the foil. “I’m gonna eat upstairs. I still have homework.”
“After that game?” Pops looked at me over the slow cooker. “Sit down and eat first, Sunshine.”
“I can eat and do homework.” I folded the foil around the sandwiches, keeping my weight on my right leg. Uncle Jake passed me a couple of napkins before I could reach across him.
Stetson dropped onto a stool and pulled a plate toward him. “We have the same assignment. It’s like ten questions.”
“Then it shouldn’t take me long.” I tucked the napkins under my food and looked toward the hallway. Dad moved aside to let me through, but Pops was still watching me.
“All right. Call down if you want more.” He held out a bottle of water, and I tucked it under my arm before he could find another reason for me to stay.
Stetson was already reaching for his second sandwich when I turned away.
There were fourteen stairs between the kitchen and my bedroom. I’d gone up them thousands of times without thinking about it, but that night I counted every one.
On the ninth, my left leg buckled.
I grabbed the railing, and my other hand crushed the foil around my sandwiches. Bernard stopped on the step behind me, his nose brushing my calf. For a moment, I couldn’t move.
From the kitchen, Uncle Jake laughed at something Stetson said. Somebody opened the refrigerator, and Pops started complaining about the rolls disappearing before he’d even made himself a plate. Nobody had heard me.
I tightened my grip on the railing and managed the last five stairs, concentrating on the next step instead of how much farther I had to go.
Bernard followed me into my room. I waited until his tail cleared the doorway before shutting the door and turning the lock. I almost never locked it, but Stetson had a habit of coming in for my charger and staying to ask if Noelle had said anything about him. Then Noelle would text me to ask what he’d said, and somehow I’d spend an hour having the same conversation twice. Tonight, I just wanted to be left alone.
I left the overhead light off and reached behind my headboard for the fairy lights Noelle and I had strung across the wall in eighth grade. They clicked on, filling the room with a soft golden glow.
I set the sandwiches, the water, and my phone on my nightstand and lowered myself onto the edge of my coral comforter. Bernard jumped up beside me and settled against my hip as though whatever we were doing required his supervision.
Then I pulled my leggings down past my left knee.
At first, nothing looked wrong. I turned my leg slightly toward the light, comparing it to my right one.
The front of my left thigh was swollen.
Not dramatically, and not enough that somebody would’ve noticed from across a room, but it was there now, a raised area beneath skin that looked tighter than it should. There was no purple or yellow bruising, nothing that matched the injury I’d been blaming since August.
I touched it with my palm. The skin felt warmer than the rest of my leg.
Maybe it had been like that all day. Maybe the leggings had made it worse. I’d spent the entire match jumping, landing, and pretending nothing hurt, so it wasn’t exactly shocking that my thigh had an opinion about it.
I pressed lightly near the swollen area and immediately pulled my hand away. Bernard lifted his head.
“I’m okay,” I told him.
He moved closer and rested his chin against my knee.
The sandwiches sat untouched beside my phone. I should’ve eaten something. Pops would come upstairs eventually, and he’d notice if I brought two perfectly good sandwiches back to the kitchen. But I couldn’t stop looking at my leg.
Bone bruises could swell. Probably. I’d never bothered to look it up because that would mean admitting I needed to look it up in the first place.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, expecting another message from Noelle about the game or Stetson sending me a video of his imaginary greatest goal of all time.
Instead, Chandler’s name lit up the screen.
Chandler:Caught the end of the fourth set on the school stream during my break. You were favoring your left leg. How long has it been hurting?
I read the message twice.
He’d been stuck at work, watching a match on a phone screen the size of his hand, and he’d still noticed enough to ask. Of course he had. Chandler noticed everything, especially the things I worked hardest to hide.
I could’ve told him I’d landed wrong. I could’ve blamed the fourth set or said I was already feeling better. He’d probably have a follow-up question ready before I finished typing.
The worst part was that I knew the answer. Five weeks, give or take. I’d called it a bruise and kept playing because that was what you did when you wanted to stay on the court.
I pulled my leggings back into place and turned the phone facedown without answering.
Downstairs, somebody laughed. Bernard sighed against my side, and I reached over to scratch behind his ears.
The phone stayed where I’d left it.
