Lola POV
Today was the first friendly volleyball competition before Regionals. All the schools in the district were invited. The bleachers were packed with players in different uniforms, coaches with clipboards, and students pretending to cheer when really, they just came for the snacks.
The moment I stepped into the gym, my heart skipped.
Not from nerves.
From him.
Jace Reyes.
He was already there, sitting on the top bench of the visitor’s side, legs wide, elbows resting on his knees, headphones on, eyes scanning the court like a predator studying prey. His hair looked slightly messier than usual and his face was all sharp lines and no emotion.
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since the gym incident. Two weeks since I told him we couldn’t be friends.
Two weeks since I lied to both of us.
I hadn’t been back to the gym since then. Partly because of extra practices. Mostly because of that feeling. That stupid twist in my stomach I get when he’s too close. The kind of feeling that makes my thoughts scatter and my lungs forget how to work. The kind that makes me want to do something insane—like grab his shirt and kiss the cocky smirk off his face.
No. I couldn’t afford that.
We were both aiming for the same scholarship. The same future. There was no space in this rivalry for hormones and stolen glances.
I looked away and focused on my team. Our coach was already setting up the warm-ups, and I jumped on the bench to rally the girls.
“Let’s go, team!” I called out, clapping my hands. “This is friendly, but we’re not here to play cute. We’re here to test our strength before Regionals, so bring your fire.”
Everyone nodded, hyped up. Well—almost everyone. “Where the hell is Cassian?” I muttered, checking my phone.
No text. No missed calls. I was about to call him when the gym doors opened. And there he was.
Cassian. Striding in like he wasn’t twenty minutes late. With Darla clinging to his side like a damn volleyball groupie.
“Seriously?” I hissed as he walked over to the bench.
He raised a brow like he was annoyed. “Relax. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” I snapped. “The match starts in ten minutes.”
“I was helping Darla review plays—”
“Oh please,” I cut him off. “She doesn’t even know what a proper rotation is. She thinks ‘libero’ is a type of pasta.”
Darla crossed her arms. “Why are you being such a bitch, Lola?”
I turned slowly, my eyes narrowing as I looked her up and down.
“Why are you being such a backup singer in a lead performance?” I shot back. “You’re lucky to even be on this team.”
She scoffed. “He’s doing his best. Why do you always act so bossy?”
“Because someone has to care when no one else does.” I leaned closer, my voice low but ice cold. “Shut up, Darla. And try not to embarrass us on the court.”
She looked away, biting her lip.
Cassian muttered something under his breath, but I was already walking away toward the lineup.
Thankfully, we weren’t facing Jace’s team in this round. I didn’t know if I could deal with that and my brother in one day.
The whistle blew. The first serve went out. The match began.
The gym turned into chaos—sneakers squeaking, hands clapping, players yelling.
It was supposed to be friendly, but when you’re gunning for scholarships, nothing’s really friendly.
We were three points in when I noticed it—Cassian was off.
Way off.
He missed a block. Then a set. Then he bumped the ball so hard it nearly flew into the crowd.
“Focus, Cassian!” I shouted from the back.
He didn’t even look at me. Another serve came. He hesitated. Again.
I groaned, running my hand through my braid as frustration crawled up my throat.
“Get your head in the game!” I screamed.
He barked back. “Back off, Lola!”
“Oh my god,” I muttered. “We’re trying to win, not host a circus!”
Coach blew the whistle for a timeout, but I was already marching toward my brother.
“What’s your problem?” I hissed.
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m tired of you acting like you’re the only one who cares.”
“No,” I snapped. “You’re tired of acting like this matters. Because if it did—you wouldn’t be handing the game away.”
He turned and walked off. I stared after him, chest tight, fists clenched.
We ended up winning—barely.
Not because of him.
Because I dove for every damn ball. Because I kept the rhythm alive.
The second the ref blew the whistle for the final point, I didn’t celebrate.
I stormed off the court.
I could hear my name being called, my teammates cheering behind me, but I didn’t stop. My vision blurred with fury. My hands were shaking.
I pushed open the locker room doors, not caring who followed. My breath came out in short, sharp bursts.
Everything was slipping. My brother. My team. My legacy.
I needed space. Just a second to breathe. But then…
I heard it. A voice behind me. Smooth. Low. Firm.
“Sinclair.”