ETHAN'S
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the court. Tori's team was down by three points in the final set, and the tension in the gym was electric. When she dove for a ball that looked impossible to reach, I actually jumped to my feet without thinking.
"Come on, Tori!" I shouted, earning curious looks from nearby spectators.
She didn't hear me—too focused on the game—but somehow her team rallied. Point by point, they closed the gap. And then it happened: Tori read the opposing hitter perfectly, launching into a defensive save that sent the ball spinning over the net for match point.
The crowd erupted. I found myself cheering louder than anyone around me.
As the team celebrated on court, her eyes found mine in the stands. I gave her a thumbs up, and she actually smiled back. Not her usual guarded half-smile, but something real. Something that made my stomach flip.
I waited outside the locker room, scrolling through my phone and trying to look casual. When she finally emerged, hair damp from the shower, she stopped short.
"Harrington? What happened to meeting at the library?"
"Change of plans," I said before I could overthink it. "Let's celebrate your win instead. Dinner? My treat."
She narrowed her eyes. "What about the project?"
"It can wait one night." I shrugged. "Come on, Martinez. Live a little."
"Fine." She adjusted her gym bag. "But nowhere fancy. I'm in sweats."
"You look fine." The words came out before I could stop them. "I mean, it's just dinner. Not a date or anything."
"Obviously," she said quickly.
We ended up at a small Italian place off Main Street. After ordering, an awkward silence fell between us.
"So," I finally said. "That last save was insane."
"Just doing my job." She fidgeted with her napkin. "Defensive specialist, remember?"
"You're definitely good enough."
"Tell that to the scouts." She sighed. "D1 schools want tall outside hitters who can score, not 5'6" defensive players."
"Their loss," I said. "The way you read the game is... special."
She studied me like she was trying to solve a puzzle. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"Is it that hard to believe?"
"Yes," she said bluntly. "Two weeks ago you couldn't remember my name."
"I knew your name," I admitted. "I just... I don't know. It was easier to be a jerk."
Our food arrived, saving me from whatever was showing on my face.
As we ate, the conversation flowed easier than I expected. School, volleyball, tennis—safe topics that gradually became less safe.
"My dad mapped out my tennis career when I was eight," I found myself saying. "Stanford, then pros. He's got it all planned."
"Is that what you want?" she asked.
No one had ever asked me that before.
"Sometimes I don't know anymore." I pushed pasta around my plate. "My panic attacks started last year."
Her fork paused halfway to her mouth. "Panic attacks?"
"Before big matches." I'd never told anyone this, not even Jake. "Can't breathe, feel like I'm dying. Fun stuff."
"What do you do?"
"Hide in the bathroom. Take meds sometimes." I forced a laugh. "Pretend I'm fine."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." I looked up to find her watching me intently. "What about you? Any secret volleyball traumas?"
She hesitated, then surprised me. "My mom left when I was ten. Volleyball became my thing with my dad. If I quit playing..."
"You'd lose that connection," I finished.
She nodded, looking vulnerable in a way I'd never seen.
"We're kind of messed up, huh?" I offered with a small smile.
"Speak for yourself, Tennis Boy." But she was smiling too.
As we split dessert—one tiramisu, two forks—our conversation drifted to deeper waters.
"Do you ever wonder who you'd be if you weren't 'Ethan Harrington, tennis star'?" she asked.
"All the time," I admitted. "You?"
"Sometimes." She twirled her fork. "But volleyball's part of who I am now. I just wish people saw the rest too."
"I see it," I said quietly.
Her eyes met mine, holding for several seconds too long.
She broke contact first. "We should probably head back."
***
Outside, the night had turned chilly. Without thinking, I shrugged off my jacket and held it out.
"I'm not cold," she protested.
"You have goosebumps, Martinez."
She reluctantly took it, slipping her arms into sleeves too long for her. Something about seeing her in my jacket made my chest tight.
"Thanks for dinner," she said as we walked toward her car. "It was... not terrible."
I laughed. "High praise indeed."
"Don't get used to it." But there was no bite in her words.
We stopped beside her car, neither of us making a move to leave. The parking lot was empty except for us, streetlights casting shadows across her face.
"Tori," I said, my voice lower than I intended. "Tonight was good."
"Yeah," she agreed softly. "It was."
"Maybe we could—"
"This doesn't change anything," she interrupted, but her voice lacked conviction.
"Doesn't it?"
I stepped closer, drawn by something I couldn't name. She didn't back away.
"You don't have to maintain the perfect tennis legacy with me," she said unexpectedly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The words hit something deep inside me. Without thinking, I moved closer until we were inches apart.
"And you don't have to keep pretending you feel nothing when you touch me."
Her breath caught. I slowly raised my hand to her face, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. My fingertips brushed her cheek, and I felt her tremble slightly.
The moment stretched between us, taut with possibility. I could feel her breath against my lips as I leaned in, when her phone rang, the sound jarring in the quiet night. She jumped back like she'd been shocked, fumbling to answer it.
"Maya? What's up?" Her eyes widened. "When did Coach call?”
I waited, watching her face shift from confusion to shock before she exclaimed loudly in disbelief. “What?!”