Novels by Jessa Rose

The drill was called a suicide and Coach Mathieson had never once acknowledged the irony.I hit the first line, touched it, turned. Hit the second, touched it, turned. My court shoes squeaked against the gym floor in that particular pitch that meant I was pushing hard enough, the kind of sound that used to feel like proof of something. My lungs were fine. My arms were fine. My legs were the problem, and I was not going to think about my legs.Hit the third line. Turn.Around me the rest of the team was moving through the same drill, the same squeak and pivot, Courtney’s ponytail whipping past on the left, Danielle breathing too loud the way she always did when she was trying not to quit. I kept my eyes on the far baseline and told myself what I always told myself: first one done sets the tone.I finished four seconds behind Courtney.I straightened up, hands on hips, breathing through my nose so it looked controlled. Nobody would notice four seconds. Four seconds was nothing. I had no