24. Everett

Everett

Two days after rushing back to our hometown because of Mr. Edward, Heart and I return to Oakswood. The old champ’s much better now, plus he has Ms. Valerie by his side—especially now that he seems to have opened up his heart to her. They’re both good people... no doubt their union will be lovely.

I pray the same for Heart and I too.

There’s only a couple of days left till the championships begin, where all six universities from the four cities will be competing, and it’ll run for three days—ten matches in total.

My girlfriend’s been killing it. Back to back training. She’s been so devoted and dedicated to this sport and now I’m so certain she was made for Volleyball. For her to have gotten this good within the space of—what—three weeks? That’s an MVP right there.

Even as soon as we arrived home, earlier, she nudged me straight to the court for training. And now, we’ve rounded up three sessions and are heading back inside.

“But babe,” Heart calls as I take two bottles of water out of the fridge.

I twist the cap of one and hand it over to her. “Yeah?”

“How did you learn to be so good at Volleyball?”

My hand purses around my bottle. I smile, “Mom used to play with me when I was young... she taught me.”

I see surprise written all over her face and I smirk. She probably thought I was going to say Dad taught me.

Dad’s not the sports person—Mom is.

Back when she was job hunting... She’d spend her time playing volleyball with me at home...

And now... now, nothing.

***

Six days later.

Both of Gladdis's teams have been unstoppable. It’s been win after win after win, and now, somehow, we've landed where everyone wanted and no one expected: the finals. Gladdis versus Pitchers. Both teams. Men's and women's.

And it’s finals day.

The women play first—10:00 a.m.—and there's no force on earth that could keep me away from those stands.

I take my seat with the early crowd, and the moment Amelia's name is called, I'm on my feet. She looks unreal out there in that different-colored jersey—Gladdis's libero, Number 7. My girl, our wall, our silent weapon.

Every dig of hers is a small miracle. She reads Pitchers' hitters like an open book, diving, sprawling, sending balls back up that have no business being saved. Every time she keeps a rally alive, something in my chest swells so hard it hurts.

That's MY girl.

"LET'S GO, HEART!" I bellow, cupping my hands around my mouth until people around me laugh.

What, never seen a man fan-boying before?

I stay as long as I can, cheering through every set, every timeout, and screaming until my throat goes raw. But all too soon, I check the clock and my stomach knots—I have to go. My warm-up starts soon. As we’re also going up next for our final.

I find her eyes across the court one last time and point at her. Finish it.

She smirks. Watch me.

I leave the gym with the score tight and my heart pounding for her. And hours later, when I hear the news—that they did it, that Gladdis women are champions—I've never been prouder in my life.

But I don't have long to dwell on it. Because suddenly it's our turn. And I play out of my mind.

Every set that comes my way from the left side, I terminate. Kills rain down. My boys didn’t come here to play. Our blocks roof their best hitter. The gym is a wall of noise, and our team feeds off it, set point after set point, until—

Match point.

The serve goes up. The arena rages. And when the ball finally arcs toward me, high and perfect, I take off, arm swinging with everything I have left—

SLAM.

The ball tears through the block and crumples onto their floor.

The whistle blows.

We fucking won.

The arena erupts. My team crashes into me, screaming, a dogpile of joy and disbelief, and I'm laughing, actually laughing, as confetti and relief and years of grind come pouring out of me at once.

Then I see her.

Heart pushes through the crowd in her medal, eyes shining, and I don't think at all, I just move. I sweep her clean off her feet, spinning her around as she shrieks and laughs, her arms locking around my neck, both of us champions, both of us here.

I gently set her down, breathless, grinning like a fool.

Then I reach into my pocket.

Then— "Everett."

I hear someone call my name, and I turn.

I freeze, my hand halting.

Standing a few feet away are none other than my parents.

"What are you doing here?"

Mom is the first to step forward. She wraps me in a hug, burying her face in the crook of my neck.

"We wouldn't miss your big game for anything in the world, baby," she mutters softly.

The fight drains out of me before I can stop it. I hug her back, tightly.

I've missed her. Both of them. God, I've missed them.

Dad clasps my shoulder with a proud, quiet nod—that's my boy written all over his face—and then the boys file past, greeting them one after the other, all easy respect. Heart greets them too, warm and polite, and they’re happy to see her too.

Afterwards, I follow them to their car, away from the celebration.

"We've put the house up for sale." The words land like a spike to the chest.

"What? Which house?"

"You know which house, Everett."

"No way. No."

"No, what? Everett, we're not doing this. This is the seventh time, and you're not going to have your way this time around."

"No, Mom. You can't sell our home!"

"It's not our home anymore!" Her voice cracks, and underneath the anger I hear something that guts me—hurt. "Don't you miss us? Don't you miss our family? We barely see you for months! You refused to leave Westside—why? There are prestigious schools in Southside. We need to have you transferred—"

God, not again. We've been through this countless times. The same script, the same wounds, torn open and salted!

"Why must you sell that house?" My voice comes out low, rough. "I grew up there. Before all of this. We lived there."

My childhood. Every memory I have before everything changed happened behind those walls. In that neighborhood.

Dad frowns and opens his mouth, but Mom places a hand on his arm. When she speaks again, it's gentle.

"Fine. The house can stay. But you can't. You're transferring from this place and coming to Southside with us."

I grunt, my hands clenching into fists at my sides as blood boils through me. The championship medal around my neck has never felt heavier.

"Give me some time," I force out. "I'll give an answer in a few days. I promise."

With a grunt, Dad opens the car door and they both get in. The engine hums, and their vehicle zooms out of sight, taillights shrinking down the road until they're gone.

I stand there in the emptying parking lot, the cheers from the arena still faintly drifting in the distance, and my pocket still holding what I never got to give her.

Deep down, I kinda know there's nothing to think about. Yet…

Without further ado, I get into my truck and zoom off, the trophy, the girl, the life I built here all burning bright in the rearview mirror.

And that question from Southside burning even brighter ahead.