The gym lights were too bright against my eyes. I was sitting in my usual spot on the bench, my clipboard balanced on my knees, watching our boys warm up for the game. But something felt off. “You ready for this?” Coach Martinez asked, but his voice sounded distant, muffled. I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be ready for. The scoreboard showed we’d already won—28-26, 25-23, 25-21—but the game was still happening. Players were still moving across the court in a slow motion. Luca went up for a spike, his body arcing through the air. But when he came down, his landing was too hard and I heard that sickening crack again. Something was definitely wrong. “Luca!” I was on my feet, moving toward the court, but my legs felt like they were moving through water. He was on his knees, hunched over, his shoulders shaking. The other players backed away, forming a circle around him. Even from the bench, I could hear his ragged and desperate breathing. “What’s happening?
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