The second we walked into the gym, I felt my entire mood improve.
I liked school sometimes. I liked Liam. I liked learning things. But volleyball gyms felt different from everywhere else. Louder. Faster. More organized in a way my brain understood immediately.
Balls bounced across all four courts at slightly different rhythms. Shoes squeaked against the hardwood constantly. Coaches shouted instructions over one another while parents sat near the walls watching practices through the glass. The air even smelled familiar now — rubber, wood floor polish, and the weird sharp smell from athletic tape.
Dad signed me in at the front table while I bounced lightly on my toes beside him trying not to look too excited. Trying and failing probably.
One of the assistant coaches handed Dad a paper. "Club info packets will go out this weekend with team placements. If they make a roster, you'll get tournament schedules, travel forms, practice calendars, all that fun stuff."
Tournament schedules. The words alone made my stomach flip. Actual tournaments. Actual games. Dad thanked him while I looked around the gym again.
Charlie was already on the girls' court across the divider net, laughing about something with another girl while stretching near the ten-foot line. She noticed me looking and waved immediately.
"DON'T GET CUT!" she yelled across the gym.
Several parents turned.
I waved back. "YOU EITHER!"
Coach Mia clapped loudly before either of us could keep yelling across courts.
"Alright, everyone in! Bring a ball and take a knee!"
About twenty kids gathered near Court 2 while the coaches stood in front of us. Some kids already knew each other from previous seasons and sat together automatically. Others looked nervous enough to throw up.
I sat near the middle holding my volleyball against my legs while trying to memorize everybody's names.
Mason sat two spots away still looking personally offended that defensive practice existed.
Coach Mia pointed toward the whiteboard behind her. "Today we're focusing on libero and defensive fundamentals. That means movement, platform control, emergency defense, and learning how to keep rallies alive."
A few kids groaned quietly.
Coach Mia smiled immediately. "And for everybody who thinks defense is boring, remember this: every great rally starts because somebody refused to let the ball hit the floor."
That sentence stayed in my head instantly. Refused to let the ball hit the floor. I liked that. One of the younger boys raised his hand. "Are we diving today?"
Coach Mia grinned. "Eventually." Everybody sat up straighter after that.
Even Mason looked interested now. The practice started with defensive footwork. Coach Mia placed cones across the court while explaining how liberos almost never stood still.
"Defense starts before contact," she said while sliding laterally between cones. "Small adjustment steps. Stay balanced. If your feet stop moving, you're already late."
Then she demonstrated split stepping right before the coach tossed a ball.
My brain immediately started connecting things together. Weight forward. Read shoulders. Move early. Stay low.
The drills themselves looked simple at first, but they got harder fast. We shuffled side to side while passing tossed balls back toward target zones. Then we had to move forward for short tips before retreating immediately for deeper balls.
At one point Coach Mia blew the whistle and pointed at us. "Most young players react after the ball crosses the net. I want you reading earlier than that. Watch the hitter's body. Their shoulders. Their hips. Volleyball gives away clues constantly."
Yes. Exactly. That was exactly what I'd been trying to explain to Dad earlier in the week.
The game had patterns.
Everybody thought volleyball happened too fast to predict, but it really didn't. Most people accidentally told you what they were about to do before they even touched the ball.
During one drill, Coach Mia stood on a box at the net and rolled shots toward different defensive zones while we rotated one at a time through back row.
The first few kids reacted late. Not terrible. Just late. When it was my turn, I watched her shoulders instead of the ball. Right shoulder opening. Cross-court.
I moved before contact. Dig. Clean pass to target. Next ball. High elbow. Line shot.
Another dig. Coach Mia narrowed her eyes slightly.
Third ball. Short tip. I sprinted forward and popped the ball up right before it touched the floor.
"Good read," she said immediately. My chest felt warm after that.
After water break came the drill everybody had been waiting for. Diving. Well… technically learning how to dive safely first.
"Before anybody starts throwing themselves around dramatically," Coach Mia announced, "we learn how to fall correctly."
Several boys immediately looked disappointed. Coach Mia ignored them completely. She demonstrated on a large floor mat first, dropping onto her knees before sliding forward carefully with her arms extended.
"This is called a pancake progression and controlled sprawl work," she explained. "You are NOT superheroes yet. If you belly flop onto hardwood incorrectly, your parents will hate me."
That got some laughs. Then we started practicing without volleyballs first.
Kneel.
Slide.
Hands out.
Chest low.
Recover quickly.
Some kids were terrible at it immediately.
Mason basically collapsed face-first onto the mat like somebody unplugged him.
"I think I died," he announced from the floor. "You're still talking," Coach Mia answered. "Unfortunately." I laughed hard enough I almost messed up my own rep.
Eventually we progressed into actual rolling and beginner peixinho movements for emergency saves. Coach Mia demonstrated again, this time chasing a tossed ball before extending fully across the floor.
"You are trying to create reach, not crash into the ground," she explained. "Your momentum carries you THROUGH the ball."
Then we tried ourselves. The first attempt felt awkward. Second felt better. Third started making sense. By the fifth rep, something clicked.
A ball dropped short near the ten-foot line and I reacted automatically, pushing off my left foot and sliding forward with my arm extended underneath.
The ball popped up cleanly. Not perfect. But playable. "Ohhhhhh!" several kids yelled immediately. I slid across the floor and popped back up grinning before I could stop myself.
That felt AWESOME.
Coach Mia pointed at me immediately. "Good! That's what we want. Controlled extension. Don't fear the floor." Across the divider net, Charlie had apparently stopped her own drill entirely to watch.
"he's gonna become feral as a libero," she announced loudly to one of her teammates.
"I HEARD THAT," I yelled back.
"GOOD."
The rest of practice passed unbelievably fast after that. Serve receive drills. Platform angle work. Communication exercises.
At one point we ran a continuous defensive drill where three players stayed on court trying to survive against repeated attacks from coaches.
Most kids got tired quickly.
I didn't even notice exhaustion until water break because my brain stayed too busy tracking everything happening around me.
Angles. Rotations. Movement patterns. One hitter tipping whenever her approach got too close to the antenna. Another player struggling with float serves to the left side. Tiny details.
Thousands of them.
Near the end of practice, Coach Mia stopped me while everybody else grabbed water. "You really enjoy defense, huh?" I nodded immediately. "A lot." "What do you like about it?" I thought about it for a second.
Then answered honestly. "It feels like solving problems before they happen." Coach Mia stared at me briefly before smiling a little.
"That's a very libero answer."
By the time practice ended, my shirt stuck to my back with sweat and my knees burned slightly from floor work, but I barely cared.
Because for the first time since tryouts started, I stopped thinking mostly about whether I would make the club.
I started thinking about how badly I wanted to come back Monday no matter what happened.