The text came at 9:14 on Friday night.
Can’t play tomorrow. Sorry.
Maya stared at it for a few seconds.
Then she called Taylor.
“What does that mean?”
Taylor already knew.
“She’s playing with someone else.”
“What?”
“Jordan saw the entry list.”
Maya opened the tournament page.
There it was.
Her partner’s name.
Next to somebody else’s.
She read it twice.
Three weeks earlier, they had agreed to play together.
Maya had turned down another partner because of it.
Now, less than twelve hours before check-in, she didn’t have anyone.
She called her partner.
No answer.
She called again.
Voicemail.
Then another text appeared.
I got an opportunity to play with someone really good and I couldn’t pass it up. I hope you understand.
Maya didn’t.
She typed three different responses.
Deleted all three.
Finally she wrote:
You could have told me earlier.
The reply came almost immediately.
I know. I’m sorry.
Maya threw her phone onto the bed.
Her mother was standing in the doorway.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
Maya explained.
Her mother listened.
When Maya finished, she asked, “So what are you going to do?”
“Not play.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t have a partner.”
“That’s different.”
Maya looked at her.
“Different from what?”
“Not playing.”
Maya hated when adults did that.
Took something obvious and turned it into a question.
She picked up her phone again and started texting people.
One couldn’t play.
Another was out of town.
One had already committed to somebody else.
Another never responded.
At 10:36, Taylor texted.
I found a partner for you!
Maya called immediately.
“Who?”
“Brittney.”
She paused.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never played with her.”
“That’s generally how playing with somebody for the first time works.”
“Taylor.”
“She’s available.”
Maya knew Brittney.
Everyone did.
She was talented.
She was also unpredictable.
She tried shots coaches hated.
She served aggressive when everyone expected her to play safe.
She sometimes showed up five minutes before check-in carrying nothing but a volleyball and a water bottle.
Maya liked plans.
Brittney consider plans as suggestions.
“I’d rather not play.”
Taylor was quiet.
“Okay.”
She expected her to argue.
She didn’t.
That somehow made it worse.
“That’s it?”
“You said you don’t want to play.”
“I don’t.”
“Then don’t.”
Maya stared at the phone.
“You’re annoying.”
“I know.”
They hung up.
At 11:02, Maya texted Brittney.
You still available?
Her reply arrived seconds later.
Yep.
Can you be there at 7?
Probably.
Maya stared at the word.
Probably?
She almost canceled.
Instead she typed:
7 means 7.
Brittney responded with a thumbs-up.
At 6:58 the next morning, she wasn’t there.
Maya stood near check-in watching the walkway.
7:01.
Nothing.
7:04.
She called.
No answer.
7:07.
Still nothing.
Maya could feel herself getting angry.
Of course.
She had known this would happen.
At 7:09, Brittney came jogging toward the beach with her backpack bouncing behind her.
“Morning.”
“You’re late.”
“Nine minutes.”
“That’s what late means.”
Brittney looked at her.
“Good morning to you too.”
They checked in without speaking.
Their first match started badly.
Maya wanted a call for every serve.
Brittney didn’t.
Maya wanted to block line.
Brittney peeled without warning.
Maya called a high line shot.
Brittney tried a cut shot and hit it into the tape.
At 6–10, Maya finally snapped.
“Can you just do what we talked about?”
Brittney picked up the ball.
“We’ve talked about fifteen things.”
“Because you’re not doing any of them.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re trying to coach me.”
“I’m trying to play with you.”
“No.”
Brittney tossed her the ball.
“You’re trying to make me play like somebody else.”
Maya caught it.
“Maybe because my actual partner decided to play with somebody else.”
Brittney’s expression changed.
She hadn’t known.
The referees called them back onto the court.
Neither said another word.
They lost 21–13.
Maya grabbed her water bottle and walked away.
Brittney followed.
“You want another partner?”
She turned.
“What?”
“I can leave.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You don’t have to say it.”
Maya looked toward the next court.
Her original partner was warming up.
Laughing.
Everything about it made Maya angrier.
“She dumped me last night.”
“For somebody better.”
Brittney sat in the sand.
Maya remained standing.
“That sucks.”
She expected advice.
None came.
Brittney took a drink.
After a minute Maya sat too.
“I turned somebody else down to play with her.”
Brittney nodded.
“That sucks more.”
Maya laughed despite the situation.
“You’re not very helpful.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
They watched the match on the next court.
Maya’s former partner and her new teammate looked good.
Really good.
Maya hated that too.
Brittney finally spoke.
“You know we’re probably going to lose again if you keep watching them.”
“I’m not watching them.”
“You’ve been staring at their court for three minutes.”
Maya looked away.
“Fine.”
Brittney stood.
“Come on.”
“Let’s figure out how we’re going to play.”
“I tried that.”
“No.”
She picked up a volleyball.
“You figured out how you wanted me to play.”
Maya almost argued.
Then stopped.
“Okay.”
Brittney drew a court in the sand.
“What are you good at?”
She laughed.
“You know what I’m good at.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Passing.”
“What else?”
“Serving seams.”
“What else?”
She thought.
“I see the defender pretty well.”
Brittney nodded.
“What am I good at?”
“Doing whatever you want.”
“Excellent.”
Maya laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She pointed at the court she’d drawn.
“What if we use that?”
“Use what?”
“The fact that you know what you’re doing and I don’t.”
“That’s your strategy?”
Brittney smiled.
“No.”
“The fact that you’re predictable in a good way and I’m unpredictable in a good way.”
Maya looked at the drawing.
For the first time all morning, she became curious.
Their second match wasn’t beautiful.
Brittney missed a serve at 19–19 because she tried to hit the back corner instead of putting the ball safely in.
Maya stared at her.
She held up both hands.
“That one was stupid.”
“Thank you.”
They won 23–21.
Their third match was better.
Not because Brittney became predictable.
Because Maya stopped needing her to be.
She started asking what she saw.
Brittney started telling her before changing defensive calls.
When Maya wanted to serve short, she explained why.
When Brittney wanted to peel unexpectedly, she told her what she had noticed.
They disagreed constantly.
They also started listening.
By early afternoon they had somehow reached the quarterfinal.
Across the net stood Maya’s original partner.
Of course.
Brittney saw the matchup and laughed.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Maya didn’t laugh.
Her stomach tightened.
During warm-ups, her former partner walked over.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Maya bounced the ball once.
“Okay.”
“I should’ve told you earlier.”
“Yes.”
“I just thought this was a really good opportunity.”
Maya looked at the new partner warming up behind her.
“Then you should’ve taken it.”
Her former partner seemed relieved.
“But you should’ve called me.”
The relief disappeared.
“I know.”
The referee called captains.
That was the entire conversation.
No hug.
No sudden forgiveness.
Just enough truth to play volleyball afterward.
The match was ugly.
Nobody dominated.
Maya served three balls long.
Brittney got blocked twice trying shots she probably shouldn’t have attempted.
At 18–18, Maya’s former partner served her.
The pass drifted off the net.
Brittney chased it.
Maya expected the safe set.
Instead she poked the pass from behind her head.
Maya almost stopped moving.
Almost.
She chased it and also poked the ball but into the open corner.
Point.
She looked at Brittney.
“What was that?”
She smiled.
“You got there.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I didn’t have a better idea.”
Maya started laughing.
The next serve came.
They lost 22–20.
For several seconds Maya stood with her hands on her knees.
She had wanted that match.
More than she wanted to admit.
Brittney walked over.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“The set.”
“The set worked.”
“I meant losing.”
Maya stood upright.
“Yeah.”
She looked across the net.
Her former partner was celebrating.
The anger was still there.
Just smaller.
Maya walked over.
“Good game.”
Her former partner looked surprised.
“Good game.”
That was it.
Maya didn’t forgive her that afternoon.
Not completely.
They didn’t become partners again the following week.
They didn’t have a heart-to-heart conversation that fixed everything.
Trust took longer than that.
Months, actually.
But the next time Maya committed to a tournament, she noticed something different about herself.
She didn’t ask whether her partner was the best player available.
She asked whether they meant what they said.
And when Maya had to cancel a tournament later that season because of a family commitment, she didn’t send a text.
She called.
Her partner was disappointed.
Maya let them be disappointed.
She didn’t defend herself.
She didn’t try to make the conversation easier.
She simply gave them the respect of hearing it from her.
Years later, Maya remembered almost nothing about the quarterfinal she lost with Brittney.
She couldn’t remember the final score without thinking hard.
She couldn’t remember who won the tournament.
She did remember the Friday-night text.
She remembered waiting at check-in while Brittney was nine minutes late.
She remembered wanting her to become somebody she wasn’t.
And she remembered the ridiculous pokie set at 18–18.
Mostly, she remembered discovering that people don’t always hurt us because they’re cruel.
Sometimes they’re scared.
Sometimes they’re ambitious.
Sometimes they’re careless.
Sometimes they want something badly enough that they convince themselves the way they get it doesn’t matter.
That doesn’t make the hurt disappear.
It doesn’t mean trust has to return immediately.
But it leaves room for something besides revenge.
The following summer Maya saw her old partner standing near check-in without a teammate.
Her partner was holding a phone and looking increasingly worried.
Maya could have kept walking.
She didn’t.
“Partner bail?”
Her old partner looked up.
“Ten minutes ago.”
Maya winced.
“That’s rough.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Maya pulled out her phone.
“I might know somebody.”
“Why are you helping me?”
Maya looked toward the courts.
Brittney was somewhere down the beach, probably arriving nine minutes late to something.
She smiled.
“Because I know what this feels like.”
Then she started calling people.
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