Taylor stopped keeping score when she was losing 17–8.
“What’s the score?”
“You know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Seventeen-eight.”
Brittney smiled.
“Thank you.”
Taylor served directly into the net.
“Eighteen-eight.”
“I know.”
“I thought we were saying the score.”
Taylor stared at her.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“A little.”
They had been playing against each other every Friday morning for almost three years.
First game started at six.
No coaches.
No parents.
No drills.
Just playing.
They had started when they were fourteen because both wanted extra touches before school.
At first they kept track of wins.
Then the notebook disappeared.
Nobody remembered who had won more.
That wasn’t why they came anymore.
Some mornings they played three games.
Sometimes seven.
Once they played until Taylor’s mother called at 8:20 asking whether either of them planned to attend school.
They competed hard.
They also made each other better.
Taylor learned how to defend Brittney’s cut shot.
Brittney learned that Taylor could serve the same seam until frustration became a physical sensation.
They knew each other’s tendencies almost better than their partners did.
They also knew things about each other that volleyball had nothing to do with.
Taylor knew Brittney hated bananas but ate them at tournaments because they were easy to pack.
Brittney knew Taylor called her grandmother every Sunday.
Taylor knew when Brittney was pretending not to be nervous.
Brittney knew when Taylor needed to be left alone.
They were competitors.
They were friends.
For years, those things had fit together easily.
Then the college coaches arrived.
Neither knew she was coming.
She stood near the boardwalk wearing sunglasses and carrying a coffee.
Brittney noticed first.
“Don’t look.”
Taylor immediately looked.
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“I said don’t look.”
“I thought you meant there was something weird behind me.”
“There is.”
Taylor recognized the coach.
So did Brittney.
Both had emailed the program.
Both had received responses.
Both wanted the same roster spot.
Neither had ever said that part out loud.
The score was 8–8.
After the coach arrived, the volleyball changed.
Taylor served harder.
Brittney stopped trying shots she’d normally attempt.
Taylor argued about a line call she would usually have laughed off.
Brittney chased a ball into the next court and nearly collided with another player.
At 14–13, Taylor hit a ball long.
“Touch.”
Brittney looked at her.
“What?”
“You touched it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Taylor stared.
“Brittney.”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“You absolutely touched it.”
Brittney walked back to serve.
“Fourteen-all.”
“No.”
Brittney turned.
“What?”
“It’s fifteen-thirteen.”
“You hit it out.”
“You touched it.”
“I didn’t.”
Taylor looked toward the boardwalk.
The coach was watching.
Brittney saw her look.
“Oh, come on.”
“What?”
“That’s what this is about?”
“You touched the ball.”
“You don’t care about the ball.”
Taylor stepped toward the net.
“And you do?”
Brittney laughed.
“You’re unbelievable.”
They stood on opposite sides of the net.
For the first time in three years, neither wanted to be there.
Taylor picked up her backpack.
“Where are you going?”
“School.”
“We’re not done.”
“I am.”
She walked away.
The college coach left ten minutes later.
That afternoon Brittney texted.
You were right.
Taylor stared at the message.
About the touch?
Three dots appeared.
Yes.
Taylor waited for something else.
Nothing came.
She put the phone down.
Five minutes later another message appeared.
I don’t know why I lied.
Taylor knew why.
That’s what bothered her.
Friday came again.
Taylor didn’t go.
At 6:07 Brittney texted.
You coming?
No.
Okay.
The following Friday, neither went.
Three years of Friday mornings ended without anyone deciding they were over.
At regular practices, they avoided each other.
Nobody else understood.
Jordan eventually asked Taylor.
“You two fighting?”
“No.”
“That’s convincing.”
Taylor kept gathering volleyballs.
Jordan waited.
She finally told him.
The coach.
The touch.
The argument.
All of it.
Jordan listened.
When she finished, he asked, “Which part are you mad about?”
“She cheated.”
“She admitted it.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
Taylor threw another ball into the mesh bag.
“Then what are you asking?”
“Whether you’re angry about the point and what the point meant.”
Taylor stopped.
She knew the answer.
The point didn’t matter.
They had probably played five thousand points against each other.
Taylor couldn’t remember four thousand nine hundred of them.
That one she remembered perfectly.
“It meant she’d do that if something important was on the line.”
Jordan nodded.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Taylor looked at him.
“That’s convenient.”
“It is.”
Jordan picked up the bag.
“It’s also true.”
Across the beach, Brittney was having a different conversation with Maya.
“I screwed it up.”
“Then fix it.”
“I apologized.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“What else am I supposed to do?”
Maya shrugged.
“Maybe nothing.”
Brittney frowned.
“Helpful.”
“You don’t get to control when somebody trusts you again.”
Brittney hated that answer.
Mostly because she knew it was true.
The next Friday, Brittney went to the beach alone.
Six o’clock.
Same court.
She put down two backpacks.
One was hers.
The other was empty.
She started serving.
At 6:20, Taylor hadn’t arrived.
At 6:45, Brittney stopped checking the walkway.
At seven, she left.
She came back the following Friday.
Two backpacks.
Again.
Taylor didn’t come.
The third Friday, Brittney almost stayed home.
Instead she went.
At 6:12, Taylor appeared.
Brittney was peppering against the net by herself.
Neither said hello.
Taylor put her bag down.
Brittney picked up the ball.
“Want to play?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
Taylor looked at the court.
“Did you really come out here every Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Brittney shrugged.
“Because Friday.”
Taylor almost smiled.
Almost.
They stood there awkwardly.
Finally Taylor asked, “Why did you lie?”
Brittney looked at the sand.
“Because Lance was watching.”
“I know.”
“I wanted the point.”
“I know.”
Brittney took a breath.
“And for about three seconds, I wanted the opportunity more than I cared about you knowing I cheated.”
Taylor hadn’t expected that answer.
It felt worse than an excuse.
Brittney continued.
“I’ve thought about that point every day.”
“So have I.”
“I wish I could tell you I’d never do something like that again.”
Taylor looked at her.
“You can’t?”
“I don’t know.”
Brittney shook her head.
“I didn’t think I’d do it the first time.”
Taylor was quiet.
Brittney tossed the volleyball gently between her hands.
“I think I can tell you I’ll remember what it cost me.”
Taylor looked at the empty court.
“That’s a terrible apology.”
“It didn’t work.”
“I noticed.”
Taylor laughed.
“One game, 1 vs. 1, short court.”
Brittney smiled.
“To twenty-one?”
“Eleven.”
“Are you scared?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
They started playing.
At 6–5, Brittney hit a ball near the sideline.
Taylor looked down.
“Out.”
Brittney walked toward the mark.
Taylor’s stomach tightened.
Brittney looked at the sand.
Then at Taylor.
“Your call.”
Taylor nodded.
“Six-all.”
They kept playing.
At 10–10, Taylor served.
Finally Taylor swung from six feet off the net.
The ball clipped Brittney’s fingers and landed out.
Taylor looked at her.
Brittney looked at the mark.
Then at Taylor.
“Touch.”
Taylor smiled.
“Eleven-ten.”
“You still have to win by two.”
“I know.”
They played another fifteen minutes.
Neither remembered the final score afterward.
The college coach eventually offered the roster spot to someone else.
That hurt both of them.
Then another tournament came.
Another coach watched.
Another opportunity appeared.
Years later, Taylor and Brittney still played whenever they ended up on the same beach.
They argued about calls.
Sometimes Brittney was right.
Sometimes Taylor was.
Sometimes neither had any idea and they replayed the point.
They had learned something competition rarely announces before teaching it.
Pressure doesn’t create character as neatly as people like to say.
Sometimes pressure exposes the parts of our character that still need work.
Ambition can make generous people selfish.
Fear can make honest people lie.
Competition can make friends temporarily forget what friendship requires.
That doesn’t excuse what happens next.
But it does leave people with a choice.
They can defend the worst moment.
Hide it.
Explain it away.
Blame the pressure.
Or they can look directly at what they did and decide what it will cost them the next time they’re tempted to do it again.
Taylor never forgot the point Brittney stole.
Brittney never asked her to.
Maybe that was why the friendship survived.
Some things don’t need to be forgotten to be forgiven.
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