Page 58 of Wicked Serve

“It’s impossible for me not to notice you,” he says. There’s depth in his voice, as if saying this is costing him something. “You walk into a room and I know it’s you, instantly, solnishko. You couldn’t hide from me if you tried.”

“That word.” My pulse hammers wildly. He said it once, presumably when he thought I was asleep. “I remember it.”

His hand digs into my thigh, just under the slit in the dress. I hook my fingers in his tuxedo jacket, pulling him even closer.

“It’s what I think of when I see you.” His nose skims up the side of my neck; he kisses my ear. “Little sun.”

My breath falters as he gathers my hair over one shoulder. He sucks on the spot over my pulse until there’s no doubt it’ll leave a hickey. A claim. I feel warm, and not from the pre-gaming we did at the house. I’ll have to be careful to cover it with my hair, but right now, I don’t care.

I freeze as the realization hits me. I don’t care.

I wish I could walk out of here wearing his hickey, his tuxedo jacket; I wish I could pepper his face with lipstick kisses. I wish more than anything that I could kiss him in front of everyone, my brothers included. But claiming comes with a label, and he’s never used that word to describe me. Solnishko is beautiful, but it’s not the same as girlfriend.

I ease away, trying to find the right words—any words—to combat the sudden tumble of my heart.

“Nik,” I whisper, breath hitching.

He pulls me close once more. “Yes, solnishko?”

My hands feel slick; I nearly lose my grip on the stupid plastic gun. I wet my lips, searching those gold-flecked eyes. I have no idea what to say. All I know is that I don’t want to lose this, in whatever form I can have it. We wouldn’t be kissing if the lights came on, no matter what he whispers in my ear.

So instead, I raise my laser gun to his vest and shoot him in the ribs—right as Evan pulls down the red team flag.

Chapter 28

Izzy

I jog off to the bench on the side of the court, grabbing my water bottle and taking a big gulp. We’re between sets, so I shouldn’t tear my focus away from the match, but I can’t help but look for my family in the stands. My volleyball matches don’t draw the same kind of crowd that you see at McKee hockey or football, so it’s easy to spot them right at the end of one of the higher rows. Mom’s wearing a cashmere turtleneck, and Dad a collared shirt. Sebastian has on an atrocious geometric sweater that I’m sure Mia hates.

After my match is over, we’re going straight to the hockey game. They’re playing UMass Amherst—a traditional pre-Thanksgiving rivalry game—which means more to Nikolai than the rest of the team combined. He wouldn’t admit it to me during this morning’s run, but I’m sure he’s nervous.

One more set to get through first. After, we’ll either have a winning record again, or slip back in the standings.

“Let’s huddle up, ladies,” Coach Alexis says.

I give my parents another quick look before joining the huddle. Dad’s sitting with his elbows balanced on his knees, fingers steepled in front of him as he takes in the scene. I’ll bet he noticed my miscommunication with Shona last set just as quickly as Alexis did. She only played me at setter for the first set, then switched to Brooklyn.

I took it without complaint, like everything else this season, but relief washes over me as she says, “Ready to set again, Izzy?”

I nod. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Good.” She quickly outlines the plan, monitoring the clock that’s counting down until we need to take the court again. “Remember, a short set means we don’t have room for mistakes. We practiced the moves for this situation, so just stay focused and we’ll be able to head into the final stretch of the season with a win.”

We come in close and count one-two-three-McKee, then break with a cheer. Brooklyn pats me on the back before I take the court. I smile as I adjust my elbow wrap. It shouldn’t feel different with Mom and Dad here, but it does.

Alexis is right, we practice these kinds of situations all the time. I know the moves, I know the signals. We’re receiving the serve first, so I get into position just behind my front row attackers, Ellie and Shona. Victoria’s behind me with the two other back row players, her long-sleeved black libero jersey a contrast to our home purple.

St. Francis serves. The volleyball comes over the net like a cannon, but our defensive specialist dives to hit it back into the air. It goes high enough that I’m able to set it up for Ellie, but they block her attempt at a spike, and the ball falls on our side of the net.

We all come into the huddle. “Watch out for nine,” I say, gesturing to the St. Francis attacker who blocked Ellie’s move. “She’s the strongest. If we’re going to get past her, it’ll be by placing it where she can’t reach.”

Adrenaline zings through me as we set up for their next serve. Everything but the court melts away.

This time, a rally gets going, each side diving to keep it alive at the last moment. Finally, Shona buries it in the back corner, and we tie it up. I give her a high five as we reset. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom and Sebastian cheering.

But we lose the next point. And the next. St. Francis keeps serving, and we keep flubbing the move that will break the pattern. They’re so deft at placing the serve, we’re on our heels each rally.

I gesture to Alexis, who calls for a time-out. I take a quick drink of water on the sidelines, listening intently as she goes over the set so far and the adjustments she wants us to make. I shuffle through the formations mentally, nodding when she tells me which ones to try out and which substitutions she’s making. We line up to provide more man coverage for the next serve, and finally get a break when St. Francis’s weaker attacker misreads the ball.

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