Chapter Text
The buzzer was counting down—five, four, three—and Yoonchae had the ball.
She'd always loved this moment. The way time stretched and compressed simultaneously, the gym noise fading to white static, her entire world narrowing to the weight of the ball in her hands and the arc she needed to create. This was the only time Yoonchae didn't feel shy—when there were three seconds left and everyone was watching but somehow she couldn't see any of them. Just the basket. Just the shot.
Muscle memory took over: bend the knees, elbow in, follow through. The ball left her fingertips with a backspin that looked, even to her own eyes, perfect.
Swish.
The gym erupted. Her teammates swarmed her—arms around her shoulders, hands ruffling her hair, voices overlapping in victory. Yoonchae allowed herself to be pulled into the celebration, grinning despite the fact that physical affection from multiple people at once usually made her want to crawl into a locker. But this was different. This was basketball. On the court, she knew what to do with her hands.
"State championship, here we come!" her point guard, Nayoung, yelled directly into her ear at a volume that could shatter glass.
Yoonchae nodded enthusiastically, which was easier than trying to match Nayoung's energy verbally. Speaking during celebrations felt like trying to have a conversation during a fire alarm.
Coach Martinez fought through the crowd to reach her. "Twenty-eight points, twelve rebounds, and the game winner. That's my MVP." She pulled Yoonchae into a hug. "Next year, kiddo. We're going all the way."
Next year. The words sat warm in Yoonchae's chest as she showered and changed, as she posed for team photos (positioned safely in the back row where she could just smile and not have to think of poses), as she packed her gym bag with the kind of contentment that came from knowing exactly where you belonged.
Her mom was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against their sedan with a proud smile. "Game winner, huh?"
"Someone had to do it." Yoonchae tossed her bag in the trunk, still riding the high. "Coach says if we keep playing like this, we could make state. Actual state championships, Mom."
"About that." Her mother's smile shifted, became something more complicated. "Let's grab dinner. We need to talk."
The thing about "we need to talk" was that it never preceded good news. Also, the thing about Yoonchae was that those four words made her immediately start cataloging every possible mistake she'd made in the last six months.
They went to their usual spot—a Korean restaurant three blocks from their apartment where the owner knew their order by heart, which was good because Yoonchae hated ordering food out loud. Her mom handled it while Yoonchae studied the table like it might have answers.
"Your father got a promotion," her mom said finally. "It's a good opportunity. Really good. But it's in the city, and the commute from here would be impossible."
Yoonchae's chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth. "We're moving."
"In two months. Right after Christmas break." Her mom reached across the table. "I know the timing is terrible. I know you have state championships and your team—"
"When were you going to tell me?" The question came out quieter than Yoonchae intended, which was how most of her questions came out. She'd never mastered the art of righteous indignation at a volume other people could actually hear.
"We just found out last week. We wanted to be sure before we said anything." Her mom squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry, baby. I know how much basketball means to you."
Yoonchae set down her chopsticks, suddenly not hungry. Two months. She had two months left of this team, this season, this life she'd built. Basketball was the one place she didn't have to be shy, didn't have to think about what to say or how to act. The court had rules. Clear rules. And she was good at following them.
"There are schools in the city," her mom continued. "Good schools. You'll make new friends, join a new team—"
"I don't want a new team." The words came out sharper than intended, which meant they came out at a normal speaking volume. "I want my team."
"I know. And I'm sorry. But this is happening." Her mom's voice was gentle but firm. "Your father and I have to do what's best for the family."
Yoonchae stared at her untouched food and tried to calculate the social expectations of this moment. Was she supposed to cry? Yell? She felt like doing both but also neither, which was deeply unhelpful.
"Can I at least finish the season?" she asked finally.
"Of course. We wouldn't move until after winter break." Her mom smiled sadly. "You'll get to play through December."
Yoonchae nodded and focused very hard on her food, because eye contact during emotional moments felt like staring directly at the sun.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The next two months felt like watching sand slip through an hourglass, if hourglasses made you want to cry every time you looked at them.
Every practice became precious. Every game felt weighted with the knowledge that there were only so many left. Her teammates knew—Yoonchae had told them the week after finding out, in a team huddle where she could address everyone at once and not have to repeat the story seven individual times—and they played with a desperation that propelled them through district semifinals, then finals.
Nayoung had hugged her for a full minute after she'd made the announcement, which was like fifty seconds longer than Yoonchae's comfort threshold but she'd allowed it because Nayoung was crying and Yoonchae didn't know the protocol for rejecting sad hugs.
They lost in the regional championship by three points. A close game, a heartbreaker. Yoonchae had played well—twenty-four points, fifteen rebounds—but it wasn't enough. In the locker room afterward, she sat in front of her locker and tried to decide if she was allowed to cry when everyone else was already crying.
Coach Martinez pulled her aside. "I'm going to miss you, Yoonchae. Best player I've ever coached."
"I'm going to miss you too." Yoonchae's throat felt tight. She wanted to say more—wanted to explain how much this team meant, how basketball was the only place she felt like herself—but the words stuck. So she just nodded and hoped Coach understood.
"Hey." Coach waited until Yoonchae met her eyes, which took effort. "You're going to do great things. Whatever school you end up at, they're lucky to have you. Don't forget that."
Yoonchae nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. It's not like she had a way with words to begin with.
The team threw her a goodbye party—pizza and terrible karaoke. Yoonchae sat in the corner and watched her teammates sing aggressively off-key renditions of pop songs, feeling both grateful and overwhelmed. Nayoung tried to get her to sing a duet (absolutely not), so Yoonchae compromised by doing backup claps, which felt like a reasonable contribution.
They gave her a signed basketball. Everyone had written messages. "To our MVP," Nayoung wrote. "Destroy them at your new school. But also we miss you already???"
Yoonchae packed the ball carefully in her suitcase two weeks later, nestled between clothes and the life she was leaving behind.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The new apartment was smaller but nicer, in a neighborhood that felt aggressively clean and wealthy. This reminded her of places where people jogged with expensive strollers and probably had opinions about organic vegetables. Yoonchae's room had good light and space for her basketball trophies, but it felt empty in a way that made her want to unpack very slowly and hope that would somehow prove to her that this is just one big dream.
"We'll make it home," her mom promised.
Yoonchae nodded and arranged her trophies on the shelf, each one a small monument to a version of herself that felt increasingly distant.
School started in three days. Dream Academy—a name that sounded like it should come with a dress code involving bonnets. Her parents had researched extensively ("great academics," "strong community," "excellent college placement rates"), which Yoonchae translated to mean "expensive and potentially terrifying."
The tuition rate had made her physically wince. For that price, she'd assumed the school had every amenity possible, including probably a basketball team that played on courts made of gold.
On the first day of school, she learned that assumptions were dangerous.
Dream Academy was beautiful! It felt designed to make regular people feel poor. Manicured gardens, buildings that looked like they'd been airlifted from a European postcard, girls in crisp uniforms walking between classes with the kind of casual confidence that Yoonchae envied desperately. Everyone seemed to know each other already. Everyone seemed to know where they were going. Yoonchae clutched her schedule and tried to become invisible, which was difficult when you were five-foot-seven and Asian in a sea of mostly white students who'd probably all gone to kindergarten together.
The athletic facilities were impressive. She found the gym during lunch—a massive space with glossy floors that squeaked in a satisfying way and state-of-the-art equipment. Volleyball nets were set up on both courts.
No basketball hoops in sight.
Yoonchae stood in the doorway for a full minute, convinced she'd somehow walked into the wrong gym. Maybe the basketball hoops were retractable? Hidden in the ceiling? This was a rich school—surely they could afford hidden basketball hoops.
"Looking for something?"
Yoonchae jumped approximately three feet in the air and made a sound that was somehow both a squeak and a gasp. A woman in her late twenties stood behind her—athletic build, warm smile, clipboard in hand, and far too energetic at this time of day. She probably already had two espressos and was considering a third.
"Sorry! Didn't mean to scare you." The woman laughed. "I'm Sophia Laforteza, volleyball coach. You look lost. First day?"
"Yes. I mean—yes to first day. Not lost. Well, maybe lost." Yoonchae was doing that thing where she talked too much when nervous, which was ironic because usually she didn't talk at all. "I was looking for the basketball team? Information about it?"
"Ah." Sophia's smile became sympathetic in a way that made Yoonchae's stomach drop. "You must be new. Unfortunately, Dream doesn't have a women's basketball team."
Yoonchae blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, I know. It's—well, it's a whole thing." Sophia gestured for Yoonchae to follow her into the gym, which felt presumptuous but Yoonchae followed anyway because what else was she going to do? "The boys have a team. The girls have volleyball, soccer, tennis, and swimming. Basketball was discontinued about five years ago."
"That doesn't make sense. Basketball is—" Yoonchae tried to find words. "It's basketball."
"I agree! Big fan of basketball. Love basketball. But Sister Catherine, our principal, has some..." Sophia paused, clearly choosing her words carefully, "traditional views about appropriate activities for young women."
"What does that mean?"
Sophia glanced around like she was checking for hidden nuns, then lowered her voice. "Official reason for cutting the program? Budget and lack of interest. Unofficial reason? Sister Catherine thinks basketball is too aggressive for girls. Too physical. She worries about the culture it creates."
Yoonchae stared at her. "The culture?"
"The culture of girls in basketball shorts being close to their teammates and maybe cutting their hair short and listening to certain music and having team bonding that looks a little too bondy." Sophia's expression was carefully neutral. "She thinks basketball turns girls gay. Which—to be clear—is insane. I mean, I played volleyball in college and I'm bisexual, so clearly the sport didn't matter. But try explaining that to a seventy-year-old nun who thinks Harry Potter is witchcraft."
Yoonchae's brain was having trouble processing this information. Seems like Coach Laforteza loves to talk. Makes her a great coach already. "She thinks basketball makes girls gay."
"Yep."
"Basketball."
"The sport, yes."
"That's—" Yoonchae searched for an appropriate word and landed on: "—stupid?"
"Very stupid!" Sophia agreed cheerfully. "But unfortunately, Sister Catherine has been here for twenty years and she's not going anywhere. The parents love her because she runs a tight ship and gets kids into good colleges. So we're stuck with her views on appropriate femininity, which include: no basketball, no pants in the dress code, and no dances without chaperones stationed every six feet."
Yoonchae felt something that might have been her entire future crumbling. "So I just... don't play basketball?"
"Not at Dream, unfortunately." Sophia tilted her head, studying her. "You play basketball? Like, seriously?"
"Since I was eight. Varsity at my old school." The words felt heavy. "We almost made state this year."
"Damn. That's—I'm really sorry." Sophia's sympathy seemed genuine. "That's a huge loss. What position?"
"Power forward. Sometimes center."
"So you're tall—well, obviously—athletic, you can jump, you understand court dynamics." A few moments passed. Sophia's eyes lit up more than it already did. "Ever consider volleyball?"
"Not really. I mean, I've seen it? But I don't—I don't know anything about it."
"Perfect! You're not ruined by bad habits yet." Sophia pulled out her clipboard with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just solved a puzzle. "Tryouts are tomorrow after school. We desperately need a middle blocker—that's basically the position for tall people who can jump and aren't afraid of getting hit in the face. You'd be learning from scratch, but you've got the physical tools. And between you and me, you'd be doing me a huge favor because we lost our starting middle to graduation and we're short on height. Pun intended."
Yoonchae's default response to high-energy invitations was usually to nod and then never follow through, but something about Sophia's directness was disarming. "I don't know anything about volleyball. Like, genuinely nothing. I don't even know how scoring works."
"That's literally what practice is for! Look, I get it. This isn't what you wanted. This is a consolation prize at best. But here's the thing—if you're serious about playing college sports, you need to be on a team. Scouts don't care what sport it is on your transcript. They care that you're coachable, dedicated, part of something bigger than yourself." Sophia handed her a piece of paper. "Show up tomorrow. Give it one shot. If you hate it, fine. At least you'll know. But maybe—and hear me out—maybe you'll surprise yourself."
Yoonchae took the paper. Her immediate instinct was to say no, to explain that she was shy and didn't know anyone and the idea of trying out for a team sport where she'd definitely be bad in front of strangers sounded like actual torture.
But the alternative was not playing anything at all. Sitting in her empty room with her trophies, watching YouTube videos of other people playing basketball.
"One tryout," she heard herself say.
"That's all I'm asking!" Sophia's smile was bright enough to power a small city. "Wear athletic clothes. Bring water. Prepare to fall on the floor a lot—we do that in volleyball. It's very dramatic. You'll love it or hate it, but either way, it'll be interesting."
After Sophia left, Yoonchae stood alone in the gym, looking at the volleyball nets where basketball hoops should be, and thought: This is my life now. Basketball is gay and I play volleyball.
Cool. Cool cool cool.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Yoonchae spent that evening in a YouTube spiral that would have concerned her parents if they'd known about it.
The sport made absolutely no sense. Why did some players wear different colored jerseys? Were they the team rebels? The punishment jerseys? Why did everyone rotate positions like they were playing musical chairs? And most baffling of all—why were they throwing themselves at the ground like the floor had personally insulted their ancestors?
"It's like basketball," she muttered to herself at 1 AM, "if basketball had been designed by someone who'd only had basketball described to them by someone who'd never played basketball."
She watched a video titled "Volleyball Positions Explained" three times and retained maybe fifteen percent of the information. Something about a libero. Something about rotations. Something about not touching the net, which seemed obvious but apparently needed to be a rule.
The next afternoon, she arrived at the gym fifteen minutes early, because being late to things where she didn't know anyone felt like showing up to your own execution tardy.
A handful of other girls were already there—some stretching with the kind of casual flexibility like they'd been doing this for years, others passing balls back and forth in a rhythm that looked almost choreographed. Yoonchae stood near the door with her water bottle, trying to decide if she should stretch (and risk looking like she didn't know how to stretch) or just stand there (and risk looking like a lost freshman).
She chose standing. Standing was safe.
"You came!" Sophia appeared beside her like a very enthusiastic ghost. "I wasn't totally sure you would. Thought you might chicken out. No judgment if you did—tryouts are scary."
"I'm here," Yoonchae confirmed, which was obvious but she didn't know what else to say.
"Have you been practicing?"
"I watched videos?"
"Perfect! That counts." Sophia handed her a volleyball. "Here's your first real-life lesson: volleyball is a team sport in the most literal, most codependent, most 'we're-all-in-this-together' sense possible. You cannot win a point by yourself. Every play requires minimum three touches—pass, set, hit. You're only as good as your worst teammate, which sounds mean but is just facts."
"That's... different from basketball."
"Very different! In basketball, one great player can carry a mediocre team. In volleyball, one weak player can sink an excellent team. It's very democratic. Very anxiety-inducing." Sophia grinned. "The good news is that makes everyone invested in helping each other improve. The bad news is there's absolutely no hiding. You will be perceived at all times."
Yoonchae's face must have done something, because Sophia laughed. "Sorry, is that not comforting? I'm trying to be honest. You seem like someone who appreciates honesty."
"I do," Yoonchae said quietly. "I just also appreciate not being perceived."
"Oh, you're gonna hate volleyball."
More girls filtered in. Yoonchae counted fifteen total, which seemed like a lot for tryouts. Then she remembered Sophia saying they needed a middle blocker—these girls were probably already on the team, just here for the evaluation. Great. An audition in front of people who actually knew what they were doing. This was fine. This was totally fine. This was her personal nightmare but it was fine.
"Alright, everyone!" Sophia clapped her hands with the energy of a summer camp counselor. "For those who don't know, I'm Coach Laforteza, but you can call me Coach Soph or just Coach or 'hey you with the clipboard.' We're going to start with some basic drills to warm up, then move into position-specific work. New players—don't panic if you don't know what you're doing. That's literally why we practice. Volleyball is fake and the rules are made up, but we're all here anyway."
They started with passing drills. Yoonchae quickly learned that "passing" in volleyball meant something completely different than basketball. You didn't catch the ball—you couldn't catch the ball, which seemed rude. You had to angle your arms and let the ball bounce off your forearms, directing it toward the target.
It felt wrong and unnatural. Like trying to eat soup with a fork or write with your non-dominant hand.
"Flat platform!" Sophia called out. "Yoonchae, you're swinging your arms like you're swatting a fly. Don't swat. Just angle."
Yoonchae tried not to swat. The ball ricocheted off her arms at a forty-five-degree angle and hit the wall with an audible thump.
Several of the returning players looked over. Yoonchae wanted to sink into the floor, which was ironic because apparently in volleyball you were supposed to dive on the floor voluntarily.
"It's okay! Everyone's first passes look like that. My first pass hit my coach in the face. True story." Sophia jogged over, demonstrating the arm position. "Think of your arms as a table. Like you're a fancy dining table. The ball is a very important plate. You wouldn't swing a plate around, right?"
The comparison was weird but somehow helped. Yoonchae's next pass went in the right direction which felt like a major victory.
"Better! See? You're learning. Again."
They moved through various drills. Serving—which looked simple but required hitting the ball with a specific part of your hand at a specific angle while also somehow making it go over the net, which was very high and very far away. Setting—which was apparently different from passing and involved your fingertips, which felt even more impossible because fingertips were small and balls were large.
And finally, hitting.
"This is where basketball players usually shine," Sophia announced. "Jumping is universal. Yoonchae, you're up."
Hitting involved a three-step approach (left-right-left, which she'd learned from the videos but had immediately forgotten), a jump, and swinging at the ball with an open hand. The approach felt wrong—her body wanted to do a basketball approach, two feet, maximum power. Volleyball wanted something faster, more explosive, one-footed.
Her first attempt, she jumped too early and too wrong. The ball sailed past her while she was still in the air, just hovering there uselessly like a confused bird.
"Too early! Wait for the set!"
Second attempt, too late. The ball dropped in front of her while she was still on the ground.
"Now you're too late! Split the difference! Find the middle!"
Third attempt, she made contact—actual contact—and the ball went over the net with velocity she didn't know she could generate.
"YES! THAT'S IT!" Sophia pumped her fist like Yoonchae had just won the Olympics. "That's what I'm talking about! Basketball player with a volleyball arm! Again!"
Yoonchae tried again. And again. By the tenth attempt, she was getting it more often than not. Not perfect—definitely not even good by volleyball standards—but better than "disaster," which she'll take.
"Alright, water break!" Sophia called out. "Then we're scrimmaging so I can see you all in game situations. It's gonna be chaos. Embrace the chaos."
During water break, one of the returning players approached. She was tall—almost as tall as Yoonchae by a few centimeters—with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a remarkable scowl.
"You're the basketball player," she said. Not a question. A statement of fact, possibly an accusation.
"Yoonchae." She offered her hand, which immediately felt too formal. Why had she offered her hand? This wasn't a business meeting.
The girl looked at Yoonchae's hand for a moment—a long moment, an uncomfortable moment—before shaking it with the grip of someone who was definitely stronger than they looked. "Megan. Team captain. Middle blocker."
Oh. Oh no. This was her competition. Or replacement. Or whatever the volleyball equivalent was. Yoonchae was auditioning for this person's position, which suddenly made this interaction make a lot more sense and also made Yoonchae want to leave immediately.
"Coach says you're trying out for middle?" Megan's tone was carefully neutral in a way that felt more dangerous than if she'd just been openly hostile.
"Coach suggested it. I don't really know what that means yet." Yoonchae's voice came out quieter than intended. "I'm still figuring out the basics."
"Middle blocker means you need to block, read the setter, transition quickly, and hit fast tempo sets. It's one of the most technical positions on the court." Megan's eyes traveled over Yoonchae in a way that felt like being assessed for parts. "It takes most people years to learn. Some people never really get it."
"Oh." Yoonchae tried to think of something to say that wasn't just "oh" again. "Well. I'm a fast learner?"
It came out like a question. Why had it come out like a question?
Something flickered in Megan's expression—surprise, maybe, or irritation, or possibly amusement but the mean kind. "We'll see. We have regionals this season. Coach needs someone reliable, not a project."
She walked away before Yoonchae could respond, which was fine because Yoonchae had no response prepared and probably would have just said "oh" a third time.
"Don't mind Megan," another girl said, appearing at Yoonchae's elbow with the kind of smile that suggested she witnessed that entire interaction and found it entertaining. "She's intense, but she's not mean. Well, she's a little mean. But not, like, cruel. Just... competitive."
"Right," Yoonchae said. "Competitive. Cool."
"I'm Lara, outside hitter." She gestured around the gym. "That's Manon, other outside. Daniela's our libero—the short one in the different colored jersey who looks like she's plotting something. And you met Megan, our fearless captain who's probably going to make your life interesting for the next few weeks."
"She seems thrilled about me being here."
"Oh, she's definitely not thrilled. She's a senior, this is her last shot at regionals, and we've never made it past districts." Lara's smile was sympathetic. "So yeah, she's stressed. And you're new. And tall. And trying out for her position. It's a whole thing."
"Maybe I should just—" Yoonchae gestured vaguely toward the door.
"No! Don't leave. Coach Soph doesn't bring people to tryouts unless she thinks they have real potential. So you must have something." Lara nudged her in a way that was probably meant to be encouraging. "Come on, scrimmage is starting. Try not to die. Megan plays hard but she's not, like, actually going to kill you. Probably."
"Probably?"
"Ninety percent sure."
The scrimmage was chaos in its purest form.
Yoonchae understood maybe thirty percent of what was happening, which was generous. People kept rotating—why were they rotating? who decided this?—and calling out numbers that apparently meant something to everyone except her. She was put in the front row and told to "block middle," which sounded simple until she realized it meant reading where the ball was going before it got there, then moving to intercept it, all while three other things were happening simultaneously and also everyone was yelling.
She was terrible at it. There was no way of sugar-coating this, unfortunately.
But occasionally—just occasionally—her basketball instincts kicked in. She read a play correctly. She timed a jump right. She got a hand on the ball and felt it redirect, felt that split-second satisfaction of affecting the play even if she didn't fully understand the play.
And once, just once, Sophia set her perfectly—a ball that appeared exactly where Yoonchae needed it when she needed it there—and she hit it clean. Not hard, not fancy, just clean. The ball went exactly where she aimed it, dropped in a spot no one could reach.
"POINT!" Sophia yelled like Yoonchae had just discovered fire. "That's what I'm talking about! Natural athlete! Basketball brain with volleyball potential!"
Across the net, Megan was watching her with an expression Yoonchae couldn't quite read and didn't want to read and definitely wasn't going to think about later.
(She was definitely going to think about it later.)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Sophia posted the roster the next morning.
Yoonchae found herself standing in front of the athletics bulletin board with a dozen other girls, all of whom seemed more comfortable with the concept of existing in a group than she was. She scanned the list once, quickly, then again more slowly to make sure she'd read it correctly.
There—middle of the list, jersey number 14.
YOONCHAE JEUNG - MIDDLE BLOCKER
She'd made the team. After one tryout. One day of being aggressively mediocre at a sport she didn't understand.
"Congratulations."
Yoonchae jumped—why did people keep appearing behind her?—and turned. Megan stood there, arms crossed, face unreadable in that specific way people's faces became unreadable when they were actually very readable but trying not to be. Yoonchae, calm down! Too many thoughts.
"Thanks," Yoonchae said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near "nervous."
"You got in after one day of tryouts." Megan's voice was even. Carefully even. The kind of even that took effort. "Do you know how many girls have been coming to open gyms all summer? Practicing on their own time? Working for years to earn a spot on this team?"
"I didn't ask Coach to—"
"No, you just showed up tall and athletic and got handed a position that people have been training for." Megan stepped closer. She was actually slightly shorter than Yoonchae which somehow made the moment more intense because Yoonchae had to look down slightly and eye contact was already her least favorite activity. "Lara has been backup middle blocker for two years. Two years. She knows every rotation, every play, every tendency of every hitter in our conference. She's earned this spot."
"Then why didn't Coach choose her?" The question came out before Yoonchae could stop it, and immediately she regretted it because Megan's expression hardened.
"Because Coach thinks potential is more important than dedication." Megan's eyes were dark and steady and Yoonchae wanted to look away but felt like that would be admitting defeat in a contest she didn't know she'd entered. "You're a project, Yoonchae. A gamble. An experiment. And I have six months until regionals to turn you into someone who won't completely embarrass us."
"I'm a fast learner—" Yoonchae tried.
"Being tall isn't enough. Being athletic isn't enough. Volleyball requires game sense that takes years to develop, and we don't have years. We have months." Megan turned to leave, then paused. "First practice is tomorrow after school. Don't be late. And get proper shoes—your basketball sneakers won't cut it."
She walked away, and Yoonchae stood there feeling like she'd just been professionally dismantled by someone who was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent going to make her life very difficult.
Also—and this was inconvenient—Megan was kind of unfairly attractive when she was being intimidating, which felt like a betrayal of Yoonchae's own survival instincts.
Sophia found her ten minutes later, still staring at the roster board like it might have different information if she looked long enough.
"Having second thoughts?" the coach asked gently.
"Should I be?"
"Probably." Sophia's smile was wry. "Megan's not wrong about it being a gamble. You've got a lot to learn and not much time to learn it. And the team..." She trailed off diplomatically. "They've worked hard to get where they are. Having someone walk in and take a spot, especially someone who doesn't even know the sport—it creates friction. All the things that make coaching interesting but also give me stress headaches."
"Then why did you pick me?"
Sophia was quiet for a moment, considering. "Because I've been coaching for six years, and I've learned to recognize something in athletes. It's not just skill or size or even dedication. It's hunger. It makes someone show up to a tryout for a sport they don't know because the alternative is not playing at all." She met Yoonchae's eyes. "You have that. And hunger, properly directed, can be just as valuable as experience. Maybe more valuable, actually, because experienced players sometimes forget why they started playing in the first place."
"Megan hates me."
"Megan doesn't hate you. She's afraid." Sophia adjusted her clipboard. "She's afraid you'll fail and cost them their season. Maybe you'll succeed and prove that her years of dedication weren't as irreplaceable as she thought. Either way, you represent change, and Megan is someone who likes control." She smiled. "So prove her wrong. Work harder than everyone else. Learn faster. Earn your spot, not just by making the roster, but by becoming someone this team can't function without."
"No pressure."
"All the pressure. Maximum pressure." Sophia squeezed her shoulder. "But I believe you can do it. Now go buy volleyball shoes. And maybe watch some videos on rotations. And blocking footwork. And setting. Actually, just watch a lot of videos. Tomorrow's going to be intense."
Yoonchae looked at her name on the roster one more time. Dream Academy Volleyball. Jersey number 14. A sport she didn't understand, a team that didn't want her, and a captain who'd already decided she was going to fail.
She thought about her basketball team at her old school. About Coach Martinez saying "best player I've ever coached." About game winners and state championship dreams.
That was gone. This was what she had now. This was her "basketball makes you gay so here's volleyball" consolation prize.
"Okay," she said quietly to no one in particular. "Let's do this."
Narrator voice: She was not ready to do this.