A New Reflection

4. Stupid Question

We are gearing up for our next game, as well as for a tournament we have coming up. Our coaches are running us hard, and I'm surprised at how intense the drills are compared to last year when I played on the varsity team.

They've been having me run the setter rotations, just as Alex indicated, and I've impressed myself by how well I've done. Today I'm in a flow; my sets are consistent, and my brain is focused and locked into the complex plays.

"Nati!" cheers Kelsey when I make a particularly perfect set, which arches along the net as a bursting rainbow and lands in position for Ariya to smack the crap out of. It hurtles like a bullet to the floor on the other side of the net.

"Yeah, Nati!" Kathy and several others scream in approval. "Oh my God, look at those sets, lady!"

On the next play, someone partially shanks the first dig, but I save it at the last instant with an unexpected, one-fisted bump that allows Ariya to tip it over the net.

"Yes, Nati!" booms Alex's voice from the sideline.

"Yes! That's the way." He pumps his fist in approval and gives me a hard high-five as we jog off the court for a water break. "There's that confidence. I knew you had it in you."

He doesn't smile at me; his look is intense, all business, and I remind myself that he's here to coach volleyball. I do miss the smiles he was giving me last practice.

A few teammates head to the restroom; I wander outside behind them, alone, to get fresh air. Steve follows me.

"Hey, Natalia," he calls, giving me a light fist bump as he catches up. "Nice job so far today."

"Thanks," I reply, not knowing how to stand or where to put my arms. Steve, though kind enough, carries a serious demeanor and holds impeccable standards, which has always intimidated me.

"I was planning to give you more playing time at tomorrow's match."

My stomach lights up with butterflies. So far this season, my playing time has been less than what I was hoping for as a senior.

"I wanted to ask you, though, do you want a little bit of playing time or a lot of playing time tomorrow?" Steve inquires.

I'm completely baffled by his question. It clearly has some kind of hidden meaning, but I have no idea what he is trying to ask or convey to me. I stand there frozen as my brain neurons fire around desperately, attempting to latch onto any sensical synapses in order to form an appropriate reply.

Steve gazes at me with disappointment as I open my mouth to give the response I've yet to formulate.

"Remember how I said the other day that I need people on the court who want to be out there playing?"

"Yes," I reply weakly, beginning at last to comprehend the conversation.

"You have been playing hard in practice and putting in the effort, but I need to know that you really want to be on that volleyball court during the match," Steve drones on.

I feel like the biggest idiot in the universe. Even though the biggest idiot is actually the person standing in front of me, asking obnoxious questions.

He wants me to pretend I'm hyped up about the game. Playing hard, demonstrating the skills and putting forth my best effort isn't enough; I also have to change my personality and act more passionate. Fuck him.

I feel the tears prickling behind my eyelids, but I freeze them in place through sheer willpower.

"So, Natalia, do you want more playing time tomorrow?" my coach asks me again, in his most condescending tone yet.

"Yes, yes I do," I manage to spit out, my voice shaky.

I remain paralyzed with feet of lead after Steve has returned to the gym, my hands balled up into angry, humiliated fists by my sides.

Just then Alex passes by and immediately notices my body language. He diverts his pathway towards the gym over to me, a soft look falling across his face.

"What's wrong, Nati?" he asks me, and his words hug my bruised ego. I wish he hadn't seen me, however, because now the tears are flowing out uncontrollably, and I feel my face flush with about five opposite, conflicting emotions.

"What happened?" Alex mutters to himself, glancing around. He must be bewildered by my drastic mood shift, since five minutes before I was tearing it up on the court with more confidence than anyone has seen from me all season.

"Come here," he insists, pulling me by the wrist over to the side of the building where I will have privacy, and the other twelve girls on my team won't witness me completely breaking down. Even in my state of overwhelm, my brain registers the unexpected gesture of my coach grabbing my hand in this way. His palm is hot and clammy against my balled-up fist.

"Okay, spill," he commands matter-of-factly. "Who hurt your feelings?"

I look up at him, my vision blurred, and I feel uncomfortable about how close we are standing. It's not a negative kind of discomfort, however.

"Hey, just tell me," he coaxes, and I notice that his shoulders and entire posture curve forward, as if softening himself to comfort me. His words are gentle compared to the harsh yelling and cutting comments he often makes to us in practice.

"It's nothing. Steve asked me a stupid question, and I didn't know what he was asking, so now I look like an idiot," I blubber. I'm well aware of how dramatically I'm overreacting to the situation.

"He asked you a stupid question," Alex restates, and I can feel a twinge of amusement in his voice. I'm worried he's about to laugh at me or scold me for being a baby.

"Yes. He asked me if I want to play a lot in the match or a little bit," I explain, gaining better control over my crackling voice.

Alex raises his eyebrows. I'm not sure if he's confused about what I'm telling him, or if he agrees with me that it's a stupid question.

"A lot or a little?"

"Yes..." I say, hesitantly.

"Well, isn't that an easy question to answer?"

"Ugh!" I roll my eyes and un-ball my fists to shake them out in exasperation. I'm not angry with Alex in the same way I was with Steve, however.

"Well?" he presses, humor now shining clearly in his bright eyes.

"Exactly!" I say, somehow gaining the confidence to speak more freely due to rage-induced adrenaline. "Who asks that? It's a stupid question!"

Alex bursts into laughter. After a beat, I do as well.

"It is a stupid question," he agrees with me, wiping his forehead. "So why wouldn't you just say, 'Coach Steve, I want to play a lot! The whole match! I want so much playing time!'" He has raised his voice to an exaggerated high pitch, to imitate a high school girl's tone, I presume. At the same time, he's obviously making fun of Steve; all my anger vaporizes in an instant.

"Because I didn't know what he was asking me!" I reply, wiping my tears, which have morphed from drops of anger and humiliation to droplets of laughter.

"Okay, well. Are you ready to brush it off now?" Alex asks me, and I'm not sure if what happens next is real or imagined. He tugs down the sleeve of his navy blue "Genius" shirt and uses the fabric to wipe the tears off both my cheeks in quick succession, as if it's the most normal action.

"There, now no one knows you've been crying."

I roll my eyes and shake my head, fully aware of how red and puffy my entire face is right now.

"Sure," I retort.

"You look normal."

Alex taps my back once in a gesture letting me know that we need to head back to the gym now, and he takes off quickly ahead of me, his steps springy and confident. He half-swivels his head in order to toss a final comment back at me, and I swear this is what I hear him say...

"Gorgeous."