A New Reflection

45. Lake Tahoe

I went away to basketball camp twice during high school and despised it. It's not that anything bad happened; I simply didn't enjoy being out of the comfort and emotional safety of my own home for days on end. At the time, I wouldn't have admitted to anyone—not even myself—that I didn't like it. Introverts do this often, I believe. I pretended to be fine, participating in the practice sessions, the water balloon fights, the team skits, the late night movies, convincing myself that it was all a bunch of fun. But it's difficult to fully enjoy experiences when you're floating in a thick bubble of general discomfort.

This time around, slight tickles of anxiety nag at me here and there like stubborn spiderwebs I have to brush off, but for the most part I feel confident in my ability to step into this situation after a year of being at college.

The coaches run us hard during the day through various drills and exercises, and some are much tougher in their demeanor than Steve and Alex. My beginner's luck has run dry, and my skills have returned to their normal, average level. There are moments of critique that sting my ego and probably would make me cry under normal circumstances, but my brain is saturated in dopamine due to Alex. Besides, with regards to volleyball, I have literally nothing at stake.

After an exhausting day of physical exertion, even more intense due to the Tahoe altitude, we hit the showers and head down for dinner. I have barely seen Alex the entire day; we split into two teams for the afternoon scrimmages, and I was on Steve's team.

"Hermosa." The word is whispered low and zips directly into my ear like a tiny butterfly delivering a message. He's behind me in the buffet line.

I twist my head only slightly to the left to acknowledge I have heard him, afraid of tumbling into the color wheel of his eyes.

"Me gusta tu... chaleco." Alex makes use of his bilingual skills to compliment me in the middle of the bustling cafeteria, since no one else on the team speaks Spanish. Although he has just told me he likes my vest. I'm wearing a jean skirt, a bit on the short side (for me, anyway) with a white top.

"¿Mi chaleco?" I peer up, my amusement flickering into his hazel mosaiced eyes for a brief moment.

"¿Vestido?" Unaffected, he tries again with dress, then piles his plate full of roasted red potatoes.

Teasing him, I make a doubtful "eh" sound indicating he is close enough. I take my time selecting silverware at the end of the buffet line; my fingers are trembly. Alex moves close to me, brushing my shoulder with his as he grabs a stack of paper napkins.

"Me ayudas a practicar mi español este verano, ¿ya?" He tells me I can help him practice his Spanish over the summer.

Flushed and realizing most of the team is seated at a nearby table, I nod and walk off before we give ourselves away, finding an open seat next to Shelly. Alex proceeds to a different table to mingle with the other coaches. I feel a stab of jealousy when I notice a beautiful woman with long blonde hair smile at him.

The green prickles of doubt evaporate when Alex texts me in the middle of dinner:

¿Cómo se dice "cute jean skirt" en español? with two winking emojis.

I sort of want him to stop, because I feel on display despite the fact that I know nobody is paying attention to us; the heat in the cafeteria is strangling and I'm beginning to sweat. When I peek his way, I can tell from the form of his lips that he is fully aware of my presence and glances.

"Are you okay, Nati?" Shelly startles me from my private world.

"Yeah." My answer squeaks out, automatic and inauthentic.