"Shaw, can I talk to you a minute?" Coach yelled from the other side of the gym before I could escape into the locker room. My performance had been less than stellar.
"You shouldn't have made Becca cry," Ally sing-singed over my shoulder.
I gave her a scathing look, but she only stuck her tongue out at me. She was about the only person immune to my powers of intimidation. At least somebody on this team had a backbone. Becca sure didn't.
"Well, maybe Becca shouldn't be so sensitive," I muttered under my breath as I walked across the gleaming floor. Besides, there was no crying in volleyball. And it wasn't my fault Becca couldn't dig her way out of a box of packing peanuts.
"Everything okay with you?" Coach asked.
"Yes, ma'am," I said, my tone on the defensive side. I pulled my shoulders back and wiped at a dribble of sweat on my cheek.
"I understand you get frustrated, Erin. You have talent. You take this game seriously, and I appreciate that. I wish every girl on the team took the game as seriously as you. It would make my job easier. But I'm the coach, not you."
No shit, Sherlock.
I'd let my frustration over the situation with my dad and Jamie get the better of me, and I'd taken it out on a teammate. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. I couldn't help that I was having a bad day, and that was being generous. I'd sucked. Like seriously. A kill shot hit me in the head. I hadn't even seen it coming. My head was still pounding. I netted every serve. Every. Single. One.
"I've just got some stuff on my mind. No big deal."
"You sure?" Her eyebrows rose into her highlighted bangs as if she didn't believe me. Coach Hall was a classically built volleyball player. Tall, with arms and legs that went on forever. A year ago, volleyball wasn't even on my radar, not seriously anyway. She'd spotted me playing beach volleyball with Donovan and Tate and a group of their friends on a Sunday afternoon. Pick-up games were pretty easy to find, and I'd had a knack for the game since the first time I'd stepped onto a court, sand or otherwise. Coach Hall had been sitting with her husband at the Tiki bar that overlooked the play area, sipping Margaritas. Recognizing me as one of her students, she'd actively started recruiting me for the school's team the next day.
"Yes ma'am, I'm sure," I replied. And then I felt a little guilty for giving her attitude. She'd done everything she could to help me develop the skills I had. She'd even offered a couple of solid recommendations to the two club teams I was interested in, knowing it would mean I probably couldn't play for her anymore.
"It's not like you to bring your troubles to the court. We've got a tough schedule next week, followed by the Area Tournament. I need you on top of your game."
"I know and I will be." I dropped my arms and tried to erase the absolutely witchy face I'd been deliberately sporting since practice started. I was miserable and wanted everyone else to be miserable too. And here Coach was being nice to me when she should have been ripping me a new one. I wasn't so absorbed in my own drama that I didn't see that.
"It's not just about the game. I know I've been pushing you hard, but that's only because I believe you have a future in this game, if you want it. But the game isn't everything. If I've put too much pressure on you, if it's a boy, if you need to talk, I'm here."
"There's no boy." Technically, that was the truth, which was why I was in this crappy mood because there was no boy. "I can handle it. It was just one bad day. And thanks, really. I'll be better tomorrow," I said, determined to mean it.
Jamie was just a boy.
Tomorrow would be better.