Chapter 11: The Volleyball Tournament
The sand was hot, a dusty gold that kicked up in little puffs with every step. The volleyball nets formed a ragged line down the beach, straining in the steady ocean wind. Belly adjusted the straps of her “TEAM BELLY” tank top, her gaze locked on the cheap, gleaming trophy on the officials’ table.
Conrad lingered near the bleachers, a silent shadow in board shorts and a faded Cousins Surf Co. shirt. He watched her trace the trophy’s silhouette with her eyes, her expression one of pure, stubborn want.
She turned and found him. Her chin lifted. “That trophy,” she said, pointing, her voice cutting through the crowd’s chatter, “is going to be mine.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “You can do it.” He wasn’t just humoring her. He meant it. He moved to a spot near the front of the bleachers, a clear line of sight to where she would stand. As she took her position on the court, he called out, his voice carrying over the noise, “You’ve got this, Belly!”
She didn’t look back, but her shoulders squared.
The whistle blew. Taylor served first, a slicing shot that skimmed the net. The return was weak, a high, arcing bail-out. Belly coiled and sprang, her arm flashing in the sun. She spiked the ball straight down into the sand between two dumbfounded opponents.
“Go Team Belly!” Conrad yelled, his usual reserve cracked open by the clean, violent perfection of her play.
She allowed herself a quick glance his way, a real smile breaking through her game face.
They played with a fierce, synchronized grace. Taylor was lightning in the back court, digging up impossible saves. Belly was the hammer at the net. They took the first game 25-18. As they started the second, Taylor went up for another vicious serve, landed wrong, and crumpled with a sharp cry, clutching her ankle.
Belly was at her side instantly. “Tay, talk to me.”
“It’s my stupid ankle. It’s fine, it’s fine,” Taylor gritted out, her face pale. She looked toward the bleachers, her eyes scanning. “Jere! Get over here and sub in!”
Jeremiah, who had been cheering with exaggerated enthusiasm, faltered for only a second. Then the familiar, easy grin was back. “You got it, boss.” He jogged onto the sand, exchanging a high-five with a limping Taylor. He pulled the spare “TEAM BELLY” shirt over his head.
With Jeremiah’s energy and Belly’s focus, they closed out the first match. 30-12. Belly felt the first flush of real victory. It was working.
The second round was a different story. The opponents adjusted. They were older, cannier, and they quickly identified the new dynamic. They targeted Jeremiah. Soft, lobbed returns right to him. Tricky spins.
Jeremiah served. A strong, clean hit. The return came back, a gentle arc directly to his waiting arms. He set it too close to the net. Belly tried to adjust her approach, but it was too late. The ball hit the tape and dribbled back on their side.
He missed the next one completely, the ball bouncing off his forearms and sailing into the crowd.
Belly looked at him. She didn’t say anything. She just shook her head once, a tight, frustrated motion.
He saw it. His smile became fixed, a plastic thing. He tried to force the old charm, winking at a girl in the stands, but his next serve was weak. They targeted him again. And again. He was rushing, overthinking, his usual fluidity replaced by a stiff panic. The score gap widened. 12-4.
Belly could feel the trophy slipping away. The crowd’s supportive cheers began to sound distant, muffled by the roaring in her ears. She saw her brother Steven watching from the side, shaking his head. She saw Laurel and Susannah, their hopeful smiles starting to wilt.
“Ref!” Belly called out, her voice sharper than she intended. “Can we get time?”
The ref blew his whistle. Jeremiah walked toward her, his chest heaving. Sand clung to his sweaty skin. “Belly, I’m sorry, I just—”
She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze traveled past his shoulder, past the crowd, and landed on Conrad. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching them intently. He looked taut, like a bowstring.
Jeremiah followed her gaze. His face fell, the forced cheer dissolving into something raw and understanding. “I have to win this,” she said, the words leaving her lips flat and final.
His blue eyes, so like his brother’s but always brighter, dimmed. He let out a short, hollow breath. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get it.”
She met his eyes then, But the need to win, to prove something—to Conrad, to herself, to the entire summer—was a physical ache. “Conrad!” she called out, the name carrying across the sand. “I need you to sub in.”
Conrad didn’t react at first. Then he pushed himself up and walked onto the court, his movements deliberate. He stopped in front of Jeremiah.
For a beat, the brothers just looked at each other. The ocean sound filled the space between them. Wordlessly, Jeremiah grabbed the hem of the “TEAM BELLY” shirt and peeled it off, handing it over. Conrad took it, the cotton stretchy and warm from Jeremiah’s skin. He pulled it on, the fit tighter across his shoulders.
“Where do you want me?” Conrad asked Belly, his voice low, all business.
“You start,” she said, pointing to the serving position.
“Alright.” He stepped closer to her, his presence like a change in atmospheric pressure. He put his hand on the center of her back, just for a second. The touch was firm, a transfer of certainty. “Let’s do this.” Then he walked to the base line, rolling the ball in his hands.
He served. It was a missile, low and flat, skimming the net cord with a sick whisper. The girls on the other side scrambled. They managed a return, a desperate skyward lob.
Conrad moved without sound. He was under it, his hands forming a perfect platform. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. The set went up, high and pure, as if he’d mapped her leap before she’d even coiled her legs.
Belly was already in the air. Her hand met the ball with a clean, sharp smack. It sailed over the blocker’s fingertips, landing neatly in the dead sand between two frozen players.
Point.
They didn’t celebrate. They just looked at each other across ten feet of sand. A current passed between them, old and deep and understood. He gave a single, slow nod. She breathed.
The rhythm clicked into place after that. It wasn’t something they discussed. It was memory in their muscles, a language their bodies had never forgotten. He anticipated her cuts; she read his sets before his fingers even touched the ball. They chipped away at the deficit, point by relentless point.
When the score tied at 20-20, Conrad dug a spike so hard it popped back over the net. They high-fived, his palm smacking against hers. “Nice,” he said, the word rough with effort.
He spun the ball on his finger once at the service line, a tiny, focused gesture. He served. The girl in the receiver’s stance cheated left, anticipating his power.
The ball sliced right instead, a cruel, spinning trick. It hit the sand untouched.
Belly smiled, a real one, full of sunlight and thrill. She pointed at him, her finger directed across the court. A public acknowledgment.
Conrad served again. He hit it harder this time, a straight-line drive that seemed to defy the salt-heavy air. It landed in the deep back corner, kissing the line just inside the tape.
“Yes!” he yelled, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. He turned and high-fived Belly, the connection harder, more electric. 26-23. Game.
They didn’t stop. They moved up the tournament bracket like a single, coordinated storm. Each game was a variation of the same truth: they were unstoppable together. The easy, laughing teams fell first. The serious, tactical pairs followed.
Belly’s world narrowed to the fly of the ball, the grit of sand under her nails, and Conrad’s blue eyes constantly reading the space around her. The trophy was no longer an idea. It was a destination, and they were sprinting toward it.
Now, the last game. The final opponents were already waiting, stretching on the other side of the net: Steven and his girlfriend, Shayla.
Steven had a competitive glint in his eye Belly knew too well. Shayla looked athletic and focused, all sleek ponytail and determined smiles. “Don’t go easy on me, twerp,” Steven called, grinning.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Belly shot back, but her voice felt thin.
The ref’s whistle sliced the air. Conrad’s first serve was a statement, a hard, flat line that seemed to warp the sunlight. Steven lunged, managing a defensive bump that sent the ball arcing high toward their side of the net.
Belly adjusted her feet, her eyes tracking the spin. She met it with a clean, controlled pass, sending it straight to Shayla in the front row. The ball hit Shayla’s wrists at a bad angle, buckling them. It fumbled, a dead lump, into the sand at her own feet.
First point, theirs.
The score ladder climbed, each rung a fight. Steven was relentless, powering kills down the line. Shayla covered the court with a gazelle’s grace. But Conrad and Belly moved like a single organism, a silent dialogue of shuffled steps and predicting glances. The points traded. 8-7. 14-13. 21-20.
It was Conrad’s turn to serve. He took a slow breath, his gaze fixed on a spot just over the net. He hit it with a furious precision. The ball cleared the net and plunged, unimpeded, into a vacant patch of sand.
He walked to Belly, his chest rising and falling steadily. He high-fived her, then caught her hand on the backswing, interlocking their fingers for a heartbeat. Their eyes met. Smiles, brief and real, broke through before they pulled apart, returning to their positions.
They worked. The score remained even, tangled, one point answering the other in a fierce echo. The crowd’s noise dissolved into a distant ocean roar in Belly’s ears. 24-24. Match game.
Conrad looked at her across the sand. The air felt charged, brittle. “This is all you, okay?” he said, his voice low but carrying. “You got it.”
She looked at him. Her breath snagged, a physical catch in her throat.
Conrad served. The ball traveled in a sharp, clean arc. Shayla received it, a solid bump back over the net. Conrad was there, perfectly positioned. He pumped it high into the air, a beautiful, floating set just inside the ten-foot line.
Belly was already airborne. She uncoiled, her arm a whip, and smacked the ball with everything left in her. It screamed over the net, a blur aimed at Steven’s chest. He scrambled, his form collapsing as he threw his hands up. The ball ricocheted off his knuckles, flying wildly out of bounds.
“Yeah!” Their voices merged in a single, raw shout.
They crashed into each other. Conrad’s arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the sandy ground. He spun her, once, twice, their laughter a bright, startled sound against the crowd’s eruption. He set her down, his hands lingering on her waist for a second before falling away.
“And the winners,” the announcer boomed, “are Isabella Conklin and Conrad Fisher!”
They walked, slightly dazed, to the net. Steven shook his head, a rueful grin on his face. “Good game,” they all mumbled, slapping sandy hands together.
Conrad turned. He grabbed Belly’s shoulder, his hand warm and solid. He was just looking at her, smiling a quiet, private smile that didn’t reach the crowd.
“Oh my gosh, you guys were incredible!” Susannah’s voice cut through, breathless. She ran onto the court, the trophy flashing in her hands. She squeezed them both into a tight, lavender-scented hug. “You make such a great team.”
Belly held the trophy. The metal was cold in her sun-heated hands. She looked from Susannah’s radiant face to Conrad’s subdued pride. The victory felt real, etched into her burning muscles and sandy scalp.
The victory felt real, etched into her burning muscles and sandy scalp. The trophy’s weight was a solid, satisfying anchor in her hands. Around them, the crowd’s noise was already dissolving into the general beach chaos of zipping coolers and shaking out towels.
Susannah beamed, her eyes sparkling with a triumph that seemed to surpass the game itself. She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried. “So did he ask you yet?”
Belly’s smile faltered. The cold metal of the trophy handle suddenly felt alien. “Ask me what?”
“To take you to the ball!” Susannah laughed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She adjusted the silk scarf around her neck. “I thought it would be a good idea since you don’t have a date yet.”
The words hung in the salt air. Belly’s gaze snapped to Conrad.
He was looking straight at her. His expression had shut down, the earlier unguarded pride replaced by a blank wall. He gave a minute, almost imperceptible shake of his head. A warning. A plea.
Later, the bass from a beach house three doors down thumped through the warm night. Conrad stood on the packed deck, a red plastic cup of beer sweating in his hand.
Conrad stood on the packed deck, a red plastic cup of beer sweating in his hand. The noise of the party was a wall, laughter and bass syncing with the dull throb behind his eyes. He scanned the crowd, not looking for anyone, just mapping exits.
His gaze snagged and stuck. Jeremiah was leaned against the railing on the far side, his arm slung around a blonde girl Conrad vaguely recognized from the marina office. He was whispering something in her ear, and she threw her head back laughing, her hand landing on his chest. Jere’s smile was wide, practiced, and empty.
Conrad took a long, bitter drink. Steven materialized beside him, following his line of sight. “Pretty brutal out there today, man,” Steven said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good game, though.”
“Thanks,” Conrad said, his voice flat. He gestured with his chin toward the railing. “Who’s Jere hooking up with these days?”
“Oh, no one, I’m—” Steven started, then laughed. “My god, Shayla has this crazy theory, bro. She thinks he’s hooking up with my sister.”
Conrad’s face fell for a second. His chest hurt, a sudden, precise ache beneath his sternum. “Really?” he said, forcing the word out.
“Yeah, I know, man, it sickens me too.” Steven shuddered, taking a swig of his beer. “Shayla has a lot of crazy theories. And Jere knows I would kill him if he ever touched my little sister.” He shook his head, as if physically discarding the idea. “I need another. You want?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
Steven nodded, weaving his way toward the kitchen counter, leaving Conrad alone in the thrumming dark.
The ache in Conrad’s chest didn’t subside. It spread, a cold flood under his ribs.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen blinding in the low light. His thumb moved on its own, navigating past apps, to her name.
BELLY.
The lake water was black silk, cool and secret against her skin. Belly floated on her back, staring at the spill of stars, the only sound her own breath and the gentle lap of water against the rickety dock. “This was the best idea we’ve ever had,” Taylor sighed from a few feet away, her voice echoing slightly over the water.
“Told you,” Belly murmured. The trophy was on her dresser. The sand was washed from her hair. The memory of Conrad’s hands on her waist was a brand on her skin she was trying to cool.
Headlights swept through the pine trees, sudden and intrusive. A car door slammed, then another. Giggles. “Shit,” Taylor whispered, sinking lower. “Just be still.”
They froze, two pale shapes in the ink-dark water. The figures—three of them, silhouettes—skittered onto the dock. One whooped, grabbing the pile of their clothes: denim shorts, t-shirts, Belly’s simple cotton bra. They scrambled back to the car, laughter trailing behind them like smoke, and peeled away.
“Bitches!” Taylor shouted at the taillights, her voice cutting across the water.
She swam for the dock.
She hauled herself onto the slick wood, water streaming from her skin in the moonlight. Taylor followed, cursing under her breath with a staccato rhythm that matched her shivering. The dock was bare. No denim shorts, no loose t-shirts, no sandals.
“They took everything,” Taylor hissed, peering into the dark pine line where the car had vanished. She grabbed her phone from where it sat, a lone, dry rectangle beside a dock cleat. The screen lit her furious face. “Those absolute swamp-rat losers took everything but your phone.”
Belly swam over, her strokes sharp with panic. “What?” she asked, her voice tight.
Taylor turned the screen toward her. The glowing text notification dominated the darkness. Belly wiped her wet hand on her thigh, took the phone. The text was from Conrad, sent twenty minutes ago.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. She read it once, then again, the words not computing. Conrad said my mum did ask me take you to the ball but that’s not why I did it Belly, I did it because I want to take you.
A slow, uncontrollable smile broke across her face, warm and sudden, erasing the chill from the lake. It was a confession that unspooled the knot Susannah had tied in her chest hours earlier on the sand.
Taylor watched the smile spread and groaned. “Oh, no. What’re we gonna do?” she said, shaking her head, her practical anger fighting Belly’s dazed joy.
The reality of their situation snapped back. Belly hugged her arms over her chest, the night air raising goosebumps on her clean skin. “We can’t walk home naked,” Belly said, the absurdity landing.
She looked down at the phone again, at Conrad’s words. He wanted to take her. Himself.
Conrad sat on the bottom stair of the silent house, his thumb hovering over his phone screen. The party’s bass was a distant, dull headache. He’d sent the text. No response.
The blue light of the screen was the only illumination in the dim foyer. He watched it, waiting for the three dots to appear, for any sign. Nothing.
The front door opened and shut softly. Jeremiah’s footsteps were quiet on the rug. He smelled like salt and someone else’s perfume. He stopped, then sat down on the stair beside Conrad, leaving a careful foot of space between them.
“Hey,” Jeremiah said. His voice was hushed, stripped of its usual performed energy.
Conrad didn’t look up from the dark rectangle. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” Jeremiah picked at a thread on his shorts. A long minute stretched, filled with the house’s old bones settling. “Have you noticed anything weird about Mum lately?”
Conrad’s spine went rigid. He kept his eyes on his phone. “What’re you talking about?” he said, hoping the flatness of his voice sounded like disinterest, not panic.
“I don’t know.” Jeremiah sighed, a tired sound. “Oh, she’s just been sleeping more. Seems tired, I guess.”
“Yeah.” Conrad forced a shrug, his shoulder brushing the banister. “It’s the summertime. Mum sleeps more when she’s on vacation.” The lie was ash in his mouth.
“Yeah.” Jeremiah was quiet again. He nudged Conrad’s foot with his own. “Congrats on your win today. I know how much you hate to lose.”
“It’s not about winning for me,” Conrad said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He finally looked at his brother. Jeremiah’s face was half in shadow, his usually bright eyes dull. “It’s about doing things the right way.”
Jeremiah held his gaze for a second, then looked away, swallowing. “Right,” he murmured. He stood up, the stair creaking under his weight. “Well. ‘Night.”
Conrad watched him climb the stairs, each step slow and heavy. He looked back at his phone. Still nothing from Belly. The silence in the house felt different now, thick with everything they weren’t saying.
“Think, think,” Taylor muttered, pacing the narrow dock, her arms crossed tightly. Belly was still crouched, rereading the text, the glow painting her features.
A sliver of light pierced the trees from the direction of an old, boarded-up concession stand. “There,” Belly said, pointing. “The storage shed. They used to keep lost-and-found and cleaning stuff in there.”
They moved through the cool dirt, wincing at every pine needle and stone underfoot. The shed door was latched but not locked. Inside smelled of mildew and stale popcorn. Taylor felt along a shelf, her fingers closing over rough canvas. “Bingo.”
It was an old umbrella hood, the kind vendors used on golf carts at tournaments. It was huge, patterned with faded whales and anchors, and smelled faintly of motor oil. It would have to do.
They wrapped themselves in the stiff canvas, a two-headed monster in the dark. It covered them from collarbone to mid-thigh, but every step was an exercise in precarious modesty.