Stas finally reached our row, squeezed past Dasha and Viola, and dropped down beside me. We barely had time to exchange startled, breathless glances—the kind that say this is it, the moment when everything hidden comes into the open. He pulled me closer by the waist, and the air vanished from my lungs at once. I closed my eyes just as his lips covered mine in an open, reckless kiss, one that drew a clear, irrevocable line between what had been before and what existed now.
Viola whistled. I was about to pull away, but Stas caught me by the neck, unable to let go—and I had no desire to stop him.
The kiss finally broke only when we were both desperate for air. We breathed heavily, in the same uneven rhythm. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was his perfect smile. It was meant for me alone, and the realization sent a warm bloom through my chest. We laughed softly, like children who had just gotten away with mischief, uncaught and unpunished.
Viola jabbed Stas sharply in the side, and he jumped.
"Hey!" He frowned at his sister. "Your nails!"
"I'm not even going to apologize," Viola said, nodding toward the court. "The game's about to start."
Stas slipped an arm around my shoulders, and I rested my cheek against his chest, savoring the way my heart sped up at the contact. Unable to get enough of him, I drew in a deep breath of that familiar peppery, pine-scented warmth and wrapped my arms around his waist. He felt like a sunbeam—solid, alive, summer-warm.
The chatter in the stands faded on its own as both teams took their positions. One of the girls stepped behind the baseline and began to roll the ball between her palms. Her fingers tightened and relaxed, learning every inch of its surface. She stared straight ahead, as though calculating the weakest point in the opposing team.
"Come on already! What are you waiting for?" someone shouted from the bench.
The boys were relaxed, careless. Some swung their arms lazily, still talking to teammates; others tossed mocking remarks at the girl with the ball.
"Bet it won't even clear the net," one of them called out cheerfully.
"She won't even make it that far!"
The whole team laughed.
At that very moment, the girl tossed the ball high into the air, took two quick steps forward, and, instead of a third, launched herself powerfully off the ground. Her open palm rose skyward as she arched back gracefully, drawing her dominant arm even farther behind her to pour every ounce of strength into the serve. She struck the ball with a sharp, ringing crack. It sailed cleanly over the net without grazing it and dropped straight into the center of the opposing court.
First point.
We burst into applause, along with the other girls in the stands, while the boys on the court stared at the spot where the ball had landed, struggling to process the fact that they had lost a point without even putting up a fight.
The ball was returned to the serving team. The same girl rolled it between her hands again, preparing for another serve. If the first one had caught the opponents off guard, the second wouldn't be so easy. The boys had sobered instantly after losing that point. The defense crouched into position, alert and ready. All three bent their knees and spread their legs in unison, poised to spring forward the moment the ball left her hand.
Two girls from the front line lunged for the ball. One slid forward, already preparing to drop to her knees right beneath the net; the other clasped her hands together and leapt ahead, extending her body in a single, fluid line. She timed it perfectly—the ball slipped past the net onto the women's side of the court and bounced just off to the side of her hands, low enough to rule out an immediate attack.
Help came instantly from the girl stationed directly under the net. She raised her fingers wide above her head, caught the ball softly on her fingertips, and, springing on bent knees, redirected its path in one graceful motion—tossing it high to give her teammate a chance to strike.
The player from the center of the back line—the same one who had opened the game with that brutal serving streak—took several long strides and launched herself upward, helping with her arms, rising so high it looked as though she were one of us—wolves. Her body arched into a perfect curve once more. She swung and struck the ball with an open palm, the crack of the hit echoing across the field.
The ball sailed high over the net. A boy beneath it jumped, hoping to block the strike, but missed, and the ball flew on. Two boys from the back line threw themselves down in blind desperation, trying to offer the ball anything at all, without a thought for how it might be played next. It ricocheted off one of their shoulders and flew out of bounds.
Four–one.
Unable to contain myself, I cheered out loud. This was incredible. The game was becoming genuinely exciting.
Both teams rotated again, moving clockwise into new positions. The next serve belonged to a girl with a dark bob and an unmistakably intimidating air. She held the ball in her left hand. Squaring her shoulders, she stood side-on at the very edge of the court—unlike the previous server—and drew a slow breath into her chest. She set her feet slightly wider apart, bent her knees, leaned forward, and drew her left arm back at a forty-five-degree angle, giving herself room to swing.
Once she had her stance, she snapped the ball upward and, twisting her torso, poured all her strength into the strike. At first it looked as though the ball was flying too fast, too high to come down in time. But after clearing the net, it abruptly dipped and landed on the very edge of the sideline—just enough to count.
Fifth point.
"Oh, Viola," Stas said with a note of reproach as he turned to his sister.
"What?" She blinked innocently, like an angel in the flesh. And angels, as everyone knows, always have the purest intentions.
"Oh, don't even try to tell me that wasn't you."
"What do you mean, me? I didn't do anything." She began smoothing her jeans over her knees, studying her feet as though it were suddenly the most important task in the world. Stas snorted.
"At least let them score a second point."
Viola glanced up at him through lowered lashes and smiled slyly."Not a chance."
I smiled too, fully sharing her mood. It's hard to wish someone well when they've brought nothing but harm into your life. Even though there were six players on that team, the attitude of just one of them was enough to poison everything else. And, to be completely honest, I couldn't stand their dismissive attitude toward other people's work and achievements—the very thing they had shown by mocking women's volleyball.
Whether the boys would draw any conclusions from today's match, I didn't know. But I wanted to believe that at least one of them would feel a flicker of doubt—wondering if they'd been right to ridicule the girls. And if not, well—at the very least, I would enjoy watching someone else's triumph and seeing karma at work.
No sooner had I thought of karma than my own came knocking, presenting the bill.
So absorbed had I been in the match that I failed to notice Tatiana appear in the aisle between the benches. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her skin was flushed, her lips trembling. Her entire body looked rigid with tension: her arms hung stiffly at her sides, her shoulders twitching slightly. Her right hand was clenched into a fist, and her left was gripping… the spine of a familiar book with yellowed pages.
At first I didn't believe my eyes. But when I looked again, I knew I wasn't imagining it.
In Tatiana's hand was Stas's personal diary.