The Edge of Anything by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

Author:Nora Shalaway Carpenter [Carpenter, Nora Shalaway]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Running Press
Published: 2020-03-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SAGE

SAGE TOLD COACH SHE HAD TO MISS PRACTICE DUE TO A cardiology appointment, which he totally bought. She rechecked the YMCA address as soon as she got into the Subaru. So far, that was the only positive to having a defective heart. Mom felt so bad for her that, after getting Dr. Friedman to clear Sage for driving, she gave Sage full access to the extra car.

Derek, the boy who’d answered the number on the flyer, had told her to meet the team in the gym at four p.m., so she was a good twenty minutes early.

She heard it before she saw it—the uneven rhythm of balls smacking the court—and walked in to discover the place filled with players. Of course. This must be open practice for the competing teams. She felt silly for thinking it would only be the team offering the tryout. They couldn’t reserve the whole court.

Her phone buzzed from her bag.

Kayla: Where r u? Coach said you had appt??

Sage frowned, still annoyed with Kayla for upsetting Len. She switched off the phone and tossed her duffle near a group of bags against the wall. As she leaned into a hamstring stretch, the sounds of the gym sank into her. The thuds of volleyballs on skin, the calls from setters, the squeaks of shoes—they settled into her blood, pulsing beside her heart, and she had the distinct feeling that she’d been asleep for days and had suddenly awoken.

“Are you Sage?”

She turned at the voice, the same one from the phone. “Yeah.”

“Excellent.” The boy clasped her hand. “I’m Derek.” He nodded around the court. “We’ve worn our team shirts so you can identify us.”

He pointed to the service line, where two women wearing shirts identical to his—teal with white lettering—stood warming up. “Those two are Lucy and Flick. Both played at UNC Asheville. Flick’s our player-coach and wicked smart. You can thank her for the tryout protocol you’re about to go through.” As if she knew Derek was talking about her, Flick tossed the ball, jumped, and served with a sharp wrist that clearly earned her the nickname. It was the fastest jumper Sage had ever seen in person.

Derek pointed to another teal-shirted woman by the net. “Ketia’s our setter. She turned down a volleyball scholarship at App State for a full academic ride to UNCA.” He nodded at the giant man who had just stepped up for his turn to attack. “And that,” he said, “is Mountain.”

Mountain, Sage estimated, was at least six feet ten inches, and it didn’t escape her notice that all the players opposite him cleared the floor as he tossed the ball to Ketia.

“Mountain’s from San Diego,” Derek said. “Probably coulda gone pro if he hadn’t wanted to be an engineer.”

Mountain proceeded to drill the ball inside the ten-foot line.

“Daaamn,” Sage said. To play alongside that kind of skill—it would be incredible.

“Yeah,” said Derek, misreading her excitement for nerves. “He gave the last guy that tried out a bloody nose; but that kid, well, he was subpar.

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