The week unfolded with an unfamiliar calm.
Each morning, Connor woke up before his alarm, the house still quiet, the sky still pale. He'd sit there for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of his sister stirring down the hall, then pull himself up and go about the day. There wasn't exactly motivation in him, just that small, persistent pull to move forward.
After school, the yard became his place. He'd clear a patch of space, the SetterOS light pulsing softly.
[Training Sequence Available: Light Drills – Day 1]
[Focus: Balance and Stability]
The first drills were awkward. Shifts of balance, simple steps, controlled breathing. His movements felt mechanical at first, as if his body had forgotten how to trust itself. But as he settled into the rhythm, something shifted. The old pain didn't bite, though the fear of it still shadowed every motion.
When the set ended, the phone blinked.
[Light Drill Complete]
[Stability +5%]
[Note: "First steps matter, even if they feel small."]
He snorted softly. "Sure, coach."
Each evening after that blurred into the next. The system offered new sequences, reaction drills, coordination routines, precision work. He followed them with growing confidence, tracing muscle memory he thought he'd lost.
The sound of sneakers on asphalt, the small thud of the ball in his hands it all started to feel natural again.
Sometimes, mid-practice, flashes of the past came back: bright lights, roaring noise, that one sharp instant when everything had gone wrong. He would stop then, breathe deeply, and keep going. It wasn't about running from the memory anymore. It was about moving through it.
By the time the week was ending, SetterOS had become less of a voice and more of a quiet companion. He didn't even need to check it constantly; he could feel when he was getting the drills right. His body knew.
He'd been heading home one afternoon when Dylan caught up with him, throwing an arm across his shoulder.
"Hey, you doing anything tomorrow?"
Connor shrugged. "Not really. Why?"
"Open gym. We're just hitting around before tryouts." Dylan's grin was bright and easy. "You should come."
Connor hesitated, automatically. Harper, walking beside them, tilted her head. "You've been training, right? You might as well see how it feels on a real court."
"I don't know…"
Dylan groaned. "Come on, man. No pressure. It's just for fun."
Connor smirked faintly. "I'll think about it."
"Thinking about it means yes," Harper said, already waving goodbye as the group split for the afternoon.
He watched them go, his chest oddly light. Maybe, he thought, it wouldn't hurt to try.
The gym was already alive when he stepped in the echo of bouncing balls, sneakers squeaking on polished floors, laughter cutting through the noise. The smell of varnish and faint rubber hit instantly, so familiar it almost made his stomach twist.
Someone spotted him from across the court. "Blake! You made it!"
He smiled a little. "Didn't have any excuses left."
A ball came flying his way, and before thinking, he caught it perfectly fingers adjusting automatically to its spin. A few heads turned.
"Nice hands," someone called. "You've played before?"
"A bit," he said, keeping his tone casual.
They started with short matches. Connor stayed near the back at first, testing his reactions, his knee, the floor. His passes were clean, sharper than even he expected. A few players exchanged surprised looks after a smooth rally.
"Man, that control!" Dylan laughed. "You sure you're not a libero?"
Connor just shook his head, smiling quietly. He wasn't the best there, but his movements had purpose again. His timing was still off in spots, hesitation showing every time he needed to jump or land fast, the shadow of the injury whispering careful in his ear.
But when the ball left his fingers just right, when the set connected, something inside him clicked.
For a few seconds, it didn't feel like recovery.
It felt like coming home.
The open gym ended in laughter and sweat, everyone sprawled across the bleachers. Harper who'd been taking photos for her media club, looked up from her phone. "You move like you've done this forever," she teased.
Connor rubbed the back of his neck. "Beginner's luck."
But his pulse told another story.
The weekend passed gently after that. He helped his dad outside, fixed a few things around the house, and played with Sophie when she insisted on a game in the yard. His mom spent most of the time on her laptop, planning lessons, the smell of coffee drifting through every room.
Dinner that night felt light, warm.
At one point, his mom looked up and said, "I got an email from the school today, about your counseling sessions. They said you've been consistent."
Connor froze, fork hovering midair. "Oh. Yeah. I've got another one soon."
Her eyes softened. "I'm glad you're keeping with it."
He hesitated, then said quietly, "I just thought… maybe talking about things could help. About the injury. And maybe… about playing again."
She smiled, that kind of mother's smile that said she already understood. "Then that's a good reason."
She didn't ask for details, and he didn't offer any. The silence between them was comfortable.
The next afternoon, the counselor's office felt different. Familiar now.
"Hey, Connor," Ms. Porter greeted. "Good to see you again."
He sat down, more relaxed this time. "You too."
"How's your week been?"
He thought about the drills, the laughter in the gym, his mom's quiet pride. "Better," he said. "I've been moving more. Doing some training again."
Her expression brightened. "That's great. How does it feel?"
He searched for the words. "Strange. Good, mostly. Sometimes it feels like I'm finally getting control back. Other times, I freeze. It's not the pain it's the memory of it."
She nodded slowly. "That's the body protecting you. It learned to react to danger. But now you have to teach it that you're safe."
He looked down at his hands. "That's the part I don't know how to do."
"You're already doing it," she said gently. "Each time you move and nothing goes wrong, you're rewriting that memory. Piece by piece. Each time you talk about it and try to do better after helps too"
He let the words sink in.
They talked for a while longer not about volleyball directly, but about trust, and loss, and how fear sometimes lingers longer than pain. When the session ended, Ms. Porter gave him a small nod. "You're rebuilding something, Connor. Don't rush it."
When he left, the light outside was dimming, the air cool and full of the sound of crickets. His phone buzzed softly in his pocket.
[Progress Update: Emotional Sync Improved]
[Next Recommended Goal: Tryout Preparation]
He stared at the words for a moment before slipping the phone away.
The fear was still there ,quiet but present. Only now, it didn't feel like it owned him anymore.