Sophie liked Tuesdays best.
The house always smelled like pancakes, and everyone moved slower, like they were trying not to scare the morning away.
She stood on her tiptoes, reaching for the big plate her mom had left on the counter. "Careful, honey," her mom said gently from the stove, "it's still hot."
"I got it!" Sophie chirped, even though her small hands trembled just a bit as she set it on the table.
She loved doing this.
Setting the table. Pouring the syrup. Making sure everyone got the right kind of pancake, even though her brother always pretended not to care which one he got.
Lately, he'd been smiling again. Talking more. Sometimes she'd catch him humming while doing homework, or staring out the window with that soft look, the one that meant he was thinking about volleyball again.
Sophie didn't know everything that had happened.
She only remembered that, one day, Connor had come home on crutches.
After that, he didn't talk about volleyball anymore. He didn't talk much at all.
But now, he was different. Not like before, not all the way ,but lighter. His laugh came easier. He didn't flinch when someone mentioned sports.
And yesterday, he had a look on his face when he came to the car, the same one he used to have before a big game.
Maybe things were finally getting better.
Connor ruffled her hair as he passed by, grinning. "Morning, chef."
Sophie stuck out her tongue at him. "You're late. I already picked the biggest pancake for you."
"Then I guess I owe you one," he said, sliding into his seat.
Their dad looked up from his tablet. "She's starting to sound like an agent already. You'll be paying her commission next."
Sophie giggled. "Only if he wins."
Connor smiled, shaking his head. "I didn't know breakfast came with performance pressure."
His mom turned from the stove, handing him a plate. "Eat, both of you. Big day ahead."
Connor picked up his fork, looking at the syrup swirl across the stack. "Yeah. First real practice since tryouts."
His dad nodded approvingly. "So this is where the real work begins, huh?"
"Pretty much," Connor said, chewing. "Rotations, full plays. Coach wants to see how we fit together."
Sophie rested her chin on her hand. "You're gonna be setter again, right?"
He smiled softly. "We'll see. But I hope so."
Their mom looked over, eyes gentle but thoughtful. "Whatever happens, we're proud of you, sweetheart."
He nodded. "Thanks."
On the drive to school, Sophie leaned forward from the backseat, her backpack hugged close to her chest.
"Are you nervous?" she asked.
"A little," Connor admitted. "But the good kind."
She smiled, satisfied with the answer.
When they pulled up to the school, she reached out before he got out of the car. "You'll tell me how it went later, right?"
He looked back at her and smiled. "Yeah. Promise."
And just like that, Sophie felt lighter, as if keeping that promise meant everything would be okay.
The school was already waking up by the time he got there. The air smelled faintly of rain and pencil shavings, tuesday in its purest form.
Dylan caught up with him near the lockers, grinning as always. "Dude! You ready for this? I heard we're starting rotation drills. Like, actual game rhythm stuff."
Connor slung his bag over his shoulder. "That's what Coach said."
Noah appeared, half jogging, half tripping on his own shoelace. "Bro, I swear my body's still dead from yesterday. Why did I agree to this again?"
"Because you're obsessed," Dylan said. "And because you guilt-tripped Connor into trying out."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "I did not guilt-trip Him."
Dylan pointed at him. "You gave him the look. The 'I believe in you' look. Nobody says no to that."
They laughed, the kind of easy, dumb laughter that carried them through the morning until classes ended.
By afternoon, the gym echoed with the sound of volleyballs hitting hardwood. The smell of sweat, resin, and determination filled the air.
Coach Reynolds stood at center court, whistle around his neck.
"Alright, listen up! This week we focus on rhythm and decision-making. You'll rotate through positions and partners. Don't worry about perfection, focus on connection. Communication wins games."
The players split into two courts. Connor's group included Dylan, Marcus, Ryan – a tall, quiet second-year utility Player, and Liam, a libero with almost reckless reflexes.
Warmups turned to serve-receive drills. The system hummed again.
[Trajectory optimization — Set arc at 31° for ideal spike window.]
[Warning: Impact strain nearing 88%. Recommend pivot reduction.]
Connor ignored it, jumping hard on the next serve, and winced as a sharp pinch ran through his knee mid-landing.
The pain vanished quickly, but the message lingered.
[Warning validated.]
He sighed under his breath. "Alright, alright… maybe you know better."
By the next rotation, he listened.
The system adjusted his timing, just slightly, suggesting where to shift, when to plant, how to follow through. His serve landed cleaner. His passes sharper.
[Coordination Sync: +2.1%]
[Biomechanical alignment improving.]
For the first time, it didn't feel like an intrusive voice in his head. It felt like a rhythm, one that matched the heartbeat of the game itself.
Drills shifted to mini scrimmages. Connor ran plays as a setter, coordinating quick sets to Ryan and cross shots to Dylan.
When the timing clicked, the ball sang against the floor, sharp and sure.
Coach Reynolds clapped once. "That's it, Connor! That's tempo!"
By the end of practice, sweat dripped down his neck, his arms ached but his chest buzzed with quiet satisfaction.
By thursday, the team's energy had changed.
What had started as awkward introductions now felt like the beginnings of cohesion.
Shouts of "Mine!" echoed through the gym, followed by laughter when someone dove too late or missed an easy ball.
Elias and Mason still dominated the top rotation, their chemistry undeniable. But Coach Reynolds had started giving Connor more setter reps, pairing him with different combinations to test flexibility.
At one point, he found himself opposite Elias, the veteran setter calling a tempo offense against Connor's mixed team. It wasn't about winning points, it was about tempo, intelligence, and composure.
Connor watched the rally unfold like moving data: blockers shifting, backline coverage adjusting. He jumped, set to Marcus, low and fast, and Marcus slammed it between two blockers before they even reset.
The whistle blew. Coach Reynolds nodded once.
"That's the timing I'm talking about."
Connor's pulse steadied. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't thinking about his knee, or the past, or what might go wrong.
He was just playing.
He'd survived the first full week.
And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to believe the voice in his head wasn't just.