The week after the tournament moved at a strange, slower rhythm.
The bruises had faded, but the exhaustion hadn't. Practices were lighter, mostly conditioning, passing drills, and recovery work, while Coach Reynolds made them promise to "focus on midterms before focusing on volleyball."
So for once, the Wolves weren't running suicides or scrimmaging until sunset. They were studying.
Monday mornig Connor stifled a yawn as he slid into his seat. The classroom smelled faintly of coffee and old paper; the heater rattled in the corner, fighting off the November chill.Harper sat diagonally behind him, already highlighting her notes. Noah and Dylan were side-by-side at the back, whispering about something that definitely wasn't literature.
Mr.s Kent , their English teacher, clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone. Midterms are next week, so let's make sure you actually remember what we've read since September."
A few groans rippled through the room.
"Pop quiz?" she teased.
"Please don't," Noah muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.
The class laughed, and even Kent smiled. "Relax, Ramirez. Not today. But I do expect essays that don't read like AI wrote them."
Harper smirked and leaned toward Connor. "He's looking right at you."
Connor rolled his eyes. "I don't even use AI."
"Sure," she said, twirling her pen. "That's exactly what someone using AI would say."
He chuckled under his breath. The light banter felt nice, normal.It was a different kind of pressure than a volleyball match, but it had its own tension: open books, looming deadlines, caffeine instead of adrenaline.
Mrs. Kent continued, "For the exam, focus on theme development and symbolism in Of Mice and Men and The Great Gatsby. You'll have essay prompts on both."
Dylan groaned quietly. "Why can't we just write about volleyball?"
"Because, Price," Harper said dryly, "no one dies tragically in volleyball. Usually."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "Usually?"
Harper grinned. "You've seen the way you dive for balls."
Connor had to bite back a laugh as Calloway shot them a look.
By the time they reached History, in the secon period, Connor, Sam, and Dylan were walking together down the crowded hallway. Sam carried a neat binder, color-coded, organized, like someone who actually enjoyed studying.
"I heard Mrs. Keller's test covers everything since the Civil War," Dylan said, dragging his feet. "Everything."
"Technically," Sam said, "it starts at Reconstruction and stops at the Progressive Era."
"That's still like " Dylan paused, counting on his fingers, "a hundred years of stuff!"
"Fifty-something," Connor said, smirking. "Math isn't your subject, huh?"
Sam cracked a small smile. "He's more of a… kinetic learner."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning he only studies if he can spike the textbook."
Connor laughed, shaking his head as they entered the classroom. Mrs. Keller was already writing on the board, a long list of essay topics and dates.
"Good morning, everyone," she said. "Your midterm will include one document-based essay and multiple-choice questions on key events. You will need to know the causes of the Spanish-American War, and you will regret it if you don't."
Dylan slumped in his seat. "I already regret it."
Sam flipped open his notes, efficient as ever. "Want me to quiz you later?"
"Only if it's after I take a nap," Dylan said.
Connor chuckled, jotting down a reminder in his planner.After weeks of sets, drills, and systems, it almost felt strange to be worrying about dates and historical context instead of rotations.
Third period put Harper, Noah, and Dylan back together, which meant the lab was a circus.
Their teacher, Mr. Hernandez, was explaining chemical bonds when Noah's experiment bubbled a little too aggressively. A small puff of smoke rose from his beaker.
"Fields!" Hernandez barked. "What did I just say about careful measurement?"
Noah coughed theatrically. "Science is about discovery, sir!"
"Discovery doesn't mean burning my classroom down!"
The class erupted in laughter.
Harper covered her mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly. "He's impossible."
"You're only realizing that now?" Dylan said.
Connor wasn't in that class, but Harper mentioned later at lunch that Hernandez had banned Noah from "touching open flame until further notice."
⸻
Math was the only time all five of them were together, Connor, Harper, Dylan, Noah, and Sam.The energy in the room was chaotic but somehow productive. Mr. Patel, their teacher, had given up trying to separate them weeks ago.
"Alright, listen up!" Patel called, clapping once. "Your algebra midterm is not impossible if you've been paying attention. If you haven't, well, good luck."
Noah leaned toward Connor. "That's me. I'm the 'good luck' demographic."
Harper glanced at his half-empty worksheet. "You'd be fine if you stopped doodling volleyballs."
"These are equations of flight arcs," Noah said indignantly. "Totally relevant."
"Sure," Harper said. "You're a regular Isaac Newton."
Connor worked quietly, pencil moving steadily. Equations came easy to him, there was something comforting about numbers. They followed rules.Volleyball didn't always.
He finished early, watching the others argue about a word problem that mentioned a ball being launched from a certain height.
"Everything's volleyball with us," Dylan muttered. "We've got a problem."
Sam said softly, "Or a focus."
⸻
Fifth period was smaller , just Connor, Sam, and Harper.The room smelled faintly of ink and old notebooks. Ms. Kline, their teacher, sat cross-legged on her desk.
"For your midterm," she said, "you'll write a short narrative or reflection piece. It can be fiction or nonfiction, but it must mean something."
Harper's eyes lit up. "Can I write about the tournament?"
"Only if you can make it personal," Kline said.
Harper smirked. "That's the easy part."
Connor flipped through his notebook. Writing wasn't his strong suit, but something about the prompt caught him."Make it mean something."
He scribbled a line before he could overthink it:Sometimes, losing shows you more about yourself than winning ever could.
Sam leaned over, glancing at the sentence. "That's good."
Connor shrugged. "Just a thought."
⸻
After school Practice that day was more stretching than sweating. The squeak of sneakers echoed lazily in the gym.Coach Reynolds sat on the bleachers, clipboard resting on his knee, letting them run light passing drills and serve-receive rotations.
"Remember," he said, "this week's about recovery, mental and physical. I want you to also pay attention to the midterms, you are all Student Athlet, we need to pay attention to our grades, If not, you are on the bench."
There were some audible grunt but everyone agreed and get back to light practice.
Mason served a lazy floater. Connor passed it cleanly, tossing it to Marcus, who spiked half-heartedly over the net.
Sam and Dylan were playing pepper off to the side, counting aloud after every clean touch. Harper sat nearby with her notebook, interviewing Mason and Liam for her follow-up article about the team's school-life balance.
Sam caught a glimpse of her smile, the sunlight from the gym windows catching her hair. He didn't look too long, not when Dylan was smirking knowingly.
"Crush alert," Dylan whispered.
"Shut up," Sam said.
Dylan grinned. "You're blushing."
"Shut up now."
The whistle blew, saving him.
⸻
By Thursday night, midterm panic had officially set in. It was approaching too fast.
The cafeteria was open late for study hours; students crowded around tables with laptops, flashcards, and too much caffeine. The Wolves claimed one corner — papers everywhere.
"Noah, stop eating my notes," Dylan said, snatching back a page.
"I'm not eating them," Noah said, mouth full of chips. "I'm motivating myself."
Harper was highlighting three pages at once. "If we all fail, I'm writing an exposé on how the system is rigged."
Sam chuckled quietly. "You'd still get an A for it."
Connor leaned back in his chair, staring at his history outline. The words were blurring together, "Industrialization," "monopolies," "labor unions."He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus.
The system flickered faintly at the edge of his vision.
[Stress Levels Elevated — Suggesting Mental Rest.]
[Focus Retention Efficiency: 68%.]
He sighed. Even the system thought he needed a break.
Harper noticed. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said softly. "Just… tired."
"Want me to quiz you?"
He smiled. "Sure."
She took his notebook. "Okay. Define 'trust-busting.'"
He groaned. "Can we go back to volleyball questions?"
"Nope. Welcome to Roosevelt's America."
Despite the fatigue, he laughed. For a moment, it didn't feel like studying, it felt like a team huddled in a different kind of game.