Chapter Eight
C oach Mateo Medrano arrived at six twenty-seven the next morning.
Tyler knew this because he had checked his phone approximately thirty times between six fifteen and six twenty-six, despite standing on the beach beside Jack with his shoes off, his shoulders tight, and his stomach behaving like he had swallowed live birds.
“He’s early,” Jack said.
Tyler looked down the beach.
A man walked toward them through the pale morning light, cutting across the sand with the kind of unhurried confidence that made everyone else on the beach seem like background noise.
He was older than Tyler expected, late fifties maybe, with silver threaded through dark hair, deeply tanned skin, and sunglasses hiding his eyes.
He wore a faded navy athletic shirt, black shorts, and the expression of a man who had never once been impressed by anyone who wanted him to be.
Behind him, the ocean rolled silver-blue beneath the rising sun.
Beside Tyler, Jack exhaled. “Oh, hell.”
“Don’t say that.”
“That is Coach Medrano.”
“I know who it is.”
“No, I mean that is Coach Medrano walking toward us like he’s about to ruin our lives.”
Tyler’s mouth went dry. “Probably.”
Jack glanced at him. “You okay?”
No.
Absolutely not.
Tyler had slept maybe four hours. Not because Hailey had kept him awake, though the memory of her would have been enough on its own. He had barely slept because the second he closed his eyes, he saw last year’s match point.
The ball floating too high.
His jump too early.
His arm swinging too hard.
The line judge’s hand going up.
The crowd making that sound.
The horrible, hollow silence afterward.
He had replayed it so many times it had become less like a memory and more like a scar he kept pressing to make sure it still hurt.
Then last night, Hailey had knelt in front of him, taken his hands, and told him he was not a coward.
And somehow that had terrified him more than the failure.
Because he wanted to believe her.
“Tyler,” Jack said quietly.
Tyler dragged in a breath. “I’m fine.”
Jack snorted. “You sound like Hailey.”
Despite everything, Tyler’s mouth twitched.
Then Coach Medrano stopped in front of them.
Up close, he looked exactly like a man who had turned athletes into champions and crushed excuses for sport. He removed his sunglasses slowly, revealing dark, sharp eyes that moved over Jack first, then Tyler.
No smile.
No handshake.
No polite greeting.
“You’re late,” he said.
Tyler blinked. “It’s six twenty-seven.”
“I arrived at six twenty-seven.” Medrano glanced at his watch. “You should have been training at six.”
Jack opened his mouth.
Tyler stepped hard on his foot.
Jack made a choking sound.
Medrano’s gaze shifted briefly between them. “Good. At least one of you has survival instincts.”
From somewhere behind them, a soft laugh carried across the sand.
Tyler turned.
Hailey stood near the edge of the beach path with two coffees in her hands, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail, sunglasses perched on top of her head.
She wore black leggings and an oversized white button-down tied at her waist, looking unfairly beautiful and far too amused for someone who had invited this nightmare into his life.
Tyler’s chest loosened at the sight of her.
Then tightened immediately because Coach Medrano was watching him watch her.
“Is she your manager?” Medrano asked.
“No,” Tyler said quickly.
“Agent?”
“No.”
“Publicist?”
Tyler hesitated.
Hailey walked closer and handed him one of the coffees. “Vacation liability.”
Medrano looked at her.
Hailey smiled with the kind of polished confidence Tyler had seen bend an entire restaurant to her presence. “Hailey Greenwood. Thank you for coming.”
Medrano studied her for one long, assessing second. “Lucia said you were effective.”
“I try.”
“She also said you were terrifying.”
Hailey’s smile widened slightly. “Only when necessary.”
Medrano grunted, which Tyler suspected might have been approval.
Then the coach turned back to him. “You. Shoes off.”
Tyler looked down at his bare feet. “They are.”
“Then why are you standing like your feet are decorative?”
Jack made the mistake of laughing.
Medrano pointed at him without looking. “You too.”
Jack’s smile vanished. “Yes, sir.”
Hailey lifted her coffee to hide her mouth.
Tyler gave her a look.
She returned one that said, You wanted the best.
He had.
God help him, he had.
For the first hour, Medrano said almost nothing.
That was worse.
Tyler and Jack ran through drills while he watched in absolute, punishing silence. Serves. Receives. Sets. Defensive movement. Cross-court shots. Line shots. Short balls. Deep balls. Again. Again. Again.
The sun climbed higher, turning the beach from cool gray to gold. Sweat slid down Tyler’s back. Sand stuck to his calves. His lungs burned. Jack swore under his breath after the third sprint drill, then swore louder when Medrano told them to run it again.
Hailey sat on a towel several yards away, laptop unopened beside her, coffee in hand, watching with an intensity that made Tyler both stronger and completely unsteady.
Every time he wanted to quit, he felt her eyes on him.
Every time he wanted to impress her, he overhit the ball.
Medrano noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
“Stop.”
Tyler froze, breathing hard.
Jack bent forward with his hands on his knees. “Thank God.”
Medrano ignored him and walked toward Tyler. “You play for applause.”
Tyler straightened. “No, I don’t.”
Medrano’s stare sharpened.
Tyler corrected himself. “Sometimes.”
“You play to prove people wrong.”
Tyler said nothing.
“You play to erase last year.”
His jaw tightened.
Medrano stepped closer. “That is why you lose.”
The words landed like a slap.
Behind him, Jack went still.
Near the towel, Hailey stopped moving.
Tyler forced himself to hold Medrano’s gaze. “Because I want it too much?”
“No.” Medrano’s voice was flat. “Because you make every point a trial. Every serve a verdict. Every mistake a confession. Volleyball is not a courtroom.”
From the corner of his eye, Tyler saw Hailey’s eyebrows lift.
Medrano pointed toward the court. “It is a game of earning the next ball. Not the trophy. Not redemption. Not the approval of the woman watching you from the towel.”
Heat shot up Tyler’s neck.
Hailey looked suddenly fascinated by her coffee lid.
Jack coughed into his fist.
Tyler wanted the sand to open up and swallow him whole.
Medrano did not care.
“You lost last year because you tried to end the match with one swing. You wanted the storybook point.” His mouth twisted. “Storybooks are for people who do not respect process.”
Hailey muttered something under her breath.
Tyler looked at her. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Medrano’s eyes narrowed. “What did she say?”
Hailey sighed. “I said romance novels would disagree with you.”
Jack barked out a laugh before clapping a hand over his mouth.
For one terrifying second, no one moved.
Then Medrano looked at Hailey.
Hailey looked back, chin lifted.
Finally, the coach grunted. “Romance novels do not win championships.”
“No,” she said. “But a good one knows the payoff has to be earned.”
Tyler stared at her.
Medrano stared at her too.
Then, to Tyler’s shock, Coach Mateo Medrano smiled.
Barely.
But it happened.
“Exactly,” he said.
Hailey’s eyes flicked to Tyler.
There it was again. That warm spark in his chest. The one she kept setting off without seeming to understand how dangerous it was.
Medrano turned back to Tyler. “You want the payoff. Earn the next ball.”
Tyler swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Again.”
So they went again.
This time, Tyler tried to listen.
Not to the old voice in his head. Not the one that said this was his last chance, that if he failed again he would become exactly what he feared most: almost good enough, almost memorable, almost the man he was supposed to be.
He listened to his breath.
To Jack calling the set.
To the slap of his feet against sand.
To the ball.
Earn the next ball.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the end of the second hour, Tyler’s legs trembled.
By the end of the third, Jack lay flat on his back in the sand, one arm thrown over his eyes.
“I regret everything,” Jack said.
Medrano stood over him. “Good. Regret is proof you survived.”
Jack lifted one hand weakly. “That’s beautiful. I hate it.”
Tyler dropped beside him, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin.
Hailey approached with two bottles of water. She handed one to Jack first, then crouched in front of Tyler.
“You alive?”
“No.”
She pressed the bottle into his hand. “Drink anyway.”
He took it. Their fingers brushed. Even exhausted, half-dead, and covered in sand, his body noticed.
Her gaze softened as she looked at him. “You did well.”
Tyler huffed a tired laugh. “Did we watch the same training session?”
“Yes.”
“He destroyed me.”
“He corrected you.”
“Repeatedly.”
“You needed repeated correction.”
His mouth curved despite himself. “You are very comforting.”
“I’m effective.”
“That you are.”
For a moment, the beach seemed to narrow around them.
Hailey’s hair had slipped loose from her ponytail, a few dirty-blond strands catching against her cheek in the breeze.
She looked less polished than she had at Nightshade, softer somehow, but the sharpness was still there.
The intelligence. The focus. The woman who could look at a mess and turn it into a plan.
Except when she looked at him, she was not only planning.
She was feeling too.
Tyler saw it before she looked away.
Medrano’s voice cut through the moment. “Greenwood.”
Hailey turned. “Yes?”
“You work in sports PR.”
“I do.”
“You know athletes.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then you know they are all liars.”
Tyler sat up. “Excuse me?”
Medrano ignored him. “They lie about pain. Fear. Discipline. Desire. They tell themselves stories until the stories become cages.”
Hailey’s expression changed slightly.
Tyler noticed because he was always noticing her now.