Chapter 72: Whistles, Spikes, and Warnings

The echo of sneakers squeaking against polished wood mingled with the sharp thwack of volleyballs being struck. Warm-ups were winding down, the steady rhythm of shuffles, stretches, and passing drills giving way to sharper, more focused movements. Players began splitting off into smaller groups across the court. On the far side, two lines took turns serving, their tosses precise and fluid, the sound of ball-on-hand sharp as gunfire. Closer to the net, a rotation of girls worked on spikes—powerful leaps, swinging arms, and the solid, satisfying smack of clean contact. Off to one corner, a smaller group drilled receives, low stances and quick reactions keeping the ball in constant motion. From his seat on the sidelines, Joon-ho observed it all with the quiet, watchful patience of someone who saw more than the average spectator. His eyes didn’t just follow the ball—they tracked foot placement, shoulder rotation, the way each player’s body absorbed impact and recovered. Every detail was cataloged without conscious effort. Beside him sat Assistant Coach Han Yeon-jin, a compact woman in her mid-thirties whose sharp eyes seemed to catch every small imperfection in form. Her posture was straight but not rigid, a clipboard balanced on one knee, pen tapping softly whenever she paused to think. She flipped between diagrams and columns of player stats, occasionally jotting a quick note before looking back at the court. "They’ll be in these small groups for about half an hour before we start the practice match," Yeon-jin explained, her voice calm but clipped, as if her mind was already three steps ahead. She didn’t bother glancing at him, keeping her gaze fixed on the girls moving through their drills. "We’re still trimming down the roster for the Olympics. Only twelve players and one substitute make the final registration. No room for dead weight." Joon-ho’s mouth curved faintly at the edge. "So... these next few weeks are going to be intense." "That’s putting it lightly." Yeon-jin’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, more a brief acknowledgment of the understatement. "Some spots are already locked in. Ji-hye, for one. Then the captain, and our libero. Those three are the spine of the team. We’d have to lose our minds to cut them." His gaze followed hers to the far side of the court, where Ji-hye leapt into the air with perfect timing, taking a high set and slamming it past the outstretched hands of the blockers. The ball hit the polished wood with a hollow thunk, bouncing once before rolling toward the wall. The captain clapped her on the back, grinning, while the libero jogged smoothly to reset the drill. There was a quiet pride in the way Yeon-jin watched Ji-hye’s movements—though Joon-ho caught the way her pen paused over her clipboard, as if she knew exactly who to credit for that regained sharpness. Yeon-jin’s tone softened. "I’ll say it—Ji-hye’s form was shaky after her injury last year. She was playing safe, maybe too safe. But now..." She shot him a sidelong glance. "Thanks to you, she’s not only back where she was, she’s sharper. More confident. It’s made her impossible to cut." Joon-ho accepted the praise with only a faint nod, keeping his eyes on Ji-hye. "What about the others? Anyone with injury concerns right now?" Yeon-jin flipped a page on her clipboard. "Several seniors. Old wear-and-tear stuff. They’re managing it, but it’ll need monitoring if we push hard in training." Her pen stilled, and she pointed toward the spike drill in the center court. "Then there’s her—Go Ye-rin." Joon-ho tracked the motion to a tall, lean girl with a fierce jump and an equally fierce swing. She was pounding spikes into the floor with a kind of raw aggression that drew attention instantly. "She’s dangerous in the best way," Yeon-jin continued. "Aggressive offense, not afraid of tight angles, and she can score in high-pressure rallies. But..." Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "Her injury record’s a red flag. She’s missed three months total this season with her club due to the same damn issue." "Same location?" Joon-ho asked. Yeon-jin nodded grimly. "Right knee. Officially ’minor strains’ each time, but it’s happened three separate times, all during matches. Club’s medical team keeps brushing it off as overreaction, says she’s fine." Joon-ho’s eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Ye-rin land from another spike, the slight hitch in her knee’s bend barely visible unless you were looking for it. "Overuse injury, most likely. Aggressive movements, awkward landing stance. If it’s not addressed, she’s going to tear something she can’t come back from." "That’s what I’ve been saying," Yeon-jin sighed. "Coach Min agrees. But until she’s on our official roster, we can’t dictate her medical care. Clubs hate it when we step on their toes." Joon-ho made a mental note. For now, Ji-hye was his priority. But if he ended up working with the national team during the Olympics, he’d want full profiles and injury histories for every player. The shrill blast of Coach Min’s whistle cut across the court, halting drills. "Gather up! Red team, Blue team—you’re splitting into match squads." Players jogged in, energy buzzing in the air. Ji-hye ended up on the Red team, the captain and libero flanking her. Ye-rin, the promising but injury-prone attacker, stood tall on the Blue side, bouncing lightly on her toes. "Both Red and Blue are the tentative final twelve," Yeon-jin murmured beside him. "Barring injury." Joon-ho tucked that away. Even if he never stepped foot on the Olympic sideline, he could still take care of Ji-hye outside the team. That wasn’t going to change. The whistle blew again, and the practice match began. From the first serve, it was clear this wouldn’t be a one-sided affair. The Blue team’s setter was quick and precise, feeding Ye-rin clean balls to crush into the Red defense. The Red team countered with fast, well-coordinated plays, Ji-hye’s cross-court spikes cutting sharply past the block. Defense on both sides was tight. The libero on Blue dove for impossible saves, while the Red team’s back row absorbed heavy hits without breaking formation. The scoreboard ticked upward evenly: 3–3, 5–5, 8–8. Then came the rally. It started fast—one clean serve, one sharp receive—and from there it only got faster. The ball blurred between hands and floor, slamming down only to be dug up at the last possible second. Sneakers squeaked in every direction, bodies lunged and twisted, the sound of palms smacking leather echoing under the high ceiling. Ji-hye read the play, eyes locked on the setter’s hands, and when the toss came, she was already moving. Her approach was smooth, explosive—three powerful strides and a perfect jump. She twisted midair for a cross spike, shoulders snapping through the motion, and sent the ball screaming toward the far corner. Blue’s libero reacted on instinct, diving sideways in a desperate, almost reckless attempt. Her forearms caught the ball just inches off the floor, but the angle was bad, and it rocketed away in a wild arc toward the sideline. Gasps rose from the benches, but the Blue setter was already moving—sprinting full tilt, hair flying behind her. She slid into a low, skidding lunge, arms out, and with a clean, controlled touch, she sent the ball back into the air. From across the net, a sharp voice cut through the noise. "Mine!" It was Ye-rin. She came flying in from the far side, her footwork aggressive and loud, pounding the court as she chased the set. The ball was drifting too close to the antenna, forcing her into a terrible angle—but she adjusted mid-leap, hips twisting, arm cocked high. Her spike came down like a hammer, threading the narrowest gap between the Red block and the sideline. The ball slammed into the backcourt, bouncing high off the floor. The whistle blew. Point for Blue. The cheer from her teammates was cut short. Ye-rin’s landing went wrong—so fast it was almost hard to see until it happened. Her left foot planted clean, but her right twisted inward just a fraction, enough to shift all her momentum into a dangerous angle. Her body buckled under the imbalance, weight collapsing sideways. She hit the floor hard, the sound sharp against the polished court. A cry ripped from her throat, raw and immediate, her hands flying to clamp around her upper thigh. Everything stopped. The rally’s echo died in the rafters, sneakers squeaked once and then fell still, and a tense hush settled over the gym. Coach Min’s whistle shrieked, cutting the silence with authority. "Hold position!" she barked, already striding across the court. Her eyes swept the players into compliance as two of Blue’s teammates knelt beside Ye-rin, speaking in low, urgent voices. The captain of the Red team jogged over from the other side, her earlier competitiveness replaced by visible concern. From his seat, Joon-ho leaned forward, his gaze narrowing on the way Ye-rin’s right leg was drawn tight, her quad quivering under the pressure of her own grip. He could see the muscle spasm ripple upward toward her hip, not the knee this time, but close enough to worry. The signs were clear—a sharp strain, likely the same overuse pattern he’d just discussed with Coach Han. Across the court, Ji-hye turned her head. For only a heartbeat, their eyes met. But in that single glance, he read everything—her recognition of his skill, her unspoken trust, her quiet plea. Can you help?