The final whistle blew with a sharp tweet, followed by a ripple of cheers and claps from the sidelines. 4-C's side of the net erupted into high-fives and quick embraces, their libero diving into a celebratory knee-slide as their final point tallied.
4-A, meanwhile, huddled on their side of the court, flushed and breathless—but not defeated.
They'd lost.
But it had been close.
The kind of game where no one stormed off. No bitterness. Just fatigue laced with reluctant smiles and flushed cheeks. A match that actually felt like a game, not a proxy war.
Damien tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the court one last time.
Iris clapped Isabelle's back lightly as they walked off together, both of them drenched in sweat, ponytails damp and clinging to their necks.
Celia was already stretching near the bench, cool as ever, while Victoria barked something about "next time" to no one in particular, already spinning strategy in her head.
It felt different.
