Chapter 2 — Fault Lines

Callista

The steady rhythm of a volleyball thudding against the gym floor sliced through the early evening air as Callista Mareen stepped into Seabrook High’s gymnasium. The sharp scent of varnish mingled with the faint tang of sweat and the ever-present saltiness carried by the coastal breeze. Her heels echoed crisply against the polished wood, each step a deliberate cadence that carried the full weight of a mother’s resolve.

Her eyes locked on Lila immediately. Her daughter’s slender frame moved with a measured precision as she worked through a passing drill, her long, wavy dark brown hair swaying with each practiced motion. But it wasn’t the fluidity of Lila’s movements that Callista noticed—it was the subtle furrow in her brow, the tension in her shoulders, the slight downward turn of her lips. It was a look Callista knew too well. It was determination, yes, but determination laced with strain, with the weight of unseen expectations pressing down on her.

Callista’s stomach tightened. She had seen that look too many times before—in her own reflection, years ago, when she had tried to juggle her passion for science with the impossible standards she set for herself. And now, here it was, mirrored in her daughter’s face. Guilt pricked at the edges of her resolve. Had she done this to Lila, unintentionally passed on the burden she’d carried for so long?

Her focus shifted to the tall, broad-shouldered figure commanding attention at the far end of the court. Ethan Calder. Even from a distance, his presence seemed to anchor the space. His sandy brown hair was slightly disheveled, and his movements were fluid, purposeful, as he demonstrated a setting technique. His voice carried across the gym—calm yet firm, tinged with encouragement—as he explained the mechanics of the motion to a group of players.

Her jaw tightened instinctively. She had spent hours researching Ethan Calder when she’d first heard he would be coaching Lila’s team. The headlines weren’t easy to forget: a heated, publicized argument with a teammate, whispers of gambling that clung to his name like barnacles on a hull, and a career that had crumbled almost as quickly as it had risen. He might have been a volleyball prodigy once, but his personal life painted a different story—a story that Callista couldn’t ignore. Especially not when it came to Lila.

Across the gym, Lila’s serve clipped the net and dropped short. The slight slump of her shoulders, the way she bit her lip, sent Callista’s protective instincts flaring. Her heels clicked louder now as her stride lengthened, carrying her toward the court and the man who presumed to push her daughter so hard.

“Lila,” she called sharply, her voice cutting through the hum of practice.

Lila froze mid-motion. Her wide hazel eyes darted toward her mother, then flicked nervously to Ethan.

“Mom?” she said softly, her voice barely audible over the rhythmic percussion of bouncing volleyballs.

Callista didn’t respond to Lila. Her focus had already shifted to Ethan, who had noticed her approach instantly. He straightened to his full height, brushing a hand across the leather bracelet on his wrist—an unconscious gesture that she almost missed but couldn’t help noting. For a brief moment, Ethan’s gaze flicked toward Lila, then back to Callista, his piercing blue eyes calm but watchful.

“Coach Calder,” Callista said, her tone polite but edged with steel.

“Ms. Mareen,” Ethan replied, inclining his head slightly. There was no arrogance in his expression, but a flicker of curiosity—maybe even amusement—that only served to heighten her irritation.

“We need to talk,” she said, her voice steady and measured, though her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. Her gaze darted briefly toward Lila, who was trying to focus on her drill but moved stiffly now, the fluidity of her earlier motions gone. “About my daughter.”

Ethan gestured to the sideline. “Of course. Over here?”

Callista nodded, following him to the edge of the court. She kept her stride purposeful, resisting the urge to look back at Lila, though her heart tugged in two directions—one wanting to shield her daughter, the other urging her to confront the man who thought he knew what was best.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she began, smoothing the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her tone sharp but controlled, “but I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve been giving Lila a lot of attention during practice.”

Ethan tilted his head slightly, studying her with a calm that somehow irritated her further. “Do you think that’s an issue?”

“It is,” Callista replied, her voice tightening, “if it’s making her feel singled out. Lila’s a good player, but she’s also… sensitive. She puts enough pressure on herself without feeling like she’s under a microscope.”

Ethan’s expression stayed even, though something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or maybe wounded pride. He nodded slowly, his tone thoughtful as he replied. “I can see how it might seem that way. But that’s not my intention. I see potential in Lila. She’s got quick reflexes, strong court awareness. Her swing’s a little stiff, but that’s something we can fix. She just needs to trust herself more.”

“And you think pushing her harder is the way to achieve that?” Callista pressed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as her nails dug into her sleeves.

Ethan met her gaze steadily, his voice calm but resolute. “I think showing her what she’s capable of is the way to achieve that. Sometimes the only way to grow is to step outside what feels safe.”

His words were measured, but Callista caught the faintest tension in his posture, like he was holding something back. Her lips tightened. “She’s not just a player to me, Coach Calder. She’s my daughter. And while I appreciate your… perspective, I won’t let you push her to the point where she breaks. She’s been through enough.”

Something shifted in Ethan’s expression. He glanced down briefly, his thumb brushing the small silver volleyball charm on his bracelet. For a moment, his confident exterior softened, replaced by something quieter, almost introspective. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, tinged with a quiet sincerity.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” he said, his tone even but laced with empathy. “I’m not here to break anyone. I’m here to help these players grow—to show them what they’re capable of when they put in the work. Lila included.”

Callista opened her mouth to respond but found herself pausing. There was no arrogance in his tone, no defensiveness—only conviction. It unsettled her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

“Look,” Ethan continued, his voice softening further, “I know I’m asking you to trust me, and I know that’s not easy. But I see something in Lila—something she doesn’t see in herself yet. And I think, deep down, you see it too.”

His words struck a nerve she wasn’t ready to confront. Of course, she saw it. She saw it every time Lila’s eyes lit up when she talked about volleyball, every time her daughter squared her shoulders and stepped onto the court despite the doubt flickering in her movements. But seeing it wasn’t the same as trusting someone else to nurture it.

“I just don’t want her to get hurt,” Callista admitted finally, her voice quiet and unsteady.

“Neither do I,” Ethan said simply, the weight of his words settling between them.

For a moment, the tension eased. Callista’s gaze drifted back to the court, where Lila stood at the serving line. Her first attempt sailed just outside the line, and she frowned, biting her lip. But her next serve arced cleanly over the net, landing just inside the back line. A few of her teammates cheered, and Lila’s lips twitched into a small, hesitant smile.

“She’s got a good swing,” Ethan said, his voice warm with quiet confidence. “She’ll get there.”

Callista didn’t respond immediately. She watched her daughter, her heart pulling in different directions. “We’ll see,” she said finally, her tone softer, though still guarded.

Ethan smiled faintly, his expression open but grounded. “Fair enough.”

She turned back to him, her stance still firm but no longer bristling. “I’m trusting you with a lot here, Coach Calder. Don’t let her down.”

“I won’t,” he said, his voice steady and sure.

Callista held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding. Without another word, she turned and walked toward the bleachers, her heels clicking against the hardwood. She didn’t look back, but she felt his gaze linger, and that unsettled her more than anything he’d said.

As she stepped out into the cool evening air, the distant roar of the ocean reached her ears, soothing yet unrelenting. She tightened her grip on her bag and took a deep breath. Maybe trust, like volleyball, was something you had to keep working at—something you had to risk, even when it felt impossible.

One step at a time, she thought. For both of them.