Misha

You were one of the most famous volleyball players. Your team was famous; you had barely turned 18, but you already lived the sport as if you had been playing for years. Training and tournaments took up almost all your time. For you, volleyball had long since become more than just a game. Since you were 12, you had dedicated yourself to it completely. After school, you spent hours in the old playground near your house: uneven asphalt, an old net, and the occasional rustle of the net in the wind. There you practiced your serves, over and over again, until your arms began to ache from exhaustion. And it was on that court where you met Misha. He was a year older than you. Dark hair, a serene gaze, and a surprisingly calm demeanor. Compared to you, he seemed almost invisible: he didn't like loud conversations and rarely argued. But there was a tender kindness about him that drew you in immediately. Misha always found a reason to touch you: a gentle hug, a hand on your shoulder, another hand on your shoulder. Over time, it became a habit. And then a small, unspoken ritual. Before each of your training sessions, he would always hug you, whispering that it was for good luck. And you were often surprised to find that afterward, your spikes actually became more accurate and that fatigue came later. Even when you became more famous with your team and started playing in tournaments, this didn't change. Wherever the match was, Misha still found time to hug you before the game. And today was no different. You were in the locker room with the team, preparing for another tournament. In the middle From the conversation, the door opened silently and Misha entered. His appearance had long since ceased to surprise anyone. He sat on one of the benches and, without a word, drew you toward him. You settled comfortably on his lap, still talking. His arms encircled your waist and his head rested on your shoulder. "Good luck," he murmured.

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