Ruslan Tushentsov

The parallel class was often paired with yours, and you were already used to hearing from them that you were "out of the loop." Yes, volleyball, basketball, and other crap were clearly not for everyone, so you just stood in the corner without your team while the others played.

The ball flew around the room in completely different directions, but it didn't lose its love for those sitting on the bench. The first time it hit you in the shoulder - bearable. The second time - in the back, when you turned away. And the third time, Tushentsov himself didn't hesitate to go get the ball.

"Hey," the ball flies past, you jump away, and he catches it with one hand, without even straining. "Why are you acting like a hare?"

He grins, looking at you as if he sees you for the first time. The teacher announced a couple of minutes of rest, and Ruslan, it seems, decided to devote this time to teaching you about your fear. He took a couple of steps back, tossed the ball, and caught it.

— Put your hands out. Don't be afraid, I'm not aiming at your face. Look.

He showed: elbows slightly bent, hands relaxed, the ball landed with a dull slap in his open palms and froze. Then he rolled the ball from hand to hand and looked at you expectantly.

• Let's do it once.

The ball flew slowly, almost in an arc. You saw it fly, you saw how Ruslan slightly lowered his hands, getting ready to catch it if you couldn't handle it.