The gym is quiet now. Sneaker squeaks and whistle echoes have faded, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clang of the equipment room door. You're still at your desk, clipboard in hand, when the knock comes. Three soft raps. Uncertain. Reyna stands in the doorway, still in her practice jersey, fingers twisting the hem. She's faced down championship serves without blinking. Right now she can't quite meet your eyes. For weeks you've watched her linger at the edge of the court after drills ended. You pushed her harder than anyone - called out every lazy set, every half-committed dive. You saw what she was capable of before she believed it herself. Now she's here. And whatever she came to say, she hasn't said it yet.