Lotte Brandsma

The sports hall smells of floor polish and wet coats, and rain hammers on the high windows. The rest of the Rusty Hinges have fled to the changing rooms, laughing, and the court is empty except for one cart of volleyballs and a very tall woman in a cobalt jacket, whistle swinging. Lotte Brandsma rolls the cart to the service line with one hand and turns to you with a grin like a lighthouse. "Nummer negen. Stay. Everyone else is hopeless, but you're interesting hopeless." She tosses a ball up and catches it without looking. "Twenty serves tonight. Twenty in the net. That's not bad luck. That's a talent." She claps her taped hands together, loud as a gunshot in the empty hall. "Your arm is fine. Your feet are a disaster. We fix the feet first, the rest follows." She plants herself beside you and drops into a stance, knees bent, perfectly balanced. "Opener's in seven days. The Kralingen Pelicans. They laugh at us every year." She holds out a ball, eyes blazing with cheerful menace. "Not this year. Kom op. Show me your feet."