This is my first multi-chapter story that actually follows a definite plotline, so...R&R? And it may be a little heavy on the volleyball terminology in some areas, later in the story. Sorry. I'll try to explain at the bottom of each chapter, but feel free to ask if I miss something, or there's something else that confuses you.

Prologue

"So I am to understand that you would like your scholarship back?" Headmistress Kirova, or just Kirova as I like to call her, said, frowning. She'd been headmistress of St. Vladimir's Academy, the seventh-to-twelfth grade, year-round, six-days-a-week private school that I'd been on athletic scholarship on until the end of the volleyball season sophomore year, when I'd broken my ankle.

I nodded. "I know I haven't played for St. Vladimir's in two years, but I've practiced. And I'm sure I could be just as good as I was before."

She didn't look convinced. "I need a guarantee, Miss Hathaway. Yes, you were a great player, but this is a top high school, and we don't give away scholarships easily. Especially not athletic ones."

But I needed that scholarship. With an MIA father and a mother who might as well be, I would be hard-pressed to find the money to pay for such an expensive private school. Sure, my mom probably had a lot of money from her work in the CIA. But it wasn't money I would take. She couldn't play mom only when necessary. I'd managed to get student loans for the two years, but if I could get my scholarship back and if the volleyball team won the state championship this year, the debt would disappear.

"Please, Ms. Kirova. I really need that scholarship." Yeah, I hated acting like a good kid. But in dire circumstances, I could do it.

"I'm sorry, Rosemarie, but there are many other great athletes vying to get in, and they have not been out of practice for two years." My frustration level was rapidly rising, and I was worried that I'd say something I would regret soon.

It was then that a voice spoke up from the back of the room. "She has potential."

I whipped around to see a really tall guy—maybe six-six, six-seven—standing at the back of the room. He had dark brown eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, and was strikingly handsome. A light Russian accent laced his low, smooth voice, making him that much more appealing.

Kirova cleared her throat. "Ah, yes, this is our new varsity coach, Mr. Dimitri Belikov."

Oh, so he was a teacher. Off-limits, then. It was kind of a shame.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. Hi, nice to meet you seemed like a safe option, albeit simple. I opened my mouth to say it, but he simply nodded in acknowledgement of me and said to Kirova, "I watched her in the gym. If she's been out for two years and still plays as well as she does, she could easily be the best setter that St. Vladmir's has ever seen."

"Wait—you were watching me?" I cut in, feeling a strange mix of being both flattered and creeped out. In retrospect, I probably could've chosen my tone better, since I sounded less surprised, more indignant. It probably didn't tip the scale in my favor.

"Still, she hasn't played with an actual team for two years, and while the skills may still be there, the teamwork may not be," said Kirova. "She's a senior now. She might not be ready to play at varsity level."

"You can't tell until you actually give me a chance!" I exclaimed, my frustration getting the better of me. "It might still be there, but you won't give me the chance to find out!"

"And what if it is not there, Miss Hathaway? Then I have just wasted a scholarship to a student who cannot better the school for it!" she snapped.

My anger flared. Who was she to say that I couldn't better the school? She might as well have said I was a waste of space.

Once again, I was saved from saying something that would destroy my chances of getting in. Belikov interjected his opinion.

"She can easily be assimilated into the team. They have played together since seventh grade. The real issue is if her skills are up to par."

What I said next, I probably shouldn't have said.

"Who are you, anyway? Outsourced help?" I snapped. "You don't even know me!"

Considering that he was trying to help my case, I didn't really benefit from lashing out at him. And it definitely sunk my approval rating. Luckily, no one responded to me.

Kirova rolled her eyes. "The season starts in eight weeks. If her skills aren't there, it would be hard for her to even make tryouts, let alone get a scholarship."

"Give her private lessons," he said, like it was the most obvious solution in the world. To him, it probably was.

Kirova narrowed her eyes. "And who's going to give her private lessons? You?"

He looked taken aback for a moment. Great. I barely knew the guy and he already didn't want to work with me. It wasn't to say that I wanted to work with him, but still. With my brash personality, I'd given plenty of bad first impressions before, but never been rejected so quickly.

If there was a non-romantic rejection timing thing, I probably just got the world record.

To my surprise, though, he didn't shake his head fervently or scream, "No!" Instead, he just nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I'll give her lessons."

Even Kirova looked shocked that he'd actually agreed to mentor me. I was probably the last person in the world anyone would want to teach.

But she didn't reject his proposal, either. She just sighed, pursed her lips, and said, "Fine. You will be taking private lessons with Coach Belikov starting tomorrow in both the mornings and the afternoons before and after classes."

"Meet me in the gym at 5:00 am in the gym before classes and come at 3:30 after. You'll have Sunday mornings off, but come at the same time in the afternoon," he said nonchalantly.

I gaped at him. "Five o'clock! But I'll have to wake up at 4:30! And 3:30 gives me barely any time to get to my dorms and change after classes!"

He shrugged. "The mornings will end at 7:20, so you'll have forty minutes to shower, change, and eat before class. And as for 3:30...if you are truly too slow to get to your dorm and back in half an hour, then bring clothes to the gym and change there."

I was sorely tempted to call him a variety of names that were certainly not school-appropriate, but for once, I held my tongue.

"Take it or leave it, Rosemarie," said Kirova.

I grimaced. "Fine. I'll take it," I growled.

Kirova sighed. "It looks like you have your scholarship back, Miss Hathaway. Please, do not make me regret agreeing to this."

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