Tonight was the final. Las Panteras vs. Las Águilas. The gym smelled of floor wax and sweat. As the referee blew the whistle, Don Tito licked his pencil lead and began to write.
The referee stopped the clock. Don Tino looked at his sheet. Next to Valeria’s name, a new cross had bloomed. hoja de anotacion voleibol
“Water,” Valeria gasped, clutching her side. “It’s just a cramp.” Tonight was the final
He folded the ghost-marked original—the one with the crosses and the torn corner—and slipped it into his shirt pocket. He walked out into the cool Mexican night, leaving the empty gym behind. He knew Don Joaquín was still sitting at that table, waiting for the next game, the next pencil stroke. The gym smelled of floor wax and sweat
Las Panteras won the fifth set, 15-13.
As he finished, the gym lights flickered. The air turned cold. The old, torn sheet on the table next to him fluttered and lifted into the air, as if an invisible hand was holding it. Then, slowly, it tore itself in half down the middle.
The lights steadied. On the court, Valeria stood up, stretching. “It’s gone,” she said, confused. “The pain just… vanished.”