Chapter 11: Coach Suspicion (Leo in Ava's Body POV)

Coach Barrett's whistle pierced through the gym like a siren, and I knew, absolutely knew, it was meant for me.

"Lin! My office. Now."

The volleyball I'd been holding slipped from my sweaty palms and bounced twice before rolling under the bleachers. Around me, the rest of the team kept practicing, but I could feel their curious glances burning into my back as I followed Coach Barrett across the polished floor.

Her office was cramped, filled with tournament banners and team photos spanning decades. I'd never been in here before, Ava had never been in trouble. But here I was, Leo Martinez trapped in Ava Lin's body, about to face the music for weeks of spectacular athletic failure.

Coach Barrett closed the door and gestured to the chair across from her desk. "Sit."

I sat, Ava's hands fidgeting with the hem of her practice shorts.

"Three weeks," Coach Barrett said, settling into her chair. "Three weeks of the worst volleyball I've ever seen you play. Want to explain that to me?"

My mouth went dry. "I've been having some issues, "

"Issues." She leaned back, studying me with sharp eyes. "What kind of issues, Lin? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've forgotten how to play the sport you've been dominating for four years."

"It's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it." She pulled out a folder and flipped it open. "Your serve percentage has dropped from eighty-five percent to thirty-two percent. Your reaction time in the back row is off by a full second. Yesterday, you rotated clockwise instead of counterclockwise during the Henderson drill."

Each statistic hit like a physical blow. I'd known I was bad, but hearing the numbers laid out like evidence of my failure made it real in a way that terrified me.

"Coach, I can explain, "

"I'm not finished." She pulled out another sheet. "Your teammates have approached me separately. Jade thinks you're having a mental breakdown. Sofia asked if you have family problems. Even quiet little Emma Martinez suggested you might need counseling."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "They talked to you about me?"

"They're worried, Lin. We all are." Her voice softened slightly. "Look, I've coached for twenty-three years. I've seen players go through slumps, injuries, personal crises. But I've never seen a complete personality and skill reversal like this."

"What do you mean?"

"You used to be laser-focused during practice. Intense. Driven. Now you're scattered, asking basic questions about plays you could run in your sleep." She leaned forward. "And your body language is completely different."

My heart started racing. "Different how?"

"You move differently. Carry yourself differently. Hell, you even throw the ball differently during warm-ups." She tapped her pen against the desk. "So I'm going to ask you one more time: what's going on?"

Panic crawled up my throat. I couldn't tell her the truth, who would believe that? But I couldn't keep lying either, not when she was watching me this closely.

"I, " My voice cracked. "Can I make a phone call? Please?"

Coach Barrett's eyebrows shot up. "A phone call?"

"It's about my shoulder. The injury from earlier this season. I think... I think it's affecting me more than I admitted."

She studied my face for a long moment. "You have five minutes."

I bolted from her office and practically ran to the locker room, pulling out my phone with shaking hands.

"Ava," I whispered when she picked up. "Emergency. Coach Barrett knows something's wrong."

"What?" Even through the phone, I could hear her panic. "What did she say?"

"Everything. Statistics, personality changes, body language. She wants an explanation and I don't know what to tell her."

Silence on the other end, then: "Where are you?"

"Locker room. She gave me five minutes to make a call."

"Okay, listen carefully. You're going to tell her about the shoulder injury. That it's been worse than you let on, and you've been trying to play through it."

"But what about the personality stuff?"

"Depression. Anxiety. Fear of losing your scholarship because of the injury. You've been pretending to be fine when you're actually falling apart."

I blinked. "That's... actually not that far from the truth."

"Exactly. It explains the performance drop and the behavior changes." Her voice steadied, like she was settling into problem-solving mode. "Tell her you've been seeing a physical therapist off-campus because you were scared the team doctor would bench you permanently."

"Have you been seeing a physical therapist?"

"No, but I know Dr. Kim at the campus health center. She owes me a favor from when I helped her daughter with volleyball fundamentals last summer. I can call her after this and set up a fake treatment plan."

"Ava, that's, "

"Necessary. Unless you want to explain body swapping to your volleyball coach."

Point taken. "What else?"

"The shoulder injury explains why your timing is off, why you're hesitating on spikes, why your serves are inconsistent. But you need to sell it. Really sell it."

"How?"

"You're Ava Lin, and you're scared. You've worked your entire life for this scholarship opportunity, and you're watching it slip away because of an injury you can't control. You're depressed, anxious, and trying to hide it from everyone because admitting weakness feels like giving up."

The words hit deeper than they should have. Because in a weird way, they were true. I was scared. I was watching everything slip away. I just wasn't doing it in my own body.

"Leo, you still there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here."

"Can you do this?"

I took a shaky breath. "I think so."

"Good. Call me after. And Leo?"

"What?"

"Remember, you're not just acting scared. You are scared. Use that."

She hung up, and I stared at the phone for a moment before walking back to Coach Barrett's office. She was exactly where I'd left her, pen still tapping against the desk.

"So," she said as I sat down. "Phone call help?"

"I lied to you." The words came out in a rush. "About my shoulder. It's not better. It's worse."

Her pen stopped tapping. "How much worse?"

"I've been seeing Dr. Kim at the health center twice a week for the past month. She thinks I might need surgery after the season." I let my voice crack on the last word. "If there is an after the season."

"Lin, "

"I know I should have told you. I know I've been letting the team down. But I'm terrified, Coach." The emotion in my voice wasn't fake, it was Leo's terror channeled through Ava's situation. "This scholarship is everything. My family needs this. And if you bench me because of the injury..."

"Why didn't you come to me?"

"Because I thought I could handle it. I thought if I just pushed through, played through the pain, I could make it work." I looked down at Ava's hands, which were trembling slightly. "But it's affecting everything. My timing, my focus, my confidence. And the pain medication Dr. Kim prescribed makes me foggy during practice."

Coach Barrett was quiet for a long moment. "What's the treatment plan?"

"Targeted physical therapy, anti-inflammatories, and possibly a cortisone injection next week if things don't improve." The lies flowed easier now, mixed with just enough truth to feel believable. "Dr. Kim thinks we can manage it through the scholarship trials if I'm careful."

"And the emotional component?"

I met her eyes. "I've been depressed. Anxious. Trying to pretend everything's normal when it's not." This part wasn't acting at all. "I know I've been different in practice. Less focused, asking stupid questions. It's because I'm scared I'm forgetting how to play. Like the injury is taking away the only thing I'm good at."

Coach Barrett studied me for what felt like forever. Then she leaned back in her chair and sighed.

"Lin, you are an idiot."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do." She pulled out a different folder. "Do you know what this is?"

I shook my head.

"Medical accommodation forms. For exactly this situation." She set the folder on the desk between us. "We could have modified your practice schedule, adjusted your training intensity, brought in specialized coaches to help you adapt to playing with the injury."

"I didn't want special treatment."

"This isn't special treatment. This is proper athlete care." She opened the folder and pulled out several forms. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to bring me documentation from Dr. Kim about your treatment plan and medication schedule. We're going to adjust your practice routine to accommodate the injury. And you're going to check in with me twice a week about how you're feeling, physically and mentally."

"You're not benching me?"

"Not if you start being honest with me." She leaned forward. "But Lin, if I find out you've been lying about anything else, or if your performance doesn't start improving with proper accommodations, you're done. Scholarship trials or not."

"Yes, Coach. I understand."

"Good." She handed me the forms. "Get these to Dr. Kim, have her fill them out, and bring them back to me by Friday. And Lin?"

"Yeah?"

"Your teammates care about you. So do I. Don't shut us out when you're struggling. That's what teams are for."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and walked out of her office with shaking legs. Only when I was safely back in the locker room did I call Ava.

"How did it go?" she answered immediately.

"She bought it. But now I need medical documentation from Dr. Kim and twice-weekly check-ins about my emotional state."

"I'll handle Dr. Kim. What about the check-ins?"

"I guess I learn to be a depressed, injured volleyball player instead of just a terrible one."

"Leo." His voice was gentle. "You're not terrible. You're learning to be someone completely different in an impossible situation. The fact that you held it together in there shows how much you've grown."

"I was terrified."

"I know. But you did it anyway." There was something warm in her voice. "That's what courage looks like."

As I packed up Ava's gear, I realized she was right. I was still scared, still way in over my head. But for the first time since this nightmare started, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could figure out how to be brave in someone else's skin.