Until The Final Whistle: Nicola Zalewski
Nicola Zalewki X Polish!Fem!Reader
Synopsis: As captain of Poland's women's volleyball team, you've sacrificed everything to lead your country on the world's biggest stage. But after a devastating injury leaves you unconscious during the World Championship, you're forced to fight a different battleârecovery. With Nicola Zalewski and your teammates refusing to leave your side, you'll discover that true strength isn't just about getting back up, but learning to lean on the people who love you. Through heartbreak, healing, and one unforgettable final, you'll chase the dream you've worked your whole life to achieve.
Content warning: Graphic sports injury, blood, and nose injury, concussion/head trauma, loss of consciousness, hospitalisation, medical treatment, emotional distress, panic, and fear for a loved one, crying, and competitive sports pressure
The crowd roared through the arena. You strode onto the court. "Polska! Polska!" Red and white flags waved. Children pressed in for autographs. Camera flashes cut across faces. Commentators rattled off line-ups. "And leading Poland once again... their captain." Your name thundered. Applause surged. The world shook. You grinned, rolled your shoulders. Finals, championships, internationalsâsome things never change. That chant always jolted your spine.
Volleyball was everythingâyour reality, passion, future. Each morning began in darkness. You hammered serves and sprinted before school. Aches and bruises marked endless training. Every night, tape-wrapped fingers clutched the ball. Each sacrifice pushed you forward. Every early morning and lonely moment counted. You became the face of Polish volleyball. Children idolised you. Veterans honoured you. Teammates relied on you. The attention meant little. What mattered was standing with the women who became your second family. Now, as the anthem neared, memories of that journey buzzed in your mind.
As memories surfaced and the anthem neared, Martyna nudged your arm in line.
âYouâve got that look.â
"The one where youâre about to make everyone regret coming onto the same court as you," Martyna teased.
You laugh quietly, tension easing. "Iâll try my best."
She snorts. "Thatâs exactly what Iâm afraid of." Grins flash as the music begins. Hand over heart, the arena fell silent. You sang every wordâloud, proud, letting the anthem vibrate through your bones. When it ended, applause washed over you. Instinctively, your gaze found the stands. There he was.
Even among thousands, you instantly spotted Nicola. He wore a Poland jersey over his hoodie. Your number and surname stretched across his chest. The smile he gave you was softer than the one he showed reporters. That warmth was always reserved for you. He lifted both thumbs for you. You blew him a quick kiss. Teammates whistled and teased.
âOh, sheâs distracted already.â
âShut up,â you shot back, laughing.
Football had always been Nicolaâs world, volleyball yours. People argued which sport Poland did better. You couldnât care less. You loved watching Nicola play; he loved watching you. That was all that mattered.
But as the energy reached its peak, the refereeâs whistle split the noise.
âLetâs go!â you shouted, huddling your team together, arms thrown over shoulders.
The match ignited. Poland surged with energy. Your first spike smashed the floor. The crowd erupted. Another point. Another roar. Teammates swarmed you. "Captainâs on fire!" Martyna shouted. The rallies intensified. Every save strained both teams to their limits.
Sweat streamed down your brow as you flung yourself for an impossible ball.
"I've got it!" you yelled. Your setter trusted you, sending the ball high above the net. You jumped. Time slowedâheart pounding in your earsâand swung. The ball crashed to the floor. The stadium erupted. The vibration rattled through your feet. You landed laughing. Teammates crowded around.
âYou make that look too easy,â someone teased.
The first and second sets were played by Poland. The scoreboard tilted in your favour as pressure built. By the third set, rallies were brutalâspikes sharper, digs stinging, neither side yielding.
The ball rocketed over the net. Your libero dove and dug it. The setter fired outsideâshe spiked, got blocked, and the ball ricocheted toward you. You sprawled low and popped it up. The crowd surged. Across the net, the opposing setterâs grin warned of trouble. Their opposite hitter thundered toward the net. One step, two, threeâshe launched and hammered past your hands, smashing into your face.
A sickening crack resounded. White flashed across your vision. Pain stabbed your nose. Warmth ran over your lips. For a second, you blacked out. Your legs buckled; you dropped to your knees. Blood hit your feet. Gasps rippled through the arena. Someone shouted your name. You blinked hard. Bracing, you saw blood streaked on your jersey.
â...Captain?â Martynaâs voice drifted toward you. Suddenly, teammates clustered around, concern etched on their faces. âOh my God...â "She's bleeding," someone exclaimed. "Medic!" Instinctively, you clapped a hand to your face, pulling it away crimson.
â...Well,â you muttered through a wince, âthatâs new.â Despite everything, a few of your teammates laughed uneasily.
"You really aren't funny," Martyna said, her voice shaking.
Tilting your head up, you found Nicola across the arena. He was already on his feet, gripping the barrier so tightly his knuckles turned white. Even from this distance, you could read his lipsâyour name. He repeated it, over and over.
Seeing his fear hurt more than the impact. You hated Nicola's expressionâvulnerable, scared. You'd seen him frustrated or angry before, but never like this.
"I'm okay," you called, forcing a smile despite the blood running down your chin.
Medics rushed in with towels and a first-aid kit. One tilted your head back to open your airway. Another pressed gauze to your nose.
"Can you tell me your name?"
You sighed dramatically before answering. They continued asking simple questions.
"Who are you playing against?" another medic asked.
You answered every single one without hesitation. The medic nodded, relieved.
"It looks like it's just your nose."
"See?" you said, glancing towards your teammates.
"You're literally bleeding all over the floor."
"I've definitely looked worse."
"You've never looked worse."
A laugh burst out, despite the sting in your face.
The coach, however, wasn't amused.
Frustration and disbelief hit you at once.
"You've taken a hard hit."
"You can barely breathe through your nose."
"I don't need my nose to play volleyball."
Several teammates snorted.
The coach pinched the bridge of his nose.
"This isn't a negotiation."
He stared at you for a long moment before letting out a tired sigh.
Martyna groaned. "You're impossible."
The medics cleaned your face, replaced the gauze, gave you water, inspected again, and reluctantly cleared you to return.
As you jogged back into position, the crowd erupted. They knew: youâd been knocked down countless times and always got back up.
You looked toward the stands for Nicola one last time. He watched with arms folded tightly across his chest. His jaw clenched. His eyes followed your every movement. You gave him a reassuring nod. Only then did he slowly sit back down.
The referee blew the whistle. Play resumed.
Everything felt normal at first. You jumped. Blocked. Dived. Scored. The rhythm returned. But unease crept in. The lights above seemed brighter. Cheers sounded distant, as if from underwater.
You blinked hard. Focus. You're fine.
Another rally began. You raced down a difficult ball, perfectly sending it to the setter.
Someone called your name.
The ball crossed the net again.
You pressed your palm to your head, where the earlier impact during the nose injury had left a sharp ache. As adrenaline faded, you reminded yourself: itâs nothing. After being struck in the face and bleeding, you had insisted on staying on the court. This was the World Championship. You led Poland as captain. Your team depended on you. Even as play resumed, the clash from earlier echoed with each movement, a reminder that not everything had returned to normal.
Despite your resolve, the next rally stretched on for what felt like forever. Bodies dove across the court. The ball refused to touch the floor. Every save was somehow answered by another. The arena was deafening.
You strode forward. The floor pitched beneath you for a second. You scowled. Had it always felt like that?
"You good?" Martyna asked quietly as everyone reset for the next serve.
Before she could say anything else, the whistle blew. The serve came flying towards you. You received it cleanly. The setter pushed the ball outside. Spike. Blocked. The ball ricocheted back. Someone shouted.
You whirled too late. The ball slammed into your shoulder, pitching you backwards. Usually, you catch yourself. Not this time. Your heel skidded. For an instant, you hung in the air. Thenâ
The back of your head crashed against the hardwood. On impact, pain shot through your skull, compounding the earlier injury to your nose. The world blurred, pain radiating outward.
A sharp gasp swept through the arena. Everything went silent. You stared up at the bright stadium lights. They blurred, smearing together. One became two. Two became four.
Someone was shouting. Your name. Again. And again. Hands touched your shoulders. Your vision swam.
The last thing you managed to focus on was Nicola vaulting over the barrier separating the stands from the court before security grabbed hold of him.
"No!" he shouted, panic breaking through his voice. "Pleaseâlet me through!"
You wanted to tell him you were okay. It looked worse than it was. That you'd be back on your feet in a minute. But the words never came.
The faces surrounding you faded into hazy silhouettes. Martyna was crying. You'd never seen her cry during a match before.
"Stay with us," Martyna pleaded, gripping your hand tightly.
"You promised we'd win this together."
Your fingers twitched weakly around hers.
Then everything disappeared into darkness. The arenaâs roar faded, leaving only silence as the world slipped away.
The silence that followed was unbearable. No one moved. No one spoke. Thousands of supporters who had been screaming moments ago now watched in stunned silence as the medical team rushed onto the court.
Your teammates reluctantly stepped away, though none of them wanted to leave your side. Martyna refused to let go of your hand until one of the medics gently pulled her away. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks.
"You have to help her," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please..."
"We're doing everything we can."
Nicola finally managed to get past security the moment they realised he wasn't trying to interfere. He dropped to his knees beside you, breathing heavily.
Your eyes remained closed.
The sight made his stomach twist.
He reached for your hand, careful not to get in the way of the medics.
"Come on..." he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "Please wake up."
One of the medics shone a light into your eyes before quietly speaking to another.
"We're taking her to the hospital."
A stretcher was rolled onto the court.
The atmosphere somehow became even heavier.
This wasn't a twisted ankle.
This wasn't a bloody nose anymore.
Your teammates watched helplessly as the medics carefully secured your neck before lifting you onto the stretcher.
No one tried to hide their tears.
The captain who had always been the first to encourage everyone else...
The player who always stood back up...
Was now completely unconscious.
As the stretcher began to move, Nicola walked beside it, refusing to let go of your hand.
"I'll be right behind you," he murmured, squeezing your fingers gently. "You're not doing this alone."
The ambulance doors closed.
Its siren echoed through the streets outside the arena.
The court suddenly felt empty.
Your teammates slowly returned to their positions, though none of them looked ready to continue.
Everyone kept glancing towards the tunnel where you had disappeared.
The coach gathered them into a huddle.
"I know what you're all thinking."
Martyna wiped at her eyes.
"But she'd be furious if we gave up now."
That earned a few small laughs.
You hated people giving up.
Whenever training became difficult, you were always the first one shouting,
Whenever someone doubted themselvesâ
Whenever the team looked defeatedâ
"You don't lose until the final whistle."
The coach looked around the circle.
"So let's finish what she started."
The players slowly nodded.
The whistle blew once more.
Without you, Poland looked different.
The communication wasn't as smooth.
The attacks lacked their usual confidence.
The opposing team sensed the change immediately and pushed harder than ever.
They stole point after point.
Martyna clenched her fists.
She dove for balls she never thought she'd reach.
The libero threw herself across the floor without hesitation.
The blockers shut down attack after attack.
Every player gave more than they thought they had left.
It wasn't just about winning anymore.
The scoreboard slowly climbed.
The arena held its breath.
The serve crossed the net.
With every ounce of strength she had left, she swung.
The ball slammed into the floor.
The referee's whistle echoed through the arena.
The crowd erupted into deafening cheers.
Your teammates celebrated automatically, hugging one another as gold confetti rained from the ceiling.
Yet the smiles never fully reached their eyes.
Someone looked towards the tunnel.
Another towards the ambulance entrance.
Martyna accepted her medal with trembling hands.
When the officials offered her the championship trophy, she hesitated.
"This belongs to our captain," she said quietly.
The rest of the team nodded in agreement.
They lifted the trophy together.
Then one by one, they looked towards the empty tunnel.
"This one's for you," Martyna whispered.
The crowd began chanting your name.
Not because you'd scored the winning point.
Not because you'd been named Player of the Match.
But because everyone in that arena knew exactly who had inspired Poland to fight until the very end.
Even if you hadn't been there to see it.
The first thing you noticed was the incessant beeping.
Then came the dull ache in your head.
You frowned before trying to open your eyes. Bright fluorescent lights immediately forced you to squint, and for a few moments, everything was nothing more than blurry shapes and unfamiliar colours.
The voice sounded distant.
Another voice answered, softer this time.
You tried to speak, but all that came out was a raspy,
A nurse was by your side almost instantly.
She carefully helped you sit up just enough to drink from the cup she held. The cool water soothed your throat, though the pounding in your head only seemed to grow stronger.
"You've had quite the scare."
You blinked a few times, trying to piece everything together.
The nurse smiled sympathetically.
"Don't worry about the game right now."
You let out the breath you hadn't realised you were holding.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
The nurse laughed quietly.
"You've only just woken up after being unconscious, and that's your first concern?"
"They weren't kidding when they said you're stubborn."
Before you could answer, the hospital room door burst open.
The moment he saw your eyes open, every bit of colour returned to his face.
He crossed the room in seconds.
Without saying a word, he wrapped his arms around you as gently as he could, careful not to jostle your head.
For the first time since you'd known him...
You slowly lifted a hand to his back.
Instead, you felt something warm land against your shoulder.
His grip tightened. "You idiot." His voice cracked.
You couldn't help smiling.
"I've been called worse."
He pulled back just enough to glare at you.
The smile immediately disappeared from your face.
Dark circles sat beneath them.
His hair looked like he'd spent hours running his hands through it.
The words were barely louder than a whisper.
You reached up and gently cupped his cheek.
He leaned into your hand without thinking.
"I couldn't do anything."
The guilt in his voice hurt far more than the throbbing in your head.
"I should've protected you."
"I hate seeing you get hurt."
"You can't stop injuries."
"I know. But I wish I could."
Silence settled between you.
You gently intertwined your fingers with his.
He looked directly into your eyes.
You didn't have an argument for that.
The room fell quiet again until another familiar voice interrupted.
Martyna cautiously peeked around the doorway. The second she saw you sitting up, her eyes immediately filled with tears.
She practically sprinted across the room before throwing her arms around you.
You laughed despite the headache. "Seriously? Is everyone calling me that now?"
She pulled back, wiping at her eyes. "I thought..."
She couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, she punched your shoulder. Not hard. Just enough.
"It was emotional sweating."
You laughed so hard your head immediately protested. "Ow..."
Martyna's expression softened instantly. "Sorry."
She reached over and carefully squeezed your hand. "Just... don't do that again."
"I can't exactly schedule injuries."
She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."
You smiled apologetically. "I know."
One by one, the rest of your teammates filtered into the room. Within minutes, it barely resembled a hospital anymore. Flowers covered every available surface. Get-well cards were piled on the bedside table. Someone had somehow smuggled in your favourite chocolate despite the nurses repeatedly insisting outside food wasn't allowed.
The room filled with laughter, with teasing, with relief. For the first time since collapsing on that court, everything felt normal again. Almost.
Until the doctor walked in. He cleared his throat.
The room fell silent. He looked down at the clipboard before meeting your eyes.
"You've suffered a concussion."
You nodded slowly. "I figured."
"The good news is your scans are clear."
A collective sigh of relief spread around the room.
"You'll need complete rest for a while."
You frowned. "...How long?"
Your stomach sank. "...For how long?"
"At least a couple of weeks."
Nicola sighed. Martyna pinched the bridge of her nose. The doctor smiled knowingly.
"I had a feeling you'd say that."
"The finals are in a few days."
"They need you alive more."
You opened your mouth again.
"So do I," Nicola said quietly.
That was the sentence that finally silenced you. For the first time all day, you had no comeback.
The next few days were torture.
Not because of the headaches.
Not because of the dizziness.
But because everyone suddenly treated you as though you were made of glass.
The moment you were discharged from the hospital, Nicola insisted on carrying your overnight bag, even though it weighed next to nothing.
âI can carry it myself.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âI learned from you.â
The drive home was unusually quiet.
Every now and then, Nicola glanced over from the driverâs seat just to make sure you were still awake.
âYou know Iâm not going to disappear if you take your eyes off me for five seconds.â
âYouâve checked on me at least twenty times.â
âYou nearly drove into the wrong lane.â
âIâm watching the road.â
Despite everything, you couldnât stop yourself from smiling.
Recovery was much slower than you expected.
The doctor had ordered complete rest, and everyone seemed determined to make sure you followed those instructions.
The referee raised his whistle.
The entire arena seemed to stop breathing.
One final point stood between Poland and the World Championship title.
You bounced lightly on your feet, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist.
Your legs felt like lead.
Every muscle in your body screamed for rest.
Across the net, Serbia looked just as exhausted.
No one wanted this match to end.
The whistle pierced through the arena.
The ball rocketed towards your libero, who somehow managed to keep it alive with a perfect pass.
She sent the ball towards the outside.
Two Serbian blockers rose with you.
At the last second, you saw the smallest opening between their hands.
The ball clipped the fingertips of the block before flying high towards the back of the court.
Serbia scrambled to recover.
Their setter chased the second touch.
The ball ricocheted back into play.
The crowd had completely abandoned any attempt at sitting down.
Thousands of people screamed with every touch.
You barely had enough energy to keep moving.
You threw yourself forward once again, sliding across the hardwood as your forearms absorbed the force of the ball.
It floated perfectly towards the setter.
You were already approaching.
The Serbian middle blocker committed early.
Instead of setting you...
She dumped the ball behind the block.
Gasps echoed around the arena.
A Serbian defender lunged.
Her fingertips brushed the ball.
Then the second whistle sounded.
The noise was almost deafening.
Your teammates screamed as they rushed towards one another, collapsing into a tangled pile of laughter, tears and red-and-white jerseys.
Someone tackled you into a hug.
You laughed through happy tears, wrapping your arms around her as the rest of the team joined in.
The words echoed around the group again and again until none of you could stop smiling.
Confetti cannons erupted overhead.
Gold and silver paper rained down across the court.
You looked around the arena.
Complete strangers were hugging.
Polish flags waved proudly in every direction.
This was everything you'd dreamed of as a little girl.
Every single one had been worth it.
A familiar voice suddenly called your name.
You turned just in time to see Nicola running across the court.
This time, no one stopped him.
He reached you within seconds.
Before you could even say a word, he wrapped both arms around you so tightly your feet barely touched the floor.
The force of the hug almost knocked the breath from your lungs.
Instead, he buried his face against your shoulder.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"You promised you wouldn't scare me again."
You slowly pulled back just enough to look at him.
You gently brushed a tear away with your thumb.
"It won us the point before match point."
"I don't care if it won us the championship."
"I watched you lying unconscious on that court a week ago."
The smile faded from your face.
"I thought today was going to end the same way."
Without thinking, you cupped his face in both hands.
He let out a shaky laugh.
"But could you maybe stop trying to give me a heart attack every tournament?"
You couldn't help laughing.
"'Try' isn't very reassuring."
"It's the best I can promise."
"I suppose I'll have to accept that."
You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.
"There was never a chance I was going to."
He smiled before pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead.
Then another against your lips.
The cheers around you somehow became even louder.
Martyna called from across the court.
"Can you two be disgustingly in love after the medal ceremony?"
The team burst into laughter.
You pulled away from Nicola, unable to hide your grin.
"I think we've been told off."
He slipped his hand into yours anyway.
"I wasn't asking you to."
Together, you walked towards your teammates.
The gold medals were placed around each of your necks one by one.
When yours settled against your chest, you instinctively ran your fingers over it.
It was heavier than you expected.
Not because of the metal.
Because of everything it represented.
Every person who had believed in you when you doubted yourself.
As your captain's hands wrapped around the championship trophy, your teammates all looked at you.
"You first," Martyna said.
The team began chanting your name until you finally stepped forward.
Your fingers wrapped around the handles of the trophy.
You lifted it high above your head.
The arena erupted one final time.
Flashes from hundreds of cameras lit up the celebration as confetti continued to fall around you.
Standing beside your teammates, your boyfriend and thousands of supporters dressed in red and white, you realised something.
Volleyball had given you medals.
It had given you memories.
It had given you a family.
It had also led you to the person standing beside you, still refusing to let go of your hand.
Maybe championships didn't last forever.
Maybe records would eventually be broken.
Maybe one day someone else would wear the captain's armband.
Surrounded by the people you loved mostâ
Was one you would carry with you for the rest of your life. Every morning, you woke up to at least three messages from Martyna.
Donât do anything stupid today.
Every afternoon, your coach would call.
âHowâs the headache?â
âI wasnât going to ask.â
Even your teammates had started taking turns visiting you, partly to keep you company and partly to make sure you werenât secretly practising in your garden.
Unfortunately for themâŚ
You had managed exactly three serves against the garage wall before Nicola caught you.
He stood in the doorway with his arms folded.
âWhat,â he asked slowly, âare you doing?â
âYouâve been told not to play.â
âIâm barely playing.â
âYou literally just served the ball.â
ââŚYou were counting?â
âIâve been standing here for two minutes.â
You looked away innocently.
He walked over, picked up the volleyball and tucked it under one arm.
âYou can have this back when the doctor says so.â
âYou confiscated my volleyball?â
His expression didnât change.
ââŚYou hid the others.â
You stared at him in disbelief before bursting into laughter.
âYou are unbelievable.â
He smiled softly before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
âBut if I catch you training before youâre clearedâŚâ
âYouâll confiscate my kneepads too?â
âI was actually thinking about bubble wrap.â
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.
By the end of the week, the headaches had almost disappeared.
Your follow-up appointment couldnât come quickly enough.
The doctor looked over your latest tests before finally smiling.
âYouâve recovered well.â
You sat up a little straighter.
âYou can gradually return to training.â
âThere it is,â you muttered.
âNo full contact for the first few sessions.â
âIf you feel dizzyââ
The doctor looked at Nicola.
âIf she doesnât stopâŚâ
âIâll drag her off the court myself.â
âTraitor,â you muttered.
Walking back into the training hall felt like coming home.
The familiar smell of polished hardwood and volleyballs filled the air.
You hadnât realised how much youâd missed it.
The moment you stepped through the doorsâ
Your teammates erupted into applause.
Another pretended to wipe away tears.
Martyna jogged over before wrapping you in a hug.
âYou actually listened to the doctors.â
Stefano Lavarini approached with a small smile.
âItâs good to have you back.â
âItâs good to be back.â
He looked at you carefully.
âHow are you feeling?â
âPhysically⌠ready.â
No throwing yourself across the floor.
Every time a ball came anywhere near your head, someone shouted,
It was beginning to drive you insane.
âYou all know I can still play volleyball, right?â you asked during a water break.
âWeâre easing you back in.â
âYou treated me less carefully after I sprained my ankle.â
âYou didnât lose consciousness then.â
By the third day, you were moving almost exactly like your old self.
Your jumps felt stronger.
Your spikes regained the power everyone had been missing.
Stefano finally blew his whistle.
The ball thundered into the floor.
You couldnât hide your grin.
He sighed, already knowing what was coming.
âCan I play in the final?â
âThe whole team wants you in the line-up.â
You looked hopefully at him.
âThereâs always a âbut.ââ
âBut if I think for even one second that youâre not readyâŚâ
âIâll take you off immediately.â
You nodded without hesitation.
He held your gaze for another moment before finally smiling.
âCongratulations, Captain.â
A grin spread across your face.
âYouâll be starting against Serbia.â
The words sent a wave of excitement through your entire body.
One more chance to bring gold home for Poland.
You werenât about to let that opportunity slip away.
The atmosphere inside the arena was unlike anything youâd ever experienced.
The World Championship Final.
Two of the best teams in the world.
The deafening roar of thousands of supporters shook the stands as both teams were introduced one player at a time.
When your name echoed through the speakers, the cheers were almost overwhelming.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment.
A familiar hand gently squeezed yours.
Nicola stood just beyond the playersâ tunnel, having managed to catch you before warm-ups began.
But you could tell it wasnât genuine.
His eyes kept flickering towards your head.
Towards the place youâd hit the court only days earlier.
âYou look terrified,â you teased.
âIâm trying very hard not to be.â
He let out a small laugh.
âThatâs exactly what worries me.â
You stepped closer and rested your forehead against his.
You gently took his hands in yours.
His shoulders finally relaxed.
ââŚDonât scare me again.â
He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss against your forehead.
âI thought I was your lucky charm.â
âThen weâll definitely win.â
âI love your confidence.â
Someone called your name from the court.
You gave Nicolaâs hand one final squeeze before jogging back towards your teammates.
As you glanced over your shoulder, he was still watching you.
From the very first serve, the match lived up to every expectation.
Neither team gave an inch.
Every rally felt impossible.
Every point had to be earned.
The opening set alone lasted nearly forty minutes.
You dove across the court to save a ball that looked impossible to reach.
Your libero somehow kept the rally alive.
Martyna sent a perfect pass towards the setter.
The ball floated into the air.
The spike flew untouched between two Serbian blockers before crashing into the floor.
The Polish supporters erupted.
Your teammates rushed over, laughing as they celebrated the point together.
The first set belonged to Poland.
The second was even closer.
Serbia answered every attack with one of their own.
Every block was met with another.
By the time the second set ended, everyone on the court was breathing heavily.
Sweat dripped from your forehead as you made your way towards the bench during the timeout.
You grabbed a bottle of water before collapsing onto the seat beside Martyna.
âI forgot how stubborn Serbia are,â she muttered between breaths.
âTheyâre saying the exact same thing about us.â
Stefano crouched in front of the team.
âTheyâre beginning to leave line shots open.â
He pointed towards the tactical board.
âIf we keep spreading the block, weâll create more space on the outside.â
âI can start tipping behind their middle blocker.â
âAnd if they adjust, Martyna can attack cross-court.â
He clapped his hands together.
âLetâs finish this.â
This time, Serbia came out swinging.
Their defence became almost impossible to break.
Despite your best efforts, Poland lost the set.
The Serbian supporters erupted.
You placed your hands on your hips as the scoreboard changed.
âItâs alright,â you called, gathering your teammates together.
âWeâre still ahead.â
Everyone repeated the words.
Thatâs all it would take.
The fourth set became the longest of the entire match.
Every player was exhausted.
Your lungs felt as though they were on fire.
Every point sent another wave of noise crashing through the arena.
The pressure was suffocating.
The next rally started with a powerful Serbian serve.
Your libero dug it perfectly.
The setter pushed it outside.
The ball ricocheted high into the air.
Martyna chased after it, somehow keeping it alive.
You sprinted towards the ball, reaching it just before it could hit the floor.
With one desperate touch, you sent it back over the net.
Serbia attacked immediately.
Their opposite hitter launched an enormous spike towards the deep corner of the court.
Your teammate wasnât going to reach it.
You threw yourself across the hardwood.
Your body stretched as far as it could.
Your forearm just barely made contact with the ball.
It flew back towards Martyna.
She set the ball perfectly.
Your opposite hitter hammered it straight down the line.
You stayed lying on the floor for a second, breathing heavily as applause thundered around you.
Hands reached down to pull you back onto your feet.
âYou actually got that!â
âI told you,â you laughed between breaths.
âIâm not that easy to get rid of.â
Nicola let out a long breath from the stands.
Only then did he realise heâd been holding it the entire rally.
The referee raised his whistle.
The entire arena seemed to stop breathing.
One final point stood between Poland and the World Championship title.
You bounced lightly on your feet, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist.
Your legs felt like lead.
Every muscle in your body screamed for rest.
Across the net, Serbia looked just as exhausted.
No one wanted this match to end.
The whistle pierced through the arena.
The ball rocketed towards your libero, who somehow managed to keep it alive with a perfect pass.
Your setterâs call cut through the roar, sending the ball to the outside. You approachedâone, two, three stepsâleaping as two Serbian blockers rose to meet you. In the air, you found the smallest gap between their hands and adjusted mid-flight, your spike clipping the block and sailing high toward the back court. Still alive.
Serbia scrambled, their libero diving, their setter chasing, another brutal attackâblocked. The ball ricocheted, the rally somehow still going. The arena was a pressure cooker, thousands on their feet, every heartbeat echoing in the chaos. Your lungs burned, legs screaming, but you kept moving. Another spike. Another dig. Another impossible save. âMine!â you shouted, launching yourself forward and sliding across the hardwood, arms stinging as you kept the ball aliveâperfect for your setter.
She didnât hesitate: back to you. You were already moving, the Serbian middle blocker biting earlyâtoo early. Your setter saw it and, in a flash of intuition, dumped the ball behind the block. The arena gasped. A Serbian defender lunged, fingertips grazing the ballâtoo little, too late. It bounced. Once. The whistle blew. For one eternal second, no one moved. Thenâanother whistle.
Poland had won. The arena erupted in a deafening explosion of sound as your teammates screamed and collapsed into a tangled pile of laughter, tears, and red-and-white jerseys. Martyna tackled you in a hug. âWe did it!â she sobbed, and you laughed through your own tears, arms around her as the whole team piled in.
âWeâre world champions!â echoed again and again, until your faces ached from grinning. Confetti cannons exploded overhead, gold and silver raining across the court.
You spun, taking in the sight: supporters sobbing, strangers hugging, flags waving in every corner. This was everything youâd dreamed of as a childâevery early morning, every bruise, every sacrifice, all of it worth it.
Then you heard Nicolaâs voice, saw him sprinting across the courtâthis time, no one stopped him. He reached you and wrapped you so tight your feet left the ground, the hug nearly crushing the air from your lungs. You laughed. âI missed you, too.â He didnât answer, just buried his face in your shoulder, trembling.
â...Nic?â His arms tightened. âYou promised,â he whispered, voice breaking. âYou promised you wouldnât scare me again.â
You pulled back to find his eyes glassy, cheeks wet with tears. You brushed a tear away with your thumb. âI know.â
âIt won us the point before match point.â
âI donât care.â He shook his head, voice cracking. âI donât care if it won us the championship. I watched you lying unconscious on that court a week ago. I thought... I thought today was going to end the same way.â
You cupped his face. âIâm here. Iâm okay.â
He let out a shaky laugh. âBut can you maybe stop trying to give me a heart attack every tournament?â
You grinned. âIâll certainly try.â
ââTryâ isnât very reassuring.â
âItâs the best I can promise.â He sighed, sagging against you. âI suppose Iâll have to accept that.â
You pressed your forehead to his. âThank you.â
His expression softened. âThere was never a chance I was going to.â He kissed your forehead, then your lips, and the crowdâs cheers somehow swelled even louder.
âOh, come on!â Martyna shouted from across the court. âCan you two be disgustingly in love after the medal ceremony?â Laughter erupted.
You pulled away, grinning. âI think weâve been told off.â
âI think we have.â But he slipped his hand into yours, stubborn as ever. âIâm not letting go.â
âI wasnât asking you to.â Together, you joined your teammates as gold medals were hung one by one around every neck. When yours settled against your chest, you ran your fingers over itâheavier than youâd imagined, not for the metal but for everything it meant: years of sweat, every setback, every comeback, and every person whoâd believed in you when you doubted yourself. When the captainâs hands wrapped around the trophy, your teammates turned to you. âYou first,â Martyna said. âWhat?â
âCaptainâs privilege.â You laughedââYou all earned this.â
They chanted your name until you stepped forward and lifted the trophy. It was cold, solid, real. You raised it high above your head, and the arena erupted in one last wave of flash and confetti. Standing there with your teammates, with Nicola, with thousands of supporters dressed in red and white, you realised: volleyball had given you medals, memories, a familyâand somehow, it had also led you to the one person still refusing to let go of your hand.
Maybe championships wouldnât last forever. Maybe records would fall. Maybe someday, another would wear the captainâs armband. But this momentâsurrounded by the people you lovedâwas yours to keep, for the rest of your life.
