Chapter 1: THE VOLLEYBALL STRIKE THAT EXPOSED A SCHOOL’S BIGGEST SECRET
The volleyball struck sixteen-year-old Hazel Quinn squarely in the face.
She stumbled backward, lost her balance, and fell onto the polished gymnasium floor, instinctively covering her nose with both hands.
Across the net, seventeen-year-old Sloane Harlan lowered her arm and smiled.
“Maybe next time you’ll stay out of my way.”
Hazel felt a small trickle of blood against her fingers.
Twenty-three students stood motionless inside the gym at Lakeshore High School in Madison, Wisconsin.
Their physical education teacher, Coach Dana Reese, dropped her clipboard and hurried toward Hazel.
But Sloane didn’t move to help.
Instead, she turned toward her teammates and shrugged.
“She walked into it.”
Hazel looked up through watering eyes.
She hadn’t walked into anything.
Sloane had aimed directly at her.
And the small black security camera mounted above the gym entrance had recorded exactly what happened.
“Coach,” Hazel whispered, pointing toward the ceiling. “Please save that footage.”
Sloane followed her finger.
For the first time that afternoon, her confident smile began to disappear.
Hazel had never been particularly talented at volleyball.
She stood five feet three inches tall, had narrow shoulders, and was still rebuilding her stamina after a serious case of pneumonia the previous winter.
Her doctor had cleared her to participate in regular physical education, provided she rested whenever she became exhausted.
But Hazel hated stopping.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, she stayed after the regular warm-up to practice passing.
She usually wore a faded slate-blue athletic shirt, loose black shorts, and scuffed white sneakers.
The shirt had once belonged to her older cousin.
Its collar was stretched, and a seam near one shoulder had been repaired twice.
There wasn’t a recognizable brand logo anywhere on it.
For reasons Hazel never fully understood, that seemed to bother Sloane Harlan more than it bothered Hazel herself.
Sloane was the captain of Lakeshore’s varsity volleyball team.
Tall, athletic, and exceptionally powerful for her age, she had developed a reputation for delivering serves that opposing players struggled to receive.
She also had something many students considered far more important than athletic talent.
A wealthy, influential father.
Graham Harlan owned Harlan Sports Supply, a regional distributor for Summitline Athletics, one of the world’s largest performance sports brands.
His company supplied athletic equipment to numerous schools throughout southern Wisconsin.
It also arranged Summitline’s annual sponsorship of Lakeshore’s volleyball program.
Sloane made certain everyone knew about that relationship.
“My dad practically pays for this gym,” she liked to announce.
The statement wasn’t true.
The gym belonged to the public school district, and its ordinary operating expenses were covered through public funding.
However, Graham’s equipment contributions were substantial enough that school administrators had become increasingly reluctant to challenge him.
Two girls had previously complained about Sloane’s behavior.
Both eventually transferred out of the varsity volleyball program.
Neither complaint resulted in formal disciplinary action.
Hazel knew those stories.
She knew Sloane enjoyed making people uncomfortable.
She also knew that challenging the captain could turn an ordinary school day into something miserable.
All Hazel wanted was to complete her physical education requirement without becoming another target.
On the afternoon everything changed, the physical education class was sharing the gymnasium with several varsity players completing an approved practice session.
Coach Reese had divided the space using portable netting and marked separate approach lanes with tape on the floor.
Hazel was retrieving a volleyball that had rolled toward the center line.
She stepped backward without realizing Sloane was approaching from the neighboring lane.
“Move, Quinn.”
Hazel turned.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you.”
Sloane stopped so abruptly that her expensive white sneakers squeaked against the floor.
“Of course you didn’t. You never know where you’re supposed to be.”
A few varsity players laughed.
Hazel bent down and picked up the loose ball.
“I said I’m sorry.”
Sloane looked her up and down.
“Are those shoes from a yard sale?”
Hazel glanced at her sneakers.
“They work.”
“Barely. You look like somebody dressed you out of the lost-and-found bin.”
Hazel felt her cheeks warming.
She knew something Sloane didn’t.
There was expensive training equipment at home that could have silenced those insults within seconds.
She had access to athletic clothing and footwear that most students at Lakeshore had only seen advertised.
But for three years, Hazel had worked hard to be recognized simply as Hazel Quinn.
Not as somebody’s wealthy daughter.
Not as the child of an influential businessman.
Just Hazel.
Using her mother’s surname made that easier.
So did wearing ordinary, inexpensive clothes.
She had never wanted another student’s opinion of her to depend on a famous family connection.
“I’ll stay on my side,” Hazel said quietly.
Sloane leaned closer.
“You should stay off the court altogether.”
Hazel didn’t respond.
She turned and began walking toward her assigned practice area.
