Chapter 29: Never Been Kissed

Friday, February 13, 2026

The afternoon sun was sharp and clean, the kind that made every surface glow and threw long, crisp shadows across the campus. Stacy Foxx stepped out from the walkway onto the edge of the California State University at Heritage (CSUH) Sand Complex and paused for a moment, taking it in.

Five sand courts stretched ahead of her like pale gold squares under taut nets, flags snapping on their poles, students in teal and rust hoodies scattered across the low bleachers. The small scoreboard at center court already blinked to life—CSUH MOSQUITOS vs. CAL POLY MUSTANGS—and the sound system pumped out pop music that barely covered the rhythmic thump of balls being served and received.

She tugged her new Mosquitos beanie lower over her ears—the teal-and-rust knit cap she’d bought minutes ago at the campus gift kiosk—and shifted the big Diet Pepsi bottle from one hand to the other. Her sweater was warm enough for now, but the heavier jacket slung over her arm would earn its keep once the sun dipped behind the ag building.

The ticket had cost her eight bucks—eighteen more for the soda and the beanie—but she felt oddly pleased by the transaction. It felt like a small adventure, one she’d looked forward to all week.

She was here to watch Hannah Fields, her new friend, play the home opener for the CSUH Mosquitos beach volleyball team.

Hannah attended CSUH on a flag football scholarship, but it was the off-season and she hated sitting still. Given the choice between softball and beach volleyball, she went with the latter—even if it meant wearing a bikini for every match.

Stacy had agreed to go the moment she was invited (she and Hannah now had a solid texting relationship going). Not just because she was kind and funny and lit up when she talked about the game. But because, somewhere along the way, Stacy had developed a very real, very inconvenient girl crush on the nineteen-year-old athlete—and she wasn’t quite ready to admit it, even to herself.

The beach volleyball courts spread out before her like a sun-washed stage. Five of them stretched side by side, pale and perfectly raked, each rimmed by low chain-link fencing and striped with taut orange boundary lines. The sand looked almost white under the afternoon glare, fine enough to swallow a footprint to the ankle.

Clusters of teal and rust flags fluttered from the poles above each court. The air carried a faint tang of sunscreen, fresh-turned soil from the ag fields, and the buttery smell of popcorn from the concession stand. A few gulls circled overhead, crying at the sight of the discarded nacho trays in the trash barrels.

Players dotted every court—warming up, calling to each other, their voices bright against the heavy beat of the pop playlist thumping from the portable speakers by the announcer’s tent. Some jogged slow loops through the sand; others practiced sets and spikes in easy rhythm, bare feet cutting quick little craters in the surface. Coaches in windbreakers drifted from team to team, clipboards in hand, offering short bursts of instruction before the music swallowed their words.

The crowd wasn’t large—maybe four hundred people at most—but it had that restless Friday energy that could pass for enthusiasm. Students in hoodies clapped along with the music, parents clutched coffee cups, and a few die-hards waved homemade signs. Buzz the Mosquito—the school mascot with the huge foam wings and rubber proboscis—wandered the aisles, posing for selfies and mock-stabbing rival fans with his pointy snout.

Stacy took it all in, smiling. She liked the scrappy energy, the mix of sunburn and optimism. It felt honest.

Her eyes drifted across the spread of sand again. Five courts? She frowned a little. That’s weird. She remembered watching beach volleyball during the last Olympics—two courts at most, and just one match at a time. Two women on a side, no benches, no substitutions. She hadn’t admitted it then, but she’d loved every second of it. Maybe it was the athleticism. Maybe it was the grace. Or maybe, if she was being honest, it was how those women looked in the sunlight—strong, lean, confident.

She shook the thought off, embarrassed at her own grin.

The sign nearest her read COURT 3—HOME SIDE. That was Hannah’s court. Hannah had texted her earlier to meet on the home side near the bleachers, where her kid sister would be waiting.

Stacy started down the narrow walkway that divided the pits, her shoes crunching in the stray sand scattered across the asphalt. She could feel the low vibration of music under her feet, hear the laughter from the warm-ups, but her eyes kept flicking toward the players in teal tops and rust-colored bikini bottoms, searching for one familiar face in the blur of movement.

No luck. Half the girls out there looked like Hannah from a distance—sunlight flashing off blonde ponytails, limbs moving in rhythm, shadows stretching long across the courts.

She shrugged and kept walking toward Court 3, the Diet Pepsi bottle sweating in her hand. She was supposed to meet Kelly, Hannah’s sixteen-year-old sister—the loud one, according to Hannah. The one who “never misses a game.”

Stacy smiled at the thought and stepped up to the low bleachers, ready to find out if that description had been an exaggeration.

“How will your sister and I know each other?” Stacy had asked Hannah earlier that day. “We’ve never met.”

“You’ll know her,” Hannah had said, laughing. “She looks exactly like me, just with auburn hair.”

And sure enough, that was how she found her.

The girl standing at the base of the bleachers had the same height, the same build, the same open face—only the hair was a deep copper-red that caught the sunlight and burned like polished wood. She was animated and full of energy, chatting with another student while thumping her heel against the aluminum bench in rhythm with the music.

Stacy made her way up the steps. “Are you Kelly?”

The girl turned, grinning wide. “Yeah! And you must be Stacy.”

“Guilty.”

“Nice to finally meet you!” Kelly stuck out a hand. She wore a teal CSUH sweater that was two sizes too big and a matching beanie pulled down almost to her eyebrows. She shook with the same strength and confidence her sister had—no hesitation, no shyness.

“Nice to meet you too,” Stacy said.

Kelly’s gaze dropped immediately to Stacy’s left hand. Her eyes went round. “Look at the size of that freakin’ rock!”

Stacy blinked, then laughed as Kelly’s face went pink.

“Sorry! That just kinda popped out.”

“It’s okay,” Stacy said easily.

“Your husband must love you a lot,” Kelly added, still a little flustered.

Stacy smiled faintly, staring at the diamond. When was I young enough to still believe there was a correlation there? she wondered. Aloud, she just said, “Yeah. He sorta does.”

She shifted the conversation before the silence could stretch. “I was looking for Hannah, but I couldn’t find her. There are a lot of blondes out there.”

Kelly hopped to her feet, motioning for Stacy to follow. “Most of them are bottle blonds. Hannah’s the real deal. Come on. Let’s find her.”

They walked up to the short fence that bordered Court 3. Kelly leaned forward, scanning the clusters of moving players, her eyes sharp.

After a moment she pointed. “There she is.”

Stacy followed the line of her finger—and saw her.

Hannah was easy to miss in the chaos until suddenly she wasn’t. Once Stacy’s eyes found her, her brain locked on and wouldn’t let go.

Kelly cupped her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle that made Stacy’s eardrum rattle.

“Yo! Montana! Over here!” she yelled, her voice carrying across the sand.

A few heads turned, but only one blonde paused mid-stride. Hannah spun around, caught sight of them, and grinned. She waved once, a bright, effortless motion, and jogged toward the edge of the court.

Stacy forgot to breathe for a second.

The uniform was the classic one for the sport, which was to say there was almost nothing to it—just a teal sports top with CSUH in rust-orange letters stretched across her chest, and a pair of bikini-cut bottoms that left her belly and legs completely bare. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail that swung with every stride, and a faint sheen of sweat caught the sun on her shoulders and collarbones. Her feet and ankles were dusted with sand, nails unpainted, the toenails short and blunt from months of practice.

When she reached the sideline, Hannah leaned over the low fence and hugged her sister first—tight and quick, laughing as Kelly teased her about “showing off for the hometown crowd.” Then she turned to Stacy.

“Hey,” she said, smiling wide enough to make Stacy’s heart stumble. “I’m really glad you could come.”

They hugged over the fence. Hannah’s skin was warm and a little damp from the match prep, the soft grit of sand brushing Stacy’s sleeve. For a heartbeat Stacy couldn’t find her voice; the scent of sweat and exertion filled her head.

She finally managed, “I’m having fun already. I haven’t been to a college match for anything since college.”

Hannah laughed. “Then we’ll make this one worth it.”

Stacy nodded, smiling back, but inside she was still trying to steady the pulse that hug had started.

Hannah hooked a thumb toward her sister. “Kelly will explain the game to you. She knows all the rules.”

“Good,” Stacy said, laughing. “I only ever watched the Olympics.”

“Then you’re in for a treat,” Hannah said.

As she turned back toward the court, Stacy let herself look around—really look. Everywhere she turned there were young women in the same teal tops and rust-orange bikini bottoms, stretching, serving, diving in clouds of sand. The sunlight flashed on smooth shoulders and strong legs, ponytails whipping through the air. It was a flood of color and motion and skin, a kind of sensory overload that made her pulse thrum. It was a cornucopia of exposed female flesh. She thought, Maybe I’ll come to all of Hannah’s games ... if she invites me.

“Go kick some ass,” she called.

Hannah flashed a grin. “I intend to.”

They fist-bumped automatically, the old athlete’s reflex neither of them had to think about. Stacy felt the quick shock of connection—skin to skin—and for a split second she had to fight the wild, ridiculous urge to slap Hannah on the butt like a teammate. She won the battle. Barely.

“Come on,” Kelly said, tugging her arm. “I totally know the best place to watch.”

They climbed the bleachers, the aluminum cold through Stacy’s jeans. Kelly led her about halfway up, to a spot where they could see cleanly over the sideline but still close enough to hear the players call out and feel the grit from the sand drift on the wind.

On Court 3, Hannah jogged back to join her partner. The girl’s name flashed briefly on the scoreboard—PARKER—and the label fit. She was all legs and angles, six feet at least, with a wiry frame that seemed to coil and spring with every movement. Her hair was dark and twisted into a high braid, and she had that quick, restless way of moving that made it clear she hated to stand still.

“Does Hannah always play with the same partner?” Stacy asked, watching the two of them bump fists before starting some warm-up serves.

“Yeah,” Kelly said. “Always. They’re a team. It’s like, you learn each other’s rhythm or something. Hannah says Parker’s the best blocker in the conference.”

Stacy watched them line up, Hannah in the back, Parker forward at the net, and tried not to grin at the way the whole scene made her heart flutter a bit.

Kelly nudged her with an elbow as the teams began their final warm-ups. “So, how do you know my sister?”

Stacy tore her eyes away from the court. “I first knew her as the checkout girl at the grocery store where I shop,” she said. “Then one day I ran into her at the gym. We started talking, realized we both like to hang out after workouts and drink too much coffee.”

Kelly grinned. “That’s cool. She really likes you. She doesn’t usually talk about people she meets outside practice.”

Stacy smiled. “She’s easy to like.”

Kelly leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “She told me you played basketball at Sac State.”

“That’s right,” Stacy said. “Center.”

Kelly’s eyebrows lifted. “Makes sense. You’ve got the build for it.”

“Six feet of it,” Stacy said with a quick grin.

Kelly laughed. “No wonder Hannah looks short next to you. She said you played in college, but I didn’t picture a legit post player.”

“Yeah,” Stacy said. “I lived in the paint for my whole stint there.”

“That’s badass,” Kelly said. “I play softball and flag football at my high school. Catcher in softball, tight end in flag.”

“Tight end?” Stacy said. “That’s serious. You must be a good runner.”

Kelly shrugged, confidence flashing in her smile. “I am. Can do the 100 yard dash in thirteen seconds flat if I get a good jump.”

“You’ve got that athlete’s spark,” Stacy said. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” Kelly tipped her head toward the court where her sister was stretching. “I’m gonna play in college like Hannah. We’re gonna be the first two in the family to graduate. Mom says we’re nuts, but she’s proud of us.”

“Are your parents athletes too?” Stacy asked.

That earned a laugh so sudden that Kelly nearly snorted. “Not in the least. Dad’s a mechanic—strong from work, but not the sporty kind. Mom works retail and says she gets all the exercise she needs chasing sales. They’re great, just never got into sports.”

Stacy smiled, amused. “So you two are the family outliers.”

“Yeah,” Kelly said proudly. “The freak mutations of Lemon Hill. But the good kind.”

They both turned back toward the court where Hannah and Parker were readying for the opening serve, the rhythm of the warm-up thuds syncing perfectly with the easy rapport forming between them.

The opening whistle came sharp and bright over the music. Both teams clapped, swapped sides, and the warm-up chatter cut off like someone had thrown a switch.

On Court 3, Hannah stood behind the back line, toes sinking into the soft sand. Parker waited near the net, tall and coiled, ready to close on the first return. Hannah hefted the ball high into the glare, eyes tracking it against the blue, then swung through in one smooth overhand motion. The crack of her palm on the ball echoed across the complex as it streaked low over the net and dropped fast toward Cal Poly’s back line.

The return came hard, a dig and a desperate pop set that went wide. Hannah dove—pure instinct—and caught it just inches off the sand. Her hands angled perfectly, sending it up in a soft parabola that Parker smashed straight down between the Mustangs’ defenders.