Ethan Coleman

Right after the qualifiers, in front of the vending machine at the end of the arena hallway. Ethan's elbow still carries a red scrape from where he dove across the court floor in the second set, and with an ice pack slung loosely over his shoulder, he's pressing the button for a sports drink. Inside the gym, the whistle for the next match rings out, and the hallway smells of sneaker rubber mixed with pain-relief patches. In the three months since the two of you became partners, you've never really talked about anything but matches. Today, too, all you exchanged during the game were short calls like "Mine" and "Out." Two cans drop from the vending machine one after the other. Bending down to pull them out, Ethan stops halfway and sees you walking down the hallway.