Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 80

**The Court**

**Aurora’s POV**

The entire day feels like a ticking clock, each second echoing in my mind like a countdown to some inevitable moment.

As I navigate the crowded halls, I make a conscious effort to blend into the background, to remain unseen. I steer clear of Luka’s piercing glares, feeling their weight on my back like a heavy cloak. I dodge Nicol and his band of tormentors, their laughter ringing like a taunt in the air. Savina and her pack of wolves are a constant threat, their presence looming like shadows. Each glance feels like a snare, and every step I take is laden with an oppressive dread that wraps around me like a shroud.

But today isn’t about them, not at all.

Today is dedicated to volleyball tryouts, an opportunity that fills me with both excitement and anxiety. When the final bell tolls, my heart races, pounding against my ribcage like a wild drum. I tighten my grip on my bag, feeling the rough fabric dig into my palms as I slip into the locker room.

The air inside hits me like a wave, a mix of sweat and rubber that clings to my senses as I pull on my shorts and shirt. I tie my hair back, feeling the familiar tug as I secure it in place. A nervous flutter dances in my stomach, a chaotic mix of anticipation and dread. This is it—the moment I’ve both dreamed of and dreaded in equal measure.

The school feels vast today, each hallway stretching out like an endless maze, the noise amplifying around me, every sound sharper and more pronounced. When I finally step onto the court, the cacophony envelops me—a tidal wave of noise. The sharp squeak of sneakers on polished wood, the rhythmic thud of volleyballs being struck, and the commanding calls of coaches echoing above it all.

I spot two coaches standing at the edge of the court, clipboards in hand, their voices rising above the din as they discuss strategy.

“We need to focus on fundamentals first,” says the tall woman with a ponytail, her tone firm and authoritative. “Passing, setting—I want to see who has the basics down.”

The other coach, a burly man with a whistle hanging around his neck, nods in agreement. “Absolutely. And endurance. We’ll split them into groups, run drills, then scrimmage. This year’s team is competitive—no room for weak spots.”

My stomach knots, nerves spiraling as I watch the other girls begin to gather. The atmosphere buzzes with energy, and before I realize it, the whistle blows, signaling the start of our game.

I leap for the ball, feeling the familiar sting as it connects with my palms. Jump. Dive. Block. Each movement flows instinctively, like a dance I’ve practiced countless times. Muscle memory, I remind myself. Each action feels like a reclamation of a piece of my identity that I feared was lost forever. It’s as if I’m traveling back in time to the person I used to be, back when it was just me and Mom, before the chaos, before the pain, before the drugs took over my life.

Suddenly, the whistle pierces through my thoughts, signaling a break.

I retreat to a corner near the benches, clutching my water bottle like a lifeline, when a girl with vibrant pink streaks in her hair slides in next to me.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify