It's the end of the match. Across the court on the other side of the net, your enemy is tensed, waiting for their teammate to serve the ball. You are drenched in the sweat of desire, your eyes blaze with undying intensity. Your team needs one point to win, they need two. This next serve could change the game.

The referee blows his whistle for the serve and the crowd falls unnaturally quiet. The girl with the ball bounces it twice and holds it out in front of her. A deep breath, and the ball is sent your way. It's a perfect pass by your libero and the setter sprints to the ball. As it touches her hands, you scream for the ball. You want it more than anything. The ball flies off of the setters' hands and in a perfect arc above the net. It's yours.

Your feet fly as you barrel in for an approach, bending low and jumping high. The blockers in front of you are loaded and ready to stuff the ball back in your face but you will not let them have it. Your arm reaches high and you swing with more power than you could have thought possible. It flies through the block and straight for the floor. The defenders are slow to react and the ball smashes into the court.

The whistle blows and the game is over. You are surrounded by teammates who scream in your ear and slap your back, saying that it was the best kill that they've ever seen. But you can barely hear them. Your body is pumping with the adrenaline of the last few seconds. An unbidden smile comes to your lips, and you know that you've done it. You got the winning kill. Your mind reruns the play and you marvel in its perfection. The other team comes to shake your hand, their eyes brimming with the tears of defeat.

You're given the game ball and as you feel the soft textured leather, you think that this is the best moment of your life. You turn to face your fans, and you raise the ball above your head and yell in triumph.