Backhand Burn

Jax's orange hair made him a target before he even stepped onto the padel court.

"Nice highlight job, Fruit Punch," some varsity guy called from the sidelines. His friends cracked up like it was the funniest thing ever.

Jax adjusted his grip on the padel racket. His mom had convinced him to join the summer league at the country club—said it'd be good for him to "put himself out there." Which was rich, considering she'd burst into tears when he came home with the orange hair last month. "But you had such nice brown hair," she'd said, like he'd murdered a puppy.

The water bottle in his equipment bag sweated onto the court. 97 degrees and he was about to embarrass himself in front of half his high school.

Across the net, Tyler—a junior who'd already committed to play D1 tennis—stretched with deliberate, showy slowness. His girlfriend sat courtside in oversized sunglasses, scrolling through her phone like she'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"You even know how to play, bro?" Tyler asked, bouncing a ball off his racket strings.

Jax didn't answer. His heart hammered somewhere in his throat. He'd practiced in his driveway every night for three weeks, watching YouTube tutorials until his eyes burned. But driveway rallies didn't prepare you for spectators.

The first point was a disaster. Jax's racket connected with nothing but air. Someone wolf-whistled. His face flamed hot enough to rival his hair.

Then the water bottle fell. His bag had tipped, and a bright orange Nalgene rolled onto the court, stopping right at the service line.

Tyler laughed. "Nice equipment."

Something in Jax snapped. The embarrassment, the heat, the Fruit Punch comments—all of it crystallized into a single, furious thought: *What do I have to lose?*

He didn't think. He just swung.

The ball caught the corner of the padel racket, spinning wickedly off the glass wall and dropping inches over the net. Tyler stood there, frozen.

"Are you kidding me?" someone muttered.

Jax won the next point. And the next. His body moved on instinct, all those driveway nights somehow translating to muscle memory. The glass walls became his ally, the angles his weapons. Every time Tyler tried to power through, Jax sent the ball somewhere else entirely.

The spectators stopped checking their phones.

By match point, sweat dripped from Jax's chin, his orange hair plastered to his forehead. The water bottle still sat on the service line—forgotten, absurd, perfect.

Tyler's last attempt smashed into the net. Game, set, match.

The court went silent. Then Tyler's girlfriend actually put down her phone.

"Okay," she said. "That was actually kinda sick."

Jax grabbed his orange water bottle and chugged the whole thing. It was warm and plasticky and absolutely perfect.