Backhand Chaos

Max's golden retriever Barnaby chose that exact moment to streak across the padel court, tennis ball clamped in his jaw like he'd just won the lottery.

"BARNABY!" Max lunged, tripping over his own racket and faceplanting directly into someone's open gear bag.

Of course. Of course it contained someone's post-workout snack container. Now Max was wearing a smoothie that smelled distinctly like spinach and regret.

The court went silent. Even the players on adjacent courts stopped hitting.

Then someone laughed. Not mean laughter—actual, genuine laughter. Max pushed himself up, green dripping from his chin, and saw HER: Chloe from AP Bio, looking effortlessly perfect in an orange tank top, somehow managing to be gorgeous even while doubled over laughing.

"Your dog," she wheezed, "has better form than you."

Barnaby dropped the ball at Max's feet, tail wagging like this whole situation was absolutely according to plan. Max's face burned hotter than the summer sun.

"I'm... I'm gonna go," he mumbled, turning to flee.

"Wait." Chloe trotted over. "You were actually doing pretty well before the canine intervention. You new to padel?"

Max nodded miserably. "Trying to impress someone. Clearly nailing it."

"Well, you definitely left an impression." She grinned, gesturing at his spinach-speckled shirt. "I'm Chloe. Wanna learn how to actually hit that backhand? My dad's a coach."

Max's stomach did that flippy thing that had absolutely nothing to do with the smoothie incident.

"Only if you promise to hold my dog,"

"Deal."

As Chloe's phone timer pinged—her ride was here—she paused at the gate. "Same time next week, Max? Maybe leave Barnaby at home though. Or..." She considered. "Maybe bring him. He keeps things interesting."

Max watched her go, then looked down at Barnaby, who was looking remarkably pleased with himself.

"You're the worst wingman ever," Max said. "Also, I think I'm in love."

Barnaby sneezed.

Yeah. Max wiped spinach from his collar. Same.