Bull Session

Maya's legs burned as she sprinted across the padel court, the synthetic surface squeaking under her worn sneakers. The tryout playlist thumped—Doja Cat, something with bass that made her chest vibrate—as she positioned herself for the return.

"You're hesitating," Fox called from the other side of the net. Sasha, nicknamed Fox for how she slipped through social situations unscathed, stood with her hands on her hips. "You play like you're scared to mess up."

The comment hit harder than the ball would have. Sasha had been queen of eighth grade since everyone discovered she could get anyone invited—or uninvited—to Emma's party last month. A bulldog in lipstick.

Maya's fingers tightened around her padel racquet. The familiar weight helped—same one she'd practiced with all summer in her driveway while her neighbor's old dog, Buster, watched through the fence. She'd started walking Buster for extra cash after her dad lost his job. The routine kept her sane when everything else felt like it was fraying.

"Don't bull your way through this," Coach Rivera said from the sidelines, clipboard in hand. "But don't let it scare you either. Find your rhythm."

Rhythm. That's what her dad used to say about music, about life, about everything that actually mattered. Not about being perfect. About finding the groove.

Maya exhaled, shaking out her arms. When Fox served again, a high looper that should have been impossible, Maya didn't think. Didn't calculate. Her body remembered all those driveway evenings, Buster's barking as background rhythm, her dad's old mixtape playing from the garage speakers.

She smashed it back.

Fox's eyes went wide. The ball kissed the line, untouched.

"That's what I'm talking about," Coach said, nodding.

After tryouts, sitting on the bench while her pulse slowed, Maya found herself next to Fox. Sasha. Whatever.

"You've got game," Sasha said, not looking at her. "My dad has this dog—massive beast. I'm supposed to walk him but I always bail. You want the gig?"

Maya thought about Buster, about how she'd never admit she needed the money, about how sometimes the people you think are just bull-headed and full of it are actually just navigating their own mess.

"Sure," Maya said. "What's the dog's name?"

"Buster," Sasha said, finally meeting her eyes. "Figured."