Cat's Out of the Bag

The cat was judging me. I could feel it. Mittens sat on my windowsill, those yellow eyes boring into my soul like she knew my secret. And honestly? She probably did. Cats are basically tiny furry spies, reporting back to the universe on all our worst decisions.

"You're not gonna tell, right?" I whispered, shoving my padel racquet under the bed. "If my dad finds out I skipped baseball practice again, I'm dead meat."

Mittens yawned, which I interpreted as "your life is a mess, human."

She wasn't wrong. My dad's the varsity baseball coach. His whole identity is wrapped up in the sport. Meanwhile, I'd been secretly taking padel lessons at the community center for three weeks because I was tired of striking out and feeling like a fraud in left field. Padel was different—it felt right, the way the ball popped off the walls, the quick reflexes, the doubles strategy. It was like my brain finally synced up with my body.

But I couldn't tell him. Last week, when I'd mentioned maybe trying something different, he'd gone on about "quitters" and how "the Phillips men don't quit," and I'd just nodded along like the coward I was.

My phone buzzed. GROUP CHAT: Bear Squad.

Jake: dude where r u? coach is pissed

Trevor: ur dad's legit gonna lose it lol

Great. The whole team knew. "The Bear Squad" was what we called ourselves—our mascot was a bear, obviously—and somehow I'd gone from co-captain to That Guy Who Ditches Practice. My identity was crumbling faster than a cheapcookie.

I stared at my reflection. Who was I if not the baseball player? The quitter? The disappointment?

Mittens hopped onto my bed and headbutted my hand. I scratched behind her ears.

"You think I should just tell him?" I asked. "That I'm done pretending?"

She purred. Again with the silent judgment.

That's when my bedroom door swung open. Dad stood there, still in his coaching gear, his face unreadable.

"Jake's mom said you've been at the community center," he said quietly.

My stomach dropped. "Dad, I—"

"She mentioned she saw you playing padel." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Your mom showed me a video of you playing last weekend. You looked... happy."

I froze. This was it. The lecture. The shame spiral.

"I didn't want to disappoint you," I whispered. "Baseball is your thing. I thought—"

"Baseball is our thing," he corrected. "Not my thing. And if you're not happy, then it's not working. We can figure it out. But you gotta talk to me, kid. I can't read your mind like your cat can."

Mittens let out this triumphant meow like, YES, I TOLD YOU SO.

I let out this breath I'd been holding for weeks. "So you're not mad?"

"I'm proud you found something you love," he said, cracking a smile. "But we're definitely watching some padel matches together so I can understand what you're doing out there. Deal?"

"Deal."

Mittens stretched and settled onto my pillow like she owned it. Spying complete. Mission accomplished. The cat was definitely the real MVP here.