Court Side Lightning

The orange Fanta can sweated in my grip like I was nervous about a bio test, but this was worse. This was Saturday afternoon at the Palm Beach Club, where Chase — yes, THE Chase with the jawline and the starter jacket — was playing padel against some college guys.

My best friend Zara had dragged me here, claiming this was my chance. 'Just look chill,' she'd said. 'You got this.' Meanwhile, I was wearing my older sister's crop top and SPF 50 because my mom's lectures about skin cancer had stuck.

I shifted my weight between my Converse, trying to look like I belonged among kids whose parents probably owned timeshares. Chase smashed the ball against the glass wall, the sound crisp and confident. His racket cut through the humidity like lightning — fast, bright, impossible to look away from.

Then it happened. Zara decided now was the moment to 'accidentally' bump into me. My orange Fanta exploded. Everywhere. Down my white denim skirt, across my phone, splattering the court like a messy crime scene.

Chase actually stopped playing. Everyone stared. My face burned hotter than the Florida sun beating down on the palm fronds above us.

'Sorry!' Zara whispered, but she was grinning. That traitor.

Chase walked over, racket still in hand, and I prepared myself for the joke. The laugh. The dismissal.

'You okay?' he asked. He wasn't looking at the mess. He was looking at me. Actually looking.

'My skirt,' I managed. 'It's — '

'Orange,' he finished, and then he smiled. Not the fake polite smile. The real one. 'Looks kind of sick actually. Like, intentional.'