Court Side Surveillance

The **water** in the pool rippled blue-green, exactly the color of Leo's eyes—or so I'd convinced myself after three weeks of strategic observation from behind the safety of my sunglasses.

"You're being so extra," Maya whispered, dropping her towel beside me. "Just talk to him."

"I'm not talking to anyone," I said, though we both knew I'd memorized Leo's **padel** schedule. Tuesday and Thursday mornings, 10 AM sharp. The way he moved on the court—graceful, focused, completely unbothered by the fact that I was absolutely definitely not watching from a carefully chosen lounge chair.

I was basically a professional **spy** at this point. I knew his protein shake order (vanilla, extra scoop). I knew his warm-up playlist (oddly heavy on 2000s throwback jams). I knew he laughed when he missed a serve, head tilted back like he didn't care about being perfect.

The problem wasn't Leo. The problem was the stuffed **bear**.

My childhood companion, Barnaby, had fallen out of my beach bag yesterday. Right onto Leo's sneakers. While his college friends were watching. The humiliation still burned through my chest like I'd swallowed actual lava. I, Chloe Davis, sophisticated sixteen-year-old woman of mystery, had been caught with a fuzzy brown bear wearing a tiny raincoat.

Maya snorted. "He didn't even make fun of you."

"He made a FACE, Maya. A FACE."

"A smiling face?"

"A SMIRKING face."

From the padel court, Leo's laugh carried over. That unfair, effortless sound. I considered drowning myself in the deep end. Instead, I stood up, grabbed Barnaby from where he'd been hiding in my bag, and marched toward the court.

"Hey," I said, and my voice didn't crack at all. "You left this." I thrust Barnaby forward like a weapon.

Leo blinked. His friend group went quiet. The universe compressed into a single terrible second of silence.

Then Leo smiled—actually smiled, no smirk—and reached for the bear. "Thanks. He was getting lonely."

"His name is Barnaby," I said, deadpan. "He has separation anxiety."

Leo laughed. "I feel that."

Later, as we sat by the pool eating terrible cafeteria ice cream, I realized something: maybe awkward moments weren't dead ends. Maybe they were just openings disguised as disasters.

"So," Leo said. "You play?"

I gestured vaguely at the padel court. "I've been known to dominate."

"Liars get penalty points, you know."

"Watch me, then."

The water rippled behind us, catching the light. I thought about Barnaby tucked safely in my bag, about the way Leo's eyes crinkled when he laughed, about how maybe the best stories started with exactly this kind of disaster.

"Tomorrow at 10?" he asked.

"I'll bring my A-game," I said. "And Barnaby. He's my coach."