Courtside Confidence

Max pulled his **hat** down lower, brim shielding eyes that'd been practicing the perfect blend of bored and unbothered in the mirror for twenty minutes. Junior year was supposed to be different—this was the year he'd finally become... someone. Anyone other than the kid who sat alone at lunch.

"You coming?" Leo called from the curb, leaning against his bike like he hadn't a care in the world. Leo, who'd somehow become Max's first real **friend** in two months of high school, mostly because he'd asked to borrow a pencil and somehow stuck around.

"My mom's making me eat this stuff." Max gestured at the Tupperware of **spinach** salad that'd been sitting in his backpack since morning. "She read something about brain function and now I'm basically a science experiment."

Leo laughed. "At least your mom cares. Mine thinks orange soda counts as fruit." He hopped on his bike. "Come on. **Padel** tryouts today, remember?"

Right. Padel. The sport Max had signed up for because Leo said it was "like tennis but cooler" and Max had believed him because he wanted to believe anything that promised a different version of himself. A version who didn't panic before speaking in class. A version who could walk through halls without memorizing escape routes.

The courts were already packed. Guys Max recognized from geometry, from the lunch line, from the periphery of his carefully constructed existence. Some wearing athletic gear that looked expensive and practiced. Others like him, in whatever they'd thrown on that morning.

"You got this," Leo said, sensing Max's hesitation. "Just hit the ball. Don't overthink it."

Easier said than done. Max's hands shook as he gripped the racquet. The coach called his name. His turn.

The first swing was terrible—air. Complete miss. Someone snickered. Max felt his face burn hotter than any sun. But then something clicked. The second swing connected solid. The third sent the ball arcing perfectly toward the corner. Not because he'd suddenly become athletic, but because something in him decided: this is it. This is where I stop being scared.

Afterward, when the coach posted the roster and his name was there—number 14, not last but not first—Leo high-fived him so hard his palm stung.

"Your mom's right," Leo said as they walked home, Max bouncing the racquet against his side. "Whatever's in that **spinach**... it works."

"Probably just the **vitamin** D from actually being outside for once," Max shot back, and it wasn't even that good of a line but they both laughed anyway.

He kept the hat on, but he didn't pull it down quite so low. Some transformations weren't overnight, but this? This was a start.