Courtside Crush Confidence

The summer before sophomore year, I found myself standing at the edge of the padel court, gripping a borrowed racquet like my life depended on it. My neighbor Maya had talked me into joining her weekly group, and now I was stuck watching her effortlessly dominate the court while I mentally reviewed the vitamin D deficiency my mom swore I had from spending too much time indoors.

"You're thinking too hard," Maya called out, flipping her ponytail. "Just hit the ball."

Easier said than done. I was too busy noticing how Lucas—Maya's cousin who'd just moved back from California—kept watching me between serves. My stomach did that annoying fluttery thing whenever our eyes met, and suddenly I was grateful for the sunglasses.

Then there was Buster, Maya's golden retriever, who'd somehow escaped their backyard and was now running circles around the court, barking at every ball that went flying. The chaos was perfect distraction from my terrible serves.

"After this, we're going swimming," Lucas announced, walking over. The way he said it—like it was already decided—made my heart rate spike. "You coming?"

"I—uh—I didn't bring a suit," I stammered, feeling my face heat up.

"Maya has extras," he grinned, and I was pretty sure I forgot how to breathe.

That afternoon, floating in Maya's pool while Lucas pretended to push me off the inflatable raft, I realized something. Maybe this summer wouldn't be about hiding in my room with books and social anxiety. Maybe it would be about padel games I sucked at, dogs who didn't understand personal space, running (or slowly jogging) toward new experiences, swimming in pools with cute boys, and whatever vitamin supplements my mom insisted on.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.