First Serve

The orange soda can felt slippery in my sweating hands. I'd been holding it for twenty minutes, using it as an excuse not to actually talk to anyone.

"You gonna play or just stand there looking aesthetic?" Marcus called from the padel court. He was already shirtless, because Marcus was always shirtless, and somehow that never seemed awkward for him.

"I'm observing," I lied. "Developing strategy."

Truth was, I'd never played padel in my life. Back at my old school, baseball had been everything — dirt diamonds, cleats crunching on gravel, the satisfying crack of a bat. Here in California, everyone played padel. It felt like they'd invented some new sport just to make me feel like a transplant.

I adjusted my baseball hat, pulling the brim lower. It was my security blanket, my shield. Without it, I felt naked.

"Yo, Tyler! You're up!" Maya waved from the court. Maya, who'd smiled at me in third period yesterday. Maya, who I'd been thinking about way too much.

I set down my orange soda. My heart did that thing where it forgot how to beat correctly.

The court was enclosed by glass walls, like a transparent aquarium. Palm trees swayed beyond them, their fronds silhouetted against a sky the color of bruised fruit. Everything here felt staged, like I'd walked into a movie I hadn't auditioned for.

"Nice hat," Maya said as I stepped onto the court.

"Thanks." I almost took it off, then stopped. "It's vintage."

"Cool." She passed me a racquet. "Don't worry about being good. Just don't hit the glass."

The game started. I missed the first three serves. My face burned hotter than the asphalt outside. But then it happened — my racquet connected with the ball, and it sailed perfectly over the net, landing right in the corner.

"Finally!" Marcus whooped.

Maya grinned at me. "About time."

Something shifted. Maybe it was the orange soda kicking in with sugar confidence, or maybe I just stopped caring so much. I started actually playing. And for the first time since moving here, I wasn't the new kid. I was just a kid playing sports, sweating and laughing and missing shots and making them.

Afterward, sitting on the bench beneath the palm trees, Maya passed me my orange soda. "You're actually pretty good."

"I'm terrible," I said, and it felt true and fine all at once.

"You're not terrible." She smiled. "Wanna play tomorrow?"

I adjusted my hat, then pulled it off and ran a hand through my hair. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I do."