Fox at the Net

I'm standing on the padel court, clutching my racket like it's a weapon and not a piece of sports equipment I barely know how to use. Mia's serving to me, and I'm pretty sure my soul just left my body.

"You good, bro?" she calls out, bouncing the ball. "You look like you saw a ghost."

I'm not good. I'm also not seeing ghosts. I'm seeing the spinach wedge from my lunch that absolutely, positively is wedged between my front teeth right now. I caught my reflection in the court's glass wall ten minutes ago and have been smiling with my lips pressed together ever since. Total rookie move.

"Yeah, all good!" I yell back. Just then, this fox-orange hair catches my eye at the courtside cafe. It's Harper—the new girl whose name I've been hearing nonstop since she transferred last week. She's sitting with Taylor's crew, laughing at something, and suddenly my stomach is doing more flips than an Olympic gymnast.

I need to play it cool. I need to not be thinking about how I haven't made a single friend outside of Mia since freshman year. I need to not be thinking about how Harper literally just looked over here.

"Heads up!" Mia yells.

The ball comes at me and I swing with everything I've got. My racket connects with nothing but air. I stumble, arms flailing, and faceplant onto the court.

Dead silence.

Then Harper's laughing. Not mean-laughing—she's doubled over, full-on cracking up, and suddenly I'm laughing too because, holy shit, I must look ridiculous.

"Dude," Mia says, helping me up. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say, wiping dirt off my knees. Harper's still watching, and instead of pretending I didn't just embarrass myself, I do something brave. Or stupid. Probably both.

I walk over, spinach and all, and say, "Careful watching me—I've got a zero goldfish memory, but I'm gonna remember that laugh."

She raises an eyebrow, amused. "Smooth."

"Not really," I admit. "I have spinach in my teeth, don't I?"

"Huge piece," she says, grinning. "But honestly? I respect the commitment to the bit."

We talk for twenty minutes about everything and nothing—her old school, why padel is secretly underrated, how she's obsessed with this vintage fox-themed band. When she asks for my number, my brain short-circuits.

"Done," she says, typing it into her phone. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Bet."

Walking home, I catch my reflection again and finally notice what Mia was trying to tell me the whole time.

The spinach? It was never there.

Some days you win. Some days you faceplant in front of the prettiest girl you've ever seen. And sometimes—just sometimes—that's exactly how it's supposed to happen.