Fox Court

The padel racket felt wrong in my hands—too light, too orange, like everything else at this country club where I definitely didn't belong. Maya had dragged me here, babbling about how joining the junior clinic would be our ticket to actually existing this summer before tenth grade swallowed us whole. My hair dripped chlorinated water into my eyes, and I wiped it with the back of my hand, leaving a dark streak on my sleeve.

"You've got spinach in your teeth," Maya whispered, mortified, like this was the worst thing that could happen to a person who had just shanked three balls into the fence.

I groaned and scrubbed with my tongue. Spinach. Because my mom had packed a "healthy lunch" and apparently, I was incapable of eating it like a normal human being. Across the court, Lucas—the Lucas who sat behind me in bio and never knew I existed—was laughing with his friends. They moved like they were born holding rackets.

Then I saw it: a fox.

It slipped through the gap in the perimeter fence, this scrawny russet thing with mange spots and one ear that wouldn't stand up. It padded along the edge of the court, head down, scavenging. No one else noticed. They were too busy being effortless and golden and perfect.

The fox found something—a lost ball, bright orange against the artificial grass—and nudged it with its nose, suspicious. Like it couldn't believe something this vibrant belonged in its dusty, scrappy world either.

"Hey!" Lucas called out, spotting it. The fox bolted, orange ball forgotten.

But something settled in my chest. The fox would be back. It knew how to survive in places it didn't belong.

I adjusted my grip on the racket. Let Maya have her perfect summer. Let Lucas be golden. I'd be the one who watched from the edges, scrappy and observant, waiting for my moment to sneak in and steal something bright.

"Your turn," Maya said, and I stepped onto the court, ready to swing at absolutely everything.