Fox Court Secrets

The padel court behind the rec center was basically my kingdom after school. Well, not my kingdom exactly—more like my escape pod from the absolute disaster that was freshman year.

"You're getting better, weirdo," Maya said, leaning against the chain-link fence with that half-smile that made my stomach do backflips. "But your backhand still looks like you're fighting off a swarm of bees."

"It's called style, Maya. Something you clearly wouldn't understand." I hit the ball against the wall, *thwack-thwack-thwack*, the rhythm drowning out my overthinking brain.

The truth was, I'd become a low-key spy this semester. Not the cool MI6 kind. The pathetic kind who followed Maya's friend group on social media, memorized her Starbucks order (iced oat milk latte, two pumps vanilla, no whip—don't judge me), and basically rearranged my entire route to class just to walk past her locker. I was deep in the feels, and honestly? It was exhausting.

The real problem wasn't even Maya. It was that I couldn't tell anyone. My friends would literally never let me live it down. "Oh my god, you're SO down bad," they'd say, and they'd be right.

So here I was, playing padel against a concrete wall like some mysterious loner character in a coming-of-age movie, except without the cool soundtrack.

The sprinklers near the tennis courts suddenly *whooshed* to life, spraying water everywhere. I bolted toward my backpack, but then I saw it—a sleek red fox slipping through the fence gap near the water, completely unfazed. It paused, looked right at me with eyes that felt way too intelligent, and then disappeared into the bushes behind the courts.

"Did you just—" Maya turned around.

"Yeah."

"That was so random." She grinned, wiping water from her face. "Hey, you want to grab food? My treat. Consider it payment for the entertainment value of watching you fail at backhands all year."

And just like that, my spy days were over. Well, probably. I'd definitely still check her Instagram though—no sense taking things TOO far.