Fox On The Baseline

The summer before sophomore year, my mom dragged me to the country club for padel lessons. Translation: she wanted me to "expand my social circle" aka make friends who weren't just my gaming discord server.

"It's basically tennis but cooler," the instructor, Carlos, said with a wink. He was twenty-something with curly hair and an accent that made half the girls in my group giggle. I adjusted my grip on the racquet, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. Spoiler: I didn't.

Court 3 was where everything changed. That's where I saw her — Elena, leaning against the fence watching her brother play. Fox. That's what everyone called her, and honestly? The nickname fit. Sharp features, quick smile, eyes that noticed everything. She wore this vintage band tee and ripped jeans like she hadn't gotten the country club memo about polo shirts and pastels.

"Your form's trash," she said suddenly, pushing off the fence. "You're holding the racquet like a tennis player. This is padel. Different game."

My face burned. "Thanks for the tip."

"I'm not roasting you." She stepped closer. "I'm helping. Watch."

She grabbed a spare racquet and showed me the grip, her fingers brushing mine. My brain short-circuited. We hit back and forth while her brother finished his match. Elena teased me about my serve, called me out when I tried to show off, and laughed when I accidentally hit the ball into the neighboring court — where a golden retriever chased it down like it was his life's purpose.

"Rufus!" The dog's owner, some country club regular, whistled. Rufus dropped the ball at Elena's feet and got a treat for his thievery.

"See?" Elena grinned. "Even the dog knows your serve needs work."

"Shut up," I said, but I was smiling.

We spent the rest of the summer playing padel. Some days we'd talk about music, complain about our parents, trade secrets about who liked who at school. Other days we'd just play in comfortable silence, the ball hitting the mesh walls with this satisfying rhythm. I learned Elena was moving to California in the fall — her dad's job — which explained why she didn't bother with country club politics. She was just there to play.

The last day of lessons, she crushed me 6-2. I didn't even care.

"Keep practicing, dork," she said at the fence, shouldering her bag. "And don't hold the racquet like a tennis player."

"Elena," I called out. She turned. "Can I get your Insta? You know, to send you... I don't know, match videos?"

She laughed. "Smooth. Really." But she recited her handle anyway.

I watched her walk away, Rufus the golden retriever trotting happily beside some other kid now. My phone buzzed in my pocket — a DM request from @elena_v_s. The caption read: "Send me those match videos. And don't forget your grip."

I looked at the padel court, my racquet, my mom's car waiting in the parking lot. Sophomore year wasn't going to be so bad after all.