Fox on the Court

Chase felt like a zombie. Three consecutive nights of overthinking his conversation with Mia—three actual texts sent, twelve drafted and deleted—would do that to a guy. He ran a hand through his messy hair, catching his reflection in the gym mirror. Not great, but passable. Not that she'd notice anyway.

"You ready to get crushed?" The voice belonged to Tyler, a senior with shoulders like a linebacker and the ego to match. Tyler was the kind of guy who called people 'kid' unironically and somehow made padel—the sport everyone had picked up this semester—feel like a contact sport. Full-on bull mentality. Charge first, think never.

"Just here to play, man." Chase adjusted his grip on the racquet. The plexiglass walls of the indoor court amplified every squeak of sneakers, every smack of the ball. Mia was sitting on the bleachers with her friends, scrolling through her phone. Probably not watching. Definitely not watching.

"Hey," Tyler's voice dropped, gesturing toward Mia's group. "Your little fox friend came to watch?" He smirked, and something hot and defensive spiked in Chase's chest. Mia wasn't his anything. That was the problem. But Tyler saying it, saying it like that—like she was some game to be hunted—it made Chase's hands shake around the handle.

First game: Tyler destroyed him. 6-1. Chase played like he was underwater, every movement a fraction too slow, every shot too cautious. Like he was afraid to take up space.

"Weak," Tyler said, spinning his racquet. "You play scared, you play scared. That's the whole game."

Chase's phone buzzed. A text from Mia: u look stressed lol

Something clicked. Not a transformation, not a movie moment—but a shift. The zombie fog lifted. Tyler wasn't bigger than this game. Tyler was just a guy who swung first and thought later, and that meant he had patterns. That meant he could be figured out.

Second game, Chase stopped reacting. Started reading. Tyler's backhand telegraphed everything. His drop shots had zero finesse—just power, zero surprise. Chase stopped playing safe. Started playing smart.

6-4. Tyler's smirk was gone.

Third game: tiebreaker, everything on the line. The gym got quiet. Mia was watching now, actually watching, phone facedown on her lap. Chase's hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He didn't care.

Match point. Chase faked a drive, dropped it soft instead. Tyler lunged, racquet met air, ball kissed the line. Perfect.

"Nice," Tyler said, and it sounded almost genuine. Almost.

Chase found Mia by the bleachers afterward. "Want to grab food? There's that burger place—"

"Obviously." She grinned. "You played like you finally woke up."

He had. The zombie days were over. Being scared of what people thought, playing small—that was done. Chase adjusted his messy hair in the gym mirror one more time. Whatever. It was fine. He was fine. Everything was fine.