Fox on the Court

The nickname stuck freshman year after I dyed my hair copper on a dare. Fox. Fitting, I guess, for someone who spent three years dodging anything resembling real commitment.

Then came summer league padel.

"You're not even trying," Marcus said after my seventh serve hit the net. His Jordan-wearing feet tapped impatiently on the court.

"I'm literally trying so hard," I shot back, but my voice cracked. Classic.

My mom had signed me up. Something about how I needed more **vitamin** D, more fresh air, more anything that wasn't my room. She wasn't wrong, but that didn't make the glass backboard less terrifying.

The real problem wasn't padel though. It was what came after. The team went to the community center pool like it was some sacred ritual, and there I'd be, fully clothed on a bench, making up excuses about how I "forgot my suit" or "wasn't feeling well" or "needed to get home to study."

For three weeks, I said no. Then Maya — the girl with the impossibly bright smile who somehow made padel look effortless — sat beside me while everyone else splashed around.

"You know," she said, "learning to **swim** is just like learning padel. You look stupid until you don't."

"I can swim," I protested. "I just don't like it."

"You're shaking, Fox."

She'd seen right through me. So the next day, I showed up with swim trunks under my shorts. My heart hammered against my ribs as I lowered myself into the water, certain everyone was watching. Certain they'd laugh at how uncoordinated I was, how my arms flailed, how I probably looked like a drowning **bear** trying to stay afloat.

But no one laughed. Marcus gave me a thumbs up. Maya high-fived me when I finally made it across the pool without stopping. And somewhere between the shallow end and the deep end, I realized I'd been the only one judging myself.

The next day at padel, I served an ace.

"Look at Fox go," Marcus grinned.

I smiled back. For the first time in forever, I didn't dodge. I didn't hide. I just played.