Fox on the Padel Court

I was mid-sip of lukewarm water when Jace's padel racket smashed into my ankle.

"My bad, little man." Jace didn't look sorry. He never did. He was a senior, built like a tank, rich enough to have his own padel court in his backyard. I was just the fourteen-year-old neighbor his mom paid to give him lessons because apparently, I was some padel prodigy back in Spain. That was before we moved. Before Dad lost his job.

The bull — that's what everyone called Jace behind his back — laughed with his friends. I swallowed the pain. I needed this money.

But something snapped. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was the way his friends looked at me like I was nothing. Maybe it was remembering how I used to be somebody at my old club.

"Alright," I said, setting down my water bottle. "Let's play for something."

Jace raised an eyebrow. "What's on the table?"

"If I win, you tell everyone I destroyed you. No excuses."

"And if I win?"

"You won't."

The bull smirked. "You're on."

I didn't play like I'd been taught. I played like a fox — all angles and deception. Drop shots that died at his feet. Lobs that sent him scrambling backward. I used his power against him, letting his own aggression become his downfall. By the time I hit the winner, a perfect ball that kissed the line, his friends had stopped laughing.

Jace walked to the net. He extended his hand.

"You're actually legit," he said, almost impressed. "We're playing next weekend. Bring your A-game."

"Bet."

That night, I lay in bed staring at my ceiling. For the first time since moving here, I felt like myself again. Not the poor kid. Not the little man. Just me — a padel player who could hold his own.

I drank the rest of my water. It had never tasted better.