Foxes Don't Play Padel

I became known as "Vitamin" in eighth grade because I was always trying to boost everyone's mood. No one bothered to learn my actual name. Not even Maya, the girl I'd been crushing on since she moved here three months ago.

"Hey Vitamin, you coming to the rec center?" Jake called from his driveway. "Maya's gonna be there."

My stomach did that thing where it feels like I swallowed a handful of worms. "What's happening?"

"Padel tournament. It's like tennis but easier, and somehow cooler." He tossed me a racquet. "Don't overthink it. Just show up and swing."

I showed up. I swung. I missed. The ball sailed into the fence behind me.

"Nice arm, Vitamin," someone called. Laughter rippled through the group. My face burned.

Then I saw her. Maya leaning against the fence, wearing this fox-embroidered jacket I'd seen her in a hundred times at school. She caught my eye and didn't look away.

"You're holding it wrong," she said, pushing off the fence and walking over. "Here."

Her hands adjusted my grip on the racquet. My brain short-circuited. This was it. The moment every coming-of-age movie promised me.

"You've got a weird habit," she said, stepping back.

"What?"

"Bearing your teeth when you're nervous. Like you're preparing for something terrible." She grinned. "It's kinda endearing, though."

Someone tossed her a ball. She served it across the court effortlessly. "Your turn, Vitamin."

"My name's actually—"

"I know," she said, already walking back to her position. "I just like Vitamin better. It suits you."

The ball came at me. I didn't think. I just swung.

And connected.

The ball sailed over the net, landing perfectly in the corner. Jake whistled. Maya's eyebrows shot up.

"Not bad," she called. "For someone who looks like they're facing a bear every time they step on the court."

I laughed. A real laugh. And for the first time all year, I didn't feel like I had to be anyone's mood booster.

"Rematch?" I asked.

Maya's fox jacket caught the light as she nodded. "You're on."