Goldfish in the Deep End

My mom practically force-fed me the vitamin gummy every morning, claiming it would help me 'grow into my confidence.' Which was ridiculous—since when did multivitamins cure social anxiety?

The thing was, I'd agreed to play padel with Sarah's friend group on Friday. Padel. Me, who got winded climbing stairs. Sarah had assured me it was 'basically tennis but easier,' which felt like a trap.

By Wednesday, I was spiraling. I spent forty minutes straightening my hair—something I hadn't done since seventh grade—because somehow, straight hair felt like armor. If I couldn't be good at sports, at least I could look like I knew what I was doing.

The locker room at the padel club smelled expensive, like coconut wax and privilege. Sarah's friends were already there, stretching in coordinated outfits they'd definitely discussed in a group chat I wasn't part of.

'You ready?' Sarah asked, and I nodded, lying through my teeth.

Then I saw him—the bear. Not an actual bear, obviously, but Liam Chen, who everyone called 'Bear' because he'd once carried three people home from a party when they were too drunk to walk. He was adjusting his wrist brace, and I realized with a jolt that he wasn't just good at sports; he was recovering from something.

'You play before?' he asked, and I shook my head, my straight hair swinging aggressively.

'First time,' I squeaked. 'I'm, uh, I'm kind of a goldfish at this stuff.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'A goldfish?'

'You know—three-second memory, zero clue what's happening, mostly just flailing.'

Liam laughed, and it wasn't mean. 'Honestly? Same. I started playing to rehab my wrist, and I still miss half the shots.' He held up his wrapped wrist. 'Want to be terrible together?'

Something in my chest loosened. We played, and I was terrible—I tripped, I hit the fence with the ball more than the court, and my hair went from straight to whatever the opposite of straight was. But for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like I was drowning.

Afterward, sitting on the bench with damp hair and blistered feet, Liam tossed me a vitamin water from his bag. 'For tomorrow,' he said. 'You're gonna need it if you keep playing with us.'

'You want me to come back?'

'Every Friday,' he said. 'Goldfish team.'

I thought about my mom's vitamins, and how she'd been wrong about what it would take to grow into myself. Confidence wasn't a supplement you swallowed. It was showing up, making a fool of yourself, and realizing no one was keeping score except you.