Goldfish & Lightning on Court 3

The thing nobody tells you about padel is that it's basically tennis but LOUDER. Which meant when I smashed the ball into the fence for the third time, everyone heard.

"Yo, Maya, you good?" Leo called from the other side of the court, grinning like he knew exactly how much I was struggling.

I waved him off, face burning. My summer had been a series of catastrophes: flunked my driving test, my best friend moved to Colorado, and my mom decided I needed to "get out of my comfort zone" and join this youth padel league. Now here I was, seventeen years old, sweating through my shirt, while Leo-the-actually-good-at-sports guy watched me fail.

"Your form's all tense," he said, crossing the net. "You're overthinking it."

"I'm not overthinking," I lied. I was definitely overthinking. About padel, about the fact that I'd left my goldfish—who I'd affectionately named Toast—without saying goodbye because my parents said he was "probably going to go to fish heaven soon," and about how Leo's stupid dimpled smile made my brain short-circuit.

Toast had been my emotional support fish through my parents' divorce. Now he was floating sideways in his bowl, and I was hitting padel balls into fences.

"Show me," Leo said, taking my racket and positioning himself behind me. His hand brushed my arm, and electricity spiked through me—not the cozy kind. The panic kind. "Relax your shoulders. Bend your knees. Don't aim, just... let it happen."

Outside, the sky turned that weird greenish color that means trouble. Thunder rumbled, low and mean.

The coach blew her whistle. "Storm's coming! Everyone inside, NOW!"

We all grabbed our stuff and sprinted for the covered area. Rain started coming down in sheets, and then—CRACK. Lightning struck something close. The whole parking lit up, this jagged brilliance that made everything look black-and-white for a second.

Leo and I ended up squeezed together under the overhang, shoulders touching, both of us soaked and breathing hard.

"Toast died this morning," I blurted out. Why did I say that? What was wrong with me?

Leo blinked. "Your... toast?"

"My goldfish. His name was Toast. He was three years old and I wasn't even there when—" My voice cracked.

"Oh damn." Leo's face softened. "I'm sorry, Maya. That sucks."

"I know it's just a fish, but—"

"It's not just a fish," he said. "It's Toast."

Another lightning flash, closer this time. The ozone smell thick in the air.

"You wanna know something embarrassing?" Leo said, looking out at the rain. "When I was twelve, I cried for a week when my hermit crab died. Named him Shrimp. Shrimp the hermit crab."

I laughed—really laughed, for the first time in days. "That's the worst name ever."

"I was twelve!" Leo protested, but he was smiling too. Then, quietly: "Hey, you want to come back after the storm? I can help you with your backhand. If you want."

The rain kept falling. The lightning kept flashing. But in that moment, under the overhang with Leo, something in me shifted. Like maybe, just maybe, things weren't always going to be terrible.

"Yeah," I said. "I'd like that."