Goldfish on the Court

I stared at my palms, sweating against the grip of my racquet. Three seconds—that's how long I'd lasted before zoning out during our last match. Hence the nickname: Goldfish. Because apparently, having the attention span of a fish during a padel tournament was hilarious to everyone but me.

"You ready, Goldfish?" Jordan called from across the court. His grin was annoying. His backhand was perfect. And I was definitely not ready.

"Don't call me that."

"What? Goldfish?" Jordan's laugh echoed off the clubhouse walls. "It's cute though, right? Little fish, big scary court."

I gripped the racquet harder. The palm trees lining the court entrance swayed in the breeze, mocking me. They looked like they were having a great time. Me? I was about to bear witness to another public humiliation.

This wasn't even about padel anymore. It was about last semester, when I'd frozen during my English presentation. About how I couldn't maintain conversations without my mind doing that weird drift-away thing. About how my little sister's goldfish had more personality than I did when I was nervous.

"Your serve!" someone yelled.

I bounced the ball once. Twice. The sound was satisfying, a solid thwack against the court. Then I tossed it up and served.

It went in. Not amazing, but in.

Jordan returned it easily. We rallied back and forth. Back and forth. And then it happened—the zone-out. My mind drifted to the grocery list. To my unfinished history essay. To anywhere but here.

The ball hit me square in the chest.

"Dude!" someone shouted.

Jordan was laughing. Not mean laughing, but actual laughing. "Goldfish moment?"

I wanted to disappear. Instead, something snapped. "Yeah, actually. Goldfish moment. Because if I were a goldfish, I'd be swimming in a bowl right now instead of standing here letting you make me feel like garbage about a game that's supposed to be fun."

Silence.

Then Jordan's eyebrows went up. "Okay, that was actually kind of sick."

"Sick?" I repeated.

"Like, brave. Or whatever." He shrugged. "Sorry about the nickname. That was kind of a jerk move."

The tension in my chest loosened. I could still feel the weight of everything I usually avoided—the pressure to perform, the fear of looking foolish—but it felt smaller somehow. Bearable.

"Wanna switch up teams?" I asked.

Jordan grinned. "Only if you promise not to zone out on me."

"No promises," I said, tossing him the ball. "But I'll try to stay in the tank."