How to Lose a Crush in Five Easy Steps

Maya's **hair** had apparently decided to stage a rebellion. Fifteen years of mostly cooperative curls, and today—of all days—it puffed into an entity that deserved its own zip code.

"You look fine," Zoe said, not looking up from her phone.

"I look like a human cotton ball."

"You're playing **padel** with Lucas. He's not there to critique your follicular situation."

Maya groaned. Lucas, the cute junior from her physics class, had invited her to play at the community courts. Her brain had immediately short-circuited and said yes before her stomach could remind her that she hadn't picked up a racquet since middle school PE.

But the real problem wasn't the **padel** match or the humidity that was currently wrecking her hair. The real problem was the **papaya**.

Specifically, the papaya smoothie she'd bravely attempted to make that morning because the internet said it would be "refreshing and light." Now she was terrified that every time she opened her mouth, she'd exhale pure tropical regret.

They met at the courts. Lucas was already there, stretching in that annoyingly effortless way athletic people had.

"Ready to get destroyed?" he grinned.

"In your dreams."

Maya's **dog** Buster chose that exact moment to escape their backyard and streak across the courts, barking at nothing and everyone. Lucas laughed as Maya chased him, her hair expanding exponentially with each stride.

"That's your spirit animal," he called.

"Shut up."

The game was a disaster. Maya missed every ball. Her **hair** kept falling in her eyes. The worst part: she was actually having fun.

"Water break?" Lucas asked after she'd volleyed a ball into the adjacent parking lot.

They sat on the bench, Maya finally relaxing. "Sorry I'm terrible at this."

"You're not terrible. You're just... enthusiastic."

She almost laughed. "That's a nice way to put it."

Then Lucas's phone died. He patted his pockets. "You wouldn't happen to have a charger?"

"Yeah, but my **cable's** ancient. It only works if you hold it at a specific angle and pray."

"I'm good at prayer angles."

They spent twenty minutes contorted around her temperamental charging **cable**, shoulders pressed together, Maya hyper-aware of everything—the papaya situation (probably fine), her hair (definitely not fine), and how Lucas's arm kept brushing against hers.

"Hey," he said suddenly, not looking at her. "My friend Jordan's having a party Saturday. You should come."

Maya's heart did something embarrassing. "Like, as your..."

"As my extremely athletic opponent who owes me a rematch."

"Oh. Um, yes. Definitely."

Buster chose that moment to return, carrying someone's discarded tennis ball like a trophy. Maya's hair formed a majestic halo around her head. The papaya breath situation remained unclear.

And somehow, none of it mattered anymore.