Lightning at Match Point

The padel court smelled like rubber and desperation. Perfect, because that's exactly how I felt. My phone buzzed in my bag — the group chat exploding without me.

"u coming??" "party starts in 20" "where r u??"

I swallowed hard. Telling the squad I'd chosen a padel tournament over Taylor's rager would be social suicide. But here I was, racquet trembling in my grip, because *he* was across the net.

Jordan. The guy who'd sat behind me in bio since September, whose laugh I'd memorized, who'd never noticed me until I'd somehow drunkenly signed up for this tournament last week.

Lightning cracked the sky — real, actual lightning, violet veins through storm clouds. Someone muttered about the weather app calling for clear skies. Typical. Everything felt electric, like the air before something huge happens.

"You ready?" Jordan asked, and my stomach did that thing where it forgets how to be an organ.

"Born ready," I said, like a total liar. I'd been running from this moment all week. Running from feelings, running from the truth, literally running on the track every morning to burn off the nervous energy.

His sphinx cat, bizarrely present on a bench nearby (because apparently Jordan brought his hairless wonder everywhere), watched with judgment in its alien eyes. The cat's wrinkled skin matched how I felt inside — exposed, weird, completely unprepared.

First serve. I missed. Second serve. Double fault.

The cat yawned.

"It's fine," Jordan said, and something in his voice made me look up. "My sister's cat always does that when I'm playing. Means I'm overthinking it."

The ball hit my racquet, and suddenly I wasn't thinking about the party, or the group chat, or how I'd explain this to anyone. Just the sound of rubber on concrete, the satisfying thwack of a perfect volley, the way Jordan's eyes widened when I actually landed the shot.

Game point. The storm broke. Rain poured down like the universe was finally, officially approving of my terrible decisions.

Jordan wiped rain from his face, grinning. "You're actually good at this."

"Beginner's luck."

"Nah." He stepped closer. "You've been holding back."

Lightning flashed again, and for a second, I saw everything differently — the padel court, the tournament, the party I was missing, the way his hands moved when he spoke. Some things you have to stop running from eventually.

"Same time next week?" he asked.

"Only if the cat comes."

He laughed. It sounded like thunder, but the good kind.

My phone buzzed again. I didn't check it.