Neon Courts and Dead Fish

I chugged the orange vitamin C shot—my mom's idea, obviously—before grabbing my racket. The padel courts at the country club were basically my whole summer, and I had exactly three weeks to become good enough to impress Tyler.

"You're gripping it too tight," Maya said, tossing me a ball. She was right. I was always overthinking everything, especially around Tyler.

The heat was brutal. After drills, I'd collapse by the pool, watching the water shimmer. That's where I met the new kid, Sam, who was weirdly obsessed with the fact that the pool's filter system reminded him of a goldfish tank.

"It's the same concept," Sam said, sketching fish in his notebook. "Water circulation, filtration, maintaining an ecosystem."

"You're a total dork," I told him, but I was kind of impressed.

That afternoon, Tyler finally noticed me. "You're getting better," he said, and my heart did this embarrassing flutter thing. But then he added, "You should try out for varsity. We need more girls on the team."

Not "I like you." Just "you're useful for sports diversity."

I found Sam later, still watching the pool filter like it was fascinating TV. "Tyler thinks I should play varsity," I said bitterly.

"Cool," Sam said. "Hey, want to see something?" He pulled out his phone—a video of his goldfish doing tricks. "His name is Flipper. He can swim through a hoop."

I laughed. It was ridiculous and perfect.

"You know," Sam said, "goldfish have this reputation where they die after a week, but they actually live forever if you take care of them right. People just don't bother learning how."

That hit me weirdly hard. How many things was I getting wrong because I didn't actually understand them?

The next day, I played padel differently. Not for Tyler. For myself. And when Sam showed up with orange soda for both of us, I realized something: I'd been so focused on impressing the person who didn't see me that I almost missed the one who actually did.