Operation Goldfish Bowl

I felt like a zombie walking into third period chemistry—four hours of sleep will do that to you. My goldfish-like attention span wasn't helping either. Everything blurred together except HIM.

Cameron. The padel court sensation. The reason I'd become a certified spy.

"You're staring again," Maya whispered, sliding into the desk beside me. "Your creeper game is strong."

"I'm not creeping. I'm conducting reconnaissance," I corrected, pulling out my phone to document Cameron's current hoodie color (navy, if you're wondering). This was Day 47 of my covert operation. My Notes app had more intel on Cameron than the FBI probably had on actual criminals.

The bell rang, and my stomach did that thing where it forgot how to organ.

"Good luck with Operation Padel Court today," Maya snickered.

I'd finally done it. I'd signed up for padel club—despite having zero hand-eye coordination and the athletic ability of a newborn giraffe—all because Cameron played every Friday.

"You're going down, Miller," someone called across the court. It was him. Cameron. Talking to me. Sort of.

My brain short-circuited. "I—what?"

"Doubles," he said, grinning. "You and me versus Sophie and Ty. Unless you're scared?"

Something shifted. Maybe it was the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Maybe it was realizing he actually knew my name. Or maybe it was just that my goldfish memory finally retained something important: I wasn't invisible.

I stepped onto the court, zombie exhaustion evaporating. For the first time, I wasn't spying from the sidelines.

"You're going down," I shot back, and somewhere between my terrible serve and the way he laughed when I tripped over my own feet, I stopped being the girl with a crush and started becoming someone who took chances.

Even if those chances occasionally involved public humiliation and a very defective backhand.