Orange County Blues

The neon orange padel ball whizzed past my ear, smacking the back wall with a satisfying thwack. I flinched anyway.

"You're thinking too much, Maya," Jordan said, spinning his racquet. "Just hit it."

Easy for him to say. Jordan had been playing padel since kindergarten, his family belonged to the exclusive club where the courts actually had lights. Meanwhile, I'd just convinced my mom to let me try out for the school team three weeks ago, armed with a YouTube crash course and a hand-me-down racquet from my cousin who'd quit after two practices.

The team tryouts were tomorrow. The Ridgemont High Bulls — because obviously our mascot was a bull, because nothing says intimidation like livestock. The varsity jackets were neon orange with the bull mascot embroidered on the chest. I'd wanted one since sixth grade, back when I thought wearing school spirit was actually cool instead of deeply embarrassing.

Now I wanted something different. I wanted to be good at something.

"Again," Jordan said, tossing me another ball. "This time, don't close your eyes."

I caught it. The orange rubber was warm from his hand. "What if I freeze up tomorrow?"

"Then you freeze. But probably you won't."

"How do you know?"

Jordan shrugged. "Because you showed up here at 7 AM every day this week. Because you look like you haven't slept in three days. Because people who don't care don't do that."

I hit the ball. It sailed high and wide, bouncing once, twice, three times against the back wall before rolling to a stop. Not perfect. Not even good.

But I hadn't closed my eyes.

"Better," Jordan said. "Want me to stay late? We can work on your backhand."

Something in my chest loosened. The orange jacket would still be out of reach, the tryout still terrifying, the varsity boys probably still going to laugh at my serve. But maybe that wasn't the point anymore.

"Yeah," I said, grabbing another ball from the basket. "Yeah, let's keep going."