Orange Courts and Goldfish Dreams

Maya's stomach did that annoying flip-flop thing whenever she walked past the **padel** courts. Like, why did Lucas have to be there every single time, looking all effortless with his stupid perfect hair? She gripped her racket until her knuckles turned the color of the **orange** slice her mom had packed in her lunch—because apparently, "fruits are brain fuel, mija." Whatever.

"You're staring again," whispered Sofia, nudging her arm. "It's giving major stalker vibes."

"Am not!" Maya hissed, though she totally was. "I'm just... observing the competition. For strategic purposes."

"Right. Strategic purposes." Sofia's deadpan expression said she wasn't buying it.

The real problem wasn't even Lucas anymore. It was that Maya had somehow agreed to play in the tournament next weekend, and her current athletic ability could best be described as "enthusiastic but tragic." Her little brother's **goldfish**, Bubbles, had better coordination. And Bubbles spent 90% of his time floating sideways in his bowl.

"You know what you need?" Sofia pulled a green smoothie from her bag. "My mom's **spinach** detox blend. It's supposed to improve focus and balance."

Maya took one sip and nearly gagged. "This tastes like wet lawn."

"But you feel healthier already, right?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up on the courts. That's definitely not the vibe I'm going for."

Then came the text from Lucas: hey, heard you're playing in the tournament. want to practice sometime?

Maya's brain short-circuited. Like, full-on blue screen of death.

"What do I say?" she panicked, showing Sofia.

"Play it cool. You're a **fox**, remember? Confident. Mysterious. Tell him 'maybe' and leave him wanting more."

Instead, Maya's thumbs betrayed her: SURE! When? Where? What should I wear? Not that I care. Just curious.

Sofia groaned. "Smooth. Real smooth."

But as Lucas responded with tomorrow at 4, Maya realized something. The nerves, the awkward text, the terrible spinach smoothie—this was all part of it. Growing up wasn't about being flawless. It was about showing up, looking like an idiot sometimes, and finding out you could survive it.

And who knew? Maybe she'd even learn to hit the ball without smashing it into the neighboring tennis court. A girl could dream.