Orange Crush on Court Three

My phone buzzed against the bench. Third notification in two minutes. I wiped my palms on my shorts and grabbed my iPhone—Maya had posted a story from the party I wasn't invited to. Classic.

"You're up, kid," Coach Miller called from court two.

I shoved my phone under my towel and jogged onto court three, heart already doing that thing where it forgets its job. Padel practice. Every Wednesday at 4 PM, and every Wednesday I prayed the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

Across the net stood Lucas Chen, looking effortless in his navy hoodie. His hair was still damp from showering after regular school. The same Lucas who'd somehow never noticed I existed until last week, when we got paired for a Spanish project and he learned my name. Now my stomach did cartwheels every time he glanced in my direction.

His friends sat in the bleachers, phones in hand, probably recording this for laughs. Great.

"Serve's up," Lucas said, spinning his racquet.

I tossed the ball up, missed it completely. It bounced off my foot and rolled toward the fence. Someone snickered. I could feel my face heating up, that distinctive shade of mortification that no amount of skincare could fix.

"You good?" Lucas asked, actually sounding like he cared.

"Yeah, just..." I laughed awkwardly. "Warming up."

My phone lit up again. I ignored it. Probably another reminder that everyone was having fun without me.

We rallied back and forth. I was actually playing decently until the ball sailed toward the bench area. I scrambled after it, lunging, and my foot caught on my backpack.

The orange I'd packed for a snack exploded everywhere.

Juice sprayed across my white shirt. Segments scattered like shrapnel. I lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was possible to transfer schools at 3:45 PM on a Wednesday.

Then footsteps. Lucas's face appeared above me, blocking the fluorescent lights.

He extended a hand. "You okay?"

I took it. His palm was warm, slightly calloused. "Peachy. Just thought the court needed some vitamin C."

His laugh was genuine, not mean. He helped me up, then bent down and picked up a half-crushed orange segment, pretended to examine it like it was fascinating.

"You know," he said, tossing it toward the trash, "I was gonna grab food after this. There's that boba place on Main. You want to come?"

My phone buzzed again from the bench. This time, I didn't even look at it.