Orange Padel Shorts

The problem started with the shorts. Bright orange. Like, blindingly orange. Mom said they'd help me stand out at tryouts, but standing out wasn't exactly the vibe I was going for as the new kid.

"NiceHighlighter, bro," some guy muttered as I walked onto the padel court. Great. First impression: radioactive traffic cone.

I'd barely held a racquet before moving here, but apparently everyone at Ridgeview Academy had been playing padel since preschool. The coach blew his whistle and my stomach did that thing where it feels like it's tying itself in knots.

"You, Orange—show us what you got."

I stepped up, sweaty palms practically slipping off the grip. My first serve hit the net. A few people snickered. I could feel my face burning hotter than these stupid shorts.

But then something clicked. Second serve sailed in. I started running for every ball, legs pumping, breath coming hard. The orange fabric flashed across the court like a warning signal. Turns out, Mom's fashion disaster had an upside—nobody could lose track of me.

"Not bad for a traffic cone," the same guy said afterward, tossing me a water bottle. "I'm Marcus."

"Leo," I managed, still catching my breath.

"We're running drills at 6 AM tomorrow if you wanna make the team. Don't be late."

I nodded, trying to play it cool even though my legs were trembling. That night, I stared at those orange shorts hanging on my doorframe. For weeks I'd been bearing this weight of being the new kid, the outsider, the one who didn't belong to anything.

Maybe sometimes the things that make you stand out are the same things that help you find your people.

I put the shorts on the hook by my backpack. 6 AM was gonna come early.

At least I'd be easy to spot.