Orange Slice Courage

The padel court smelled like rubber and desperation. Which, honestly, was just how Maya felt about her entire summer.

"You got this, May!" Liam called from the sidelines, his smile doing that annoying thing where it made her stomach do actual gymnastics routines.

She did not got this. Maya had never held a padel racquet in her life, but when the cool kids invited her to play, saying no felt like social suicide. So here she was, wearing this neon orange tank top she'd bought online because the description said "bold and confident" and apparently she was fifteen gullible enough to believe clothing could manufacture personality.

Her serve hit the net. Again.

"It's all in the wrist," Sofia said, not unkindly. Sofia, who had perfect hair and probably came out of the womb knowing how to smash a padel ball.

The summer heat pressed down like a weight. Maya's palms sweat. Her face burned. Every time she moved, she felt like a flamingo trying to walk on ice — all limbs and no grace.

She wanted to dissolve. To evaporate. To become water and just slip away through the cracks in the court.

"Water break!" someone called, and Maya practically sprinted to the cooler, where she proceeded to fumble the bottle cap and splash water down her entire front. The orange fabric grew darker in patches. Fantastic. Now she looked like she'd lost bladder control.

Liam appeared beside her, hair wet from his own water break. "Hey, you okay? You look—"

"Like I'm dying inside?" she finished for him.

He laughed. Actually laughed. "I was gonna say intense, but sure."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm terrible at this. Everyone knows it. You know it."

"Maya." His voice dropped. "I've been playing padel since I was seven and I still shank it half the time. Sofia double-faulted three times yesterday. Nobody's watching you as close as you think they are."

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her like she was a real person, not some awkward projection of her own insecurity.

"Also," he added, "that orange color? It's kind of badass."

The laugh escaped before she could stop it. A real one. The kind that made her shoulders drop two inches.

"Get back in the game, orange slice," he called as he walked back to the court.

Orange slice. The worst nickname. The best nickname.

Maya wiped her wet hands on her neon-bright shirt, picked up her racquet, and for the first time all summer, walked back onto the court like she belonged there.