Orange Stains and Second Serves

The orange stain on my favorite hoodie looked like a crime scene. Cheeto dust, probably from when Marcus demolished three bags during our failed attempt at studying for finals.

"You're coming," Jenna said, not asking. She stood in my doorway like she owned the place, which she basically did. My parents loved her. Everyone loved Jenna. That was the problem.

"I hate padel. I hate racquet sports. I hate everything."

"You're just sulking because you didn't make the baseball team." She didn't even pretend to care. That's what made her the worst best friend ever.

Cut to me at the country club, holding a padel racquet like it was covered in spikes. Jenna's older brother Tyler was already on the court, looking annoyingly perfect in his whites. He'd made varsity baseball as a freshman. The golden child. The literal poster child for suburban excellence.

"Show her the bull, Ty," Jenna called from the sidelines, sipping something pink and expensive.

"The what?" I asked.

"His signature move." Tyler tossed me a ball. "He calls it 'the bull' because he charges the net like one. It's intimidation, basically. Same psychology as actual bulls."

"That's stupid."

"That's sports."

I missed everything. The ball hit the fence with a sad thwack. Tyler didn't laugh. He just walked over, picked up another ball, and handed it to me.

"Again."

"Why are you helping me? You're literally the reason I didn't—"

"I didn't take your spot." He looked away. "The coach's nephew moved here from California. Politics. That's all it was."

I'd spent three months hating him for something he didn't even do.

"Your mechanics are all wrong," he said. "You're thinking like a baseball player. This isn't about power. It's about control. Placement. Patience."

Something about the way he said it made me actually listen. Maybe it was the first time anyone had talked to me like I could still be good at something, even if it wasn't what I'd planned.

The orange sun was setting when I finally returned his serve properly. A perfect shot down the line. Tyler smiled, and I realized Jenna had taken a photo of us, grinning like idiots, racquets crossed like swords.

"Baseball season's over," he said. "But padel's year-round."

"I'm still bad at it."

"You're less bad than you were an hour ago. That's called improvement."

My hoodie still had that orange Cheeto stain. But somehow, it didn't look so ugly anymore. Some things get better when you stop trying so hard to be perfect.