Orange Sunset at the Padl Court

Maya gripped the padel racket until her knuckles turned the same shade as her fake orange bikini. This was it—the moment she'd been dreading all summer.

"You got this, May!" called Tyler, flipping his wet hair out of his eyes. God, he was annoying. Also hot. Mostly annoying.

The pool party at Jess's house had seemed like a good idea three hours ago. Now she was locked into a padel match against Brianna—the self-proclaimed queen of the court who'd been giving Maya side-eye since seventh grade.

"Game point," Brianna announced, spinning her racket like a weapon. The small crowd around the fence went silent. Maya's stomach did that terrible swooping thing, like she'd missed a step on stairs.

Brianna served. The ball came fast, slamming into the glass wall. Maya returned it, but it hit the metal frame—ping. A pathetic, loser sound.

"Nice try," Brianna smirked. "Maybe stick to the pool next time."

The group laughed. Not mean laughter, but the worse kind—the kind that pretended to be friendly while cutting deep. Maya felt her face burning. She dropped her racket, muttering something about grabbing another orange soda from the cooler.

"Maya, wait." Tyler's hand caught her arm. "Brianna's been talking trash all week about how she's unbeatable. You were literally two points from winning."

"Yeah, and now I'm literally zero points from winning." She pulled away, blinking hard.

"You know what my abuelo says?" Tyler stepped closer. "'El toro no deja de embestir porque una vez falló.' The bull doesn't stop charging because it failed once."

Maya snorted. "Did you just call me a bull?"

"I'm saying you've got fire, Maya. Don't let Brianna—or anyone—dim your light because you stumbled. That's not who you are."

He held out her racket. The orange paint on the handle had worn off in spots, revealing the grip beneath. Used. Real.

She took it. Brianna was still by the court, bragging to her friends about her "killer serve."

"Rematch," Maya said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Right now."

Brianna's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

"Dead seriously."

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. Maya adjusted her grip. This time, when Brianna served, Maya didn't overthink. She moved. She hit. She played like nobody was watching—except Tyler, who was definitely watching.

Game, set, match.

Maya stood at the net, hand outstretched. "Good game."

Brianna hesitated, then shook it. Something like respect flickered across her face. "You're not bad, Maya."

"Neither are you."

Later, floating in the pool under string lights, orange soda in hand, Maya realized something. The bull charging metaphor was kind of cheesy. But Tyler? Tyler was worth keeping around.