Padel Court Palms

The blisters on my palm throbbed as I gripped the padel racquet, trying to look like I belonged at the Palm Beach Country Club. Mom had scored us guest passes through her coworker, and apparently this was where all the "in crowd" from Oak Creek High spent their weekends. I'd spent seventeen years avoiding sports like I owed them money, and here I was, about to embarrass myself in front of literally everyone who mattered socially.

"You gonna stand there all day or actually hit something?"

Jake Torres. Captain of the tennis team, whose Instagram posts got more likes than the school cafeteria's lunch menu. He was stretched across the bench behind me, looking stupidly effortless in his pastel polo. The dude had that annoying athletic charisma that made you want to hate him but somehow you couldn't.

"Working on it," I managed, not meeting his eyes. My hair was already frizzing in the humidity. Why had I agreed to this?

"Your grip's all wrong." He hopped off the bench and stepped behind me. "Here, let me—"

His hands guided my fingers on the handle. My face burned. Not the cute, blushy way from romance novels. More like the I'm-about-to-die-of-secondhand-embarrassment way.

"See? Looser. You're holding on like a bear's about to attack." He laughed, and it was actually... nice? Not mean. "My little sister does the same thing. You tense up, you lose control."

The ball came flying over the net. I swung.

And missed. Completely. Spun in a circle and nearly faceplanted on the padel court.

Jake didn't laugh. "That was actually impressive. I've never seen someone spin that fast."

My face was hot enough to fry an egg. "Yeah, well. I'm talented."

"Here's the thing," he said, grabbing another ball from the basket. "Nobody here actually cares if you're good. They're all too busy worrying about themselves." He tossed the ball casually, hit it with a smooth flick of his wrist. "My first time? I tripped over my own feet and broke the net string. Coach made me run laps for a week."

I looked up. "For real?"

"Would not lie. Ask anyone." He gestured at my hand. "Your palm's probably wrecked, huh? Take a break. I'll show you the secret snack spot behind the equipment shed. The vending machine's not rigged like the one in the clubhouse."

Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible. Maybe fitting in wasn't about being perfect at everything. Maybe it was just about finding people who didn't make you feel like you had to be.

"Jake," I said, "you're actually not awful."

"High praise coming from someone who just redefine 'graceful.'" He grinned. "Come on. I'll teach you how to actually hit the ball without becoming a human tornado."

The palm trees swayed above us, casting shadows across the court. For the first time all summer, I thought I might actually be okay.