Palm Court Fake

The first day at Royal Palms Country Club, I lied about knowing how to play **padel**. Blame the humidity, or maybe the way Tyler's abs looked when he peeled off his shirt—suddenly I was nodding like I'd been smashing balls since birth.

"Sick, you can sub for Connor," Tyler said, all easy confidence and sun-bleached hair. "We're playing in ten."

My stomach dropped. I'd barely touched a racket in my life.

The **pool** area was a battlefield of social hierarchy I hadn't navigated since middle school. Popular kids draped over lounge chairs like royalty, while the rest of us hovered near the snack bar pretending we weren't desperately calculating how to look effortless. I caught my reflection in the sliding glass doors—nervous energy radiating off me like heat waves.

"You good?" Tyler asked, handing me a racket.

"Yeah, just... hyping myself up." Smooth.

The first five minutes were a disaster. I whiffed serves, tripped over my own feet, and swung at air so dramatically someone actually laughed. But then something clicked—the rhythm, the satisfying *thwack* of the ball against my racket, the way Tyler's team celebrated every point like we'd won the lottery.

By game three, I wasn't terrible. And Tyler kept looking at me.

**Swimming** had always been my thing—alone, quiet, predictable. But this? This chaos of shouted calls and high-fives and sweat dripping down my back? This was something else entirely. This was belonging.

After our third win, we collapsed by the **palm** trees, Tyler passing me a Gatorade like we'd been friends for years.

"You're actually insane at this," he said, and something in his voice made me believe it.

I watched the **bull**frog near the decorative pond, its throat pulsing with each croak. Small thing, making itself heard.

"Yeah," I said, finally exhaling. "I guess I am."

That night I researched padel leagues until my eyes burned. Sometimes the lies we tell become the truths we live into.