Palm Court Goldfish

The padel court smelled like expensive sunscreen and desperation. I clutched my borrowed racquet like it might explode, watching Coach Martinez demonstrate a volley that looked suspiciously like tennis but with walls.

"Remember, Ramirez," Coach yelled, "padel's about angles, not power. Unlike baseball, you can't just swing for the fences."

I nodded, though my brain was still stuck on the fact that three weeks ago I'd been closing out the district championship on the mound, and now I was failing at pretend tennis.

The country club was my mom's new husband's domain. Suddenly we had membership privileges and a vocabulary that included "brunch reservations" and "afternoon paddle." I'd swapped my cleats for court shoes, my crew cut for a fade that took forty-five minutes and cost more than my old bat bag.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably the group chat. Back home, my team was playing summer league without me. Here, my stepdad's daughter Sofia was showing me her instagram stories from Cabo.

"You're gripping it too tight," Sofia said, appearing beside me at the water cooler. She was twenty, effortlessly cool, and treated me like a fascinating exotic pet. "Like relax, yeah? You look like you're holding onto something for dear life."

I stared at my palm, white-knuckled around the racquet handle.

"Sorry," I muttered. "Just. Used to different stuff."

"Baseball," she said knowingly. "Dad mentioned. That's cute, with the little hats and the dirt."

I bit back something rude and nodded instead. Sofia's version of supportive involved calling my life's work "cute."

The real problem wasn't padel, or the money, or even Sofia's backhanded compliments. It was the goldfish situation.

Back at our old apartment, I'd won a goldfish at a carnival last summer. Named him Slider because he was fast and orange, like a good pitch. Slider lived in a bowl on my dresser, survived my mom forgetting to feed him for three days that one time, and heard me complain about everything from homework to my pitching mechanics.

When we moved into David's house, Slider got "upgraded" to the pond in the backyard. Which was fancy, sure, except now I couldn't find him. There were like, fifty fish out there. For all I knew, Slider was living his best life somewhere in the depths, or he'd been eaten by one of the expensive koi.

"Earth to Alejandro," Sofia said, waving a manicured hand in my face. "You spacing out again. Seriously, what goes on in there?"

"Just thinking about my fish," I admitted.

She blinked. "Your... what?"

"My goldfish. Slider. He's in the pond now, but I can't ever find him. Like he's gone, but not gone. Does that make sense?"

Sofia studied me like I'd started speaking in tongues. Then, unexpectedly, she softened.

"Yeah. Actually. Yeah it does."

She led me to the edge of the pond, where we sat on the stone rim, expensive padel gear forgotten.

"When Mom left," she said quietly, "I couldn't find my favorite hoodie for like, six months. Just gone. But I kept thinking maybe it'd turn up, you know? Like somehow if I found it, everything would be okay again."

I'd never heard Sofia mention her mom before. The sudden crack in her perfectly curated facade made my chest ache.

"Did it ever turn up?" I asked.

"No. But I got new hoodies. And eventually that was okay."

We watched the fish dart beneath the water's surface, orange and white flashes in the green.

"You think Slider's happy?" I asked.

Sofia snorted. "Brother, he's living in a mansion pond with filtered water and gourmet fish flakes. Slider's doing fine. The question is, are YOU?"

The question hit harder than it should have. I thought about my old team taking the field without me. About the awkward way I moved around the padel court, like I was impersonating someone who belonged there. About how I couldn't find Slider because I'd stopped looking, really looking, after the first week.

"I'm working on it," I said finally.

"Good. Because you're not terrible at padel," Sofia stood up, brushing off her skirt. "You're just overthinking it. And you need new shoes. Those are tragic."

I laughed despite myself.

"Seriously though," she called back over her shoulder, "Dad says you're pitching again next spring. Don't lose that just because you're learning a new game. Both can be true, you know?"

I sat by the pond a little longer, watching the fish. Somewhere out there, Slider was navigating unfamiliar waters, figuring out the new normal. Maybe I would too.

My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out — a video from my old teammate Marcus, tagged at our old field. They'd won their summer game, and in the background, someone had drawn Slider's name in the dirt behind home plate.

I smiled, then stood up and headed back to the court. The padel lesson was resuming, and I still had a lot to learn. But for the first time all summer, I didn't feel like I was playing the wrong game anymore.

Some things you leave behind. Some things you carry with you. And somewhere, in the murky depths of a fancy pond, a goldfish named Slider was probably doing just fine.