Palm Reading Court Side

My palms were sweating. Literally sweating. I wiped them on my shorts, but it didn't help because my shorts were already damp from the Florida heat.

"Chill, Maya," Lila said, leaning against the fence outside the padel court.

We'd been best friends since seventh grade, but ever since we made the varsity padel team together this year, things had been weird.

I shrugged, picking at my chipped nail polish. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to serve match point."

Lila pulled out her phone and held it up to me, the sun hitting my face. "Saw this on TikTok. This girl was palm reading before her soccer games and she literally couldn't miss."

I rolled my eyes but held out my hand. Her fingers traced the lines on my palm, serious as a doctor. "Okay, so this line is your life line, and it's long, so you'll live forever. Good news. This one's your heart line." She paused. "It's, like, all over the place. Means you're chaotic. We knew that."

I laughed, but it came out strained. "Thanks for the pep talk."

She pointed at my head line. "This is the thing. It's broken. Means you're gonna overthink everything." She looked up at me. "Sound familiar?"

Maybe she had a point. I'd been overthinking our friendship all year, wondering if we were still close or if we were just teammates who happened to know each other's deepest secrets.

The padel court behind us was empty except for Rusty, the coach's golden retriever, who was snoozing in the shade near the net. His tail thumped when he noticed us looking.

"What if I blow it?" I asked quietly. "What if this whole padel thing was a mistake?"

Lila dropped the palm reading act. "Then we go get boba after and laugh about it when we're eighty." She elbowed me. "Besides, you're not blowing it. I've seen you practice. You've got this."

Rusty chose that moment to trot over and shove his wet nose against my leg, leaving a slobber mark on my white shorts. Perfect.

I stood there, with dog drool on my clothes and my best friend grinning like she knew something I didn't, and suddenly I wasn't nervous anymore. Or maybe I was, but it didn't matter.

"Alright," I said, grabbing my racquet from my bag. "Let's do this."

The match was brutal. I double-faulted three times. My returns were sloppy. But Lila was at the net, covering everything I couldn't get to, and when I finally managed to place a winner in the corner, we high-fived so hard my palm stung.

We lost the match. But walking back to the parking lot afterward, with Rusty trailing after us like a fuzzy little shadow, Lila grabbed my hand to inspect it again.

"Your palm lines changed," she said dramatically. "I knew it. Today was life-altering."

I laughed, and this time it was real. "I lost, Lil."

"You played your heart out," she corrected. "And your heart line is still chaotic. But look at this—" she pointed to a fresh callus on my palm from gripping the racquet "—this is new. Means you're actually trying."

Rusty barked, like he agreed. Maybe he did. I'd take it.