Palm Sweat & Padel Courts

The vitamin D gummies stared back at me from my mom's kitchen counter, shaped like little bears and promising to transform me into someone capable.

"You joining the padel team or what?" Jake texted, summoning me to the club where everyone from school hung out.

Padel. The sport that had somehow taken over our sophomore year, the thing that separated the popular crowd from everyone else. I'd been holding a racquet since I was seven, but this—this was different. Walls, smaller courts, way more chances to embarrass yourself in front of Sarah, who'd been watching my failed attempts from the bleachers since tryouts started.

My palms were already sweating just thinking about it.

I swallowed three vitamin bears (what could it hurt, right?) and grabbed my bike. The Florida sun was brutal, palm trees swaying overhead like they were laughing at me before I'd even failed.

At the club, Jake was already rallying against some seniors, looking like he'd been born with a padel racquet in his hand.

"You're up," he said, tossing me a racquet. "Sarah's watching. Don't mess this up."

No pressure.

The first serve came at me fast. I swung, missed completely, and the ball hit the wall behind me, bouncing back to hit me in the shoulder. Someone laughed—I didn't want to know who.

"Dude, are you okay?" It was Sarah, walking onto the court, actual concern in her voice instead of the mockery I'd expected.

"Just...vitamin deficiency," I blurted, because my brain had stopped working. "Probably need more sun."

She stared at me for a second, then cracked up. Not mean laughing. The real kind.

"You're weird," she said, but she was smiling. "Wanna play mixed doubles? Jake's being annoying anyway."

My palms were sweating so bad I could barely grip the racquet, but somehow, that didn't matter anymore.