Palm Sweat Secrets

I felt like the worst spy ever. Which was saying something, considering my total espionage experience consisted of bingeing "K.C. Undercover" and creeping on my crush's Instagram stories.

But here I was, crouched behind a rack of tennis rackets at the community center, trying to look casual while simultaneously dying inside. The popular kids were playing padel on court three, and Cameron was there.

Cameron, with his perfect hair that actually fell across his forehead in that effortless way. Meanwhile, my hair had decided to stage a rebellion against humidity and common decency today.

"You gonna stand there all day or actually play?" a voice called out.

I jumped about three feet in the air. It was Cameron. Standing right there. How long had he been watching me fail at being covert?

"Oh! Uh. I was just..." My face burned hotter than a Tiktok trend that had already peaked and crashed. "I play. Sometimes. I mean, I've played padel. Before."

He raised an eyebrow. "You want to join? We need a fourth."

My brain short-circuited. This was not in the script. The script involved me successfully spying on him from a safe distance, preferably while looking cute and mysterious, not sweating through my shirt in front of God and everybody.

"Sure," I heard myself say. Because apparently my mouth had decided to go rogue.

As I walked onto the court, my palm was sweating so much I could barely grip the racket. Great. Just great. I was going to embarrass myself in front of Cameron AND potentially lose a finger when my racket went flying mid-swing.

But then something weird happened. Cameron missed an easy shot and started laughing. "My hands are shaking," he admitted. "I always get nervous before games."

I looked down at his hand. His palm was sweating too.

"No way," I said, holding up my own hand. "Welcome to the club."

He grinned, and it was even better up close. "We're both disasters. Perfect."

We played terribly. We lost every point. But somewhere between my hair frizzing into epic proportions and both of us nearly tripping over our own feet, I realized something: being a spy was overrated. Being a disaster with someone who didn't care? That was way better.

Plus, I got his number afterward. So. Win.