Palms Sweat, Courage Grows

My palms were legit dripping sweat onto the padel racket—gross, but also, lowkey terrifying. Summer camp's first tournament, and somehow I'd accidentally signed up for singles. Me. The girl whose athletic career peaked when I ran a 12-minute mile in gym freshman year.

"You got this, Maya!" Leo yelled from the fence. My crush. The one I'd been avoiding eye contact with for three weeks because the last time we spoke, I'd tripped over absolutely nothing while carrying lunch tray. Classic.

Opposite me stood Jordan, varsity tennis player, looking like she'd been birthed from a Nike catalog. I gripped the racket tighter.

Game point. Jordan's serve came fast, and I did something embarrassing—I started running. Not toward the ball, but away from it, feet moving before my brain caught up. The ball bounced twice. Game over.

Everyone stared. Jordan smirked. I felt my face burning hotter than the asphalt.

Then—crash.

Thirty yards past the court, a black bear emerged from the woods, sniffing a dropped Gatorade bottle. Someone screamed. Jordan froze. Me? I was already sprinting toward the main lodge, shaking so hard I could barely see straight.

But then I heard crying. Jordan's little sister, paralyzed near the fence, staring at the bear like it was death itself.

My body moved before fear could stop it. I grabbed her hand, yanking her toward the cabin, my legs pumping, heart hammering against my ribs. We burst through the door, collapsing on the floor as counselors rushed outside with air horns.

Later, by the lake, Leo found me. "That was insanely brave."

"I was scared out of my mind."

"Yeah, but you didn't freeze. Jordan did."

He looked at me different—not like the clumsy girl who ran away from a padel ball, but like someone who showed up when it mattered. My palms stopped sweating. Maybe running toward scary things wasn't so bad after all.