Palms Sweating, Screen Glowing

Maya's palms were sweating so much she could barely grip her **iphone**, the screen slick against her skin as she refreshed Instagram for the twentieth time in five minutes. The notification still wasn't there.

"You're not even watching the game," Chloe called out from the **padel** court, whipping her racket around with practiced ease. The ball *smecked* against the glass wall, bounced once, and landed exactly where she wanted it.

"I'm watching!" Maya lied, tucking her phone into her pocket. Her heart did that stupid fluttery thing whenever she saw him—Leo, leaning against the fence near the **water** fountain, taking slow deliberate sips from his bottle like he was in a commercial or something.

This was it. Summer before freshman year, and Maya was still the same girl who couldn't talk to boys without saying something weird. Last week she'd told Leo his shoes looked "comfortably uncomfortable." He'd just stared at her.

"Your turn!" Chloe yelled, and Maya dragged herself onto the court. The sun beat down on the **palm** trees lining the country club perimeter, their fronds swaying like they were laughing at her.

Her phone buzzed. Once. Twice.

Maya's hands trembled as she pulled it from her pocket. A DM from *leothedad*: "Hey, wanna hang later?"

The world tilted. She missed the ball entirely. It bounced past her, rolled to a stop near Leo's feet.

He picked it up, walking over with that half-smile that made her stomach do full gymnastics routines. "You dropped this," he said, handing her the ball. Their fingers brushed. **Water** couldn't have been wetter than her palms right then.

"Thanks," she squeaked. "So. Later. You said."

"Yeah." Leo's grin widened. "Unless you're too busy staring at your phone."

Maya laughed, and it actually sounded normal. "Maybe. But you're the one who DM'd me."

"Touché." He backed away, still smiling. "Pick you up at seven?"

As Maya walked back to serve, she caught Chloe's eye. Her best friend made a ridiculous heart shape with her hands and mouthed, "YOU GOT THIS."

For the first time all summer, Maya's palms were dry. She tossed the ball up and served it *hard* into the glass wall, where it exploded back at her with perfect, predictable force.

Some things you could control. Some things you couldn't. And some things—like a boy who noticed you even when you were busy not noticing him back—were worth sweating over, at least for a little while.