Paper Bull and Water Wings

Mateo's arms burned as he swung at the padel ball, missing completely. The neon yellow sphere smacked into the glass wall behind him while Chloe, Taylor, and the rest of the "in crowd" tried not to laugh. He'd been crushing it at padel all summer—well, crushing it at pretending to know what he was doing. His cousin had taught him the basics last week, but that was about it.

"You good, bro?" Taylor asked, flipping his sweatband.

"Yeah, just warming up," Mateo said, though sweat already plastered his shirt to his back.

This was the problem with having a fake friend group. Well, fake friend period. Singular. Chloe was nice enough, but the rest of Taylor's squad? Mateo was basically a diversity hire for their padel foursome. He only got invited because his abuelo owned the club's maintenance contract, which meant unlimited court time. They didn't know about the cowboy boots in his locker or the bulls back at his family's ranch—how could he explain that he'd rather be riding than swinging some overpriced racquet?

"Pool time!" someone shouted after the game. "Finals week celebration."

Mateo's stomach dropped. Swimming. The one thing he couldn't fake.

The ranch had cattle ponds, not Olympic pools. The closest he'd come to actual swimming was falling off his first bull when he was twelve—Old Red had bucked him straight into the watering trough. He'd thrashed, gasped, and swallowed more mud than water.

He'd nearly drowned.

"You coming?" Chloe asked, already walking toward the pool house.

"Nah, I gotta—"

"Come on, don't be boring," Taylor cut in. "We're doing cannonball contests off the high dive."

Something snapped in Mateo's chest. All summer he'd been swimming through lies, barely keeping his head above water, pretending he belonged in their world while hiding his own. And for what? To impress people who made fun of his accent when he slipped and said "y'all"?

He grabbed his bag from the bench. His boot caught on something—Chloe's phone, showing a text thread. About him.

"Mateo's chill but he tries WAY too hard"

"lol remember when he wore boots to the club"

"should we tell him he's not actually in the friend group"

The words hit harder than any bull ever had. All summer, swimming upstream against currents he couldn't see, and he'd been paddling toward a waterfall the whole time.

"Actually," Mateo said, his voice suddenly steady, "I'm good. I've got bulls to feed."

Taylor's face went blank. "Wait, what?"

"Bulls. Real ones. My family raises them." Mateo pulled his boots from his bag and slid them on. "You know what happens when you try to ride something that doesn't want you on its back? You get thrown. Hard."

He walked out, tennis shoes squeaking on the concrete. Behind him, someone made a joke about cowboys, but Mateo didn't turn around.

His phone buzzed as he reached his truck. Chloe: "That was actually kind of badass."

He didn't reply. Some things—like swimming through someone else's current—weren't worth the effort. Better to ride your own bull, even if it meant riding alone.