Riddles at the Net

Maya's frizz was having a moment. A catastrophic moment. She'd spent forty-five minutes with the straightener, but the humidity had other plans. Her hair poofed around her face like a caffeinated halo, and she wanted to die.

"You look fine," her mom said, tossing her a vitamin D gummy. "These are supposed to help with stress. Or something."

"Mom, I'm playing padel with THE popular crowd. I can't look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket."

Padel was the new thing at Northwood High. Everyone who was anyone was playing. And somehow, through some administrative error or cosmic joke, Maya had been invited to the after-school session with the elite squad.

The real reason she'd said yes: Lucas.

For three months, Maya had been basically a professional spy. She knew his coffee order (oat milk latta, half-sweet). She knew he posted cryptic song lyrics on his Instagram stories at exactly 8:47 PM on Tuesdays. She knew he was devastatingly cute when he laughed, which was frustratingly rare.

Now she was about to play a sport she'd literally googled that morning against him and his friends.

The padel courts smelled like expensive rubber and desperation. Lucas was already there, stretching near the net. His hair was perfect, naturally messy in the way that only attractive boys' hair could be.

"You coming?" he called.

Maya's stomach performed gymnastics. She adjusted her grip on the racquet.

"Yeah. Just warming up my sphinx pose."

What.

Why had she said that. Her brain was malfunctioning. This was it. This was how she died.

Lucas laughed. Not a fake laugh. A real one.

"The sphinx, huh? What riddles are you gonna hit me with?"

They played. Maya missed half her serves. Her hair frizzed harder. But somewhere around game three, something clicked. She stopped overthinking. Started hitting the ball back instinctively, laughing when she missed, grinning when she connected.

Afterward, Lucas walked her to the bike rack.

"You're actually good," he said. "Weird serving style, but effective."

"That's my brand," Maya said. "Weird but effective."

"Yeah." He looked at her, really looked at her. "I like it."

Her hair was still a disaster. She was sweating through her shirt. She'd forgotten to take her vitamin.

But for the first time in three months of social media espionage and agonizing over every interaction, Maya didn't feel like she was watching from the outside.

She was in the game.