Serve Anxiety

Maya's hair always looked perfect. Even after ninety minutes on the padel court, those caramel waves bounced like she'd just stepped out of a salon, while mine resembled a hurricane victim.

"You're overthinking it," she said, tapping my iPhone where I'd been doomscrolling instead of stretching. "Just hit the ball, Leo. It's not that deep."

Easy for her to say. She wasn't the new kid who'd somehow ended up at the country club where everyone else had been playing since they could walk. Padel was supposed to be easier than tennis—smaller court, walls you could use—but my first three serves had sailed directly into the fence. Behind me, I could feel Kyle and his crew watching, probably filming my struggle for their group chat.

My palms were sweating so much my grip kept slipping.

"Your phone's blowing up," Maya pointed out.

I glanced at the screen. Five notifications from Mom, two from my old friends back home, one from my sister asking if I'd died.

"Ignore it," I said, shoving it in my bag. "Serve again?"

Maya smiled, and it felt like winning without actually winning. "Ready?"

This time, I didn't think about Kyle laughing behind me. Didn't think about how much my hair probably looked like a bird's nest. Just tossed the ball, focused on the sweet spot of the racket, and—

THWACK.

The ball hit the wall, spun crazily, and dropped exactly where Maya couldn't reach it.

"Finally," she said, but she was grinning. "Took you long enough."

After, we sat on the bench as the sun went down. My phone buzzed again—I'd left it in my bag. For the first time all day, I didn't care to check.

"Same time tomorrow?" Maya asked.

My heart did something genuinely concerning. "Yeah. Same time."

Later that night, facewash working overtime on my hair, I caught myself smiling at nothing. The notifications could wait. Some things were better than WiFi.