Service Court

Maya's palms were sweating — again. She wiped them on her tennis skirt, subtly, hoping nobody at the club noticed. The Palm Beach Country Club felt like another planet, with its pristine white padel courts and kids who'd been taking private lessons since kindergarten.

"You coming?" Jake called from court three. He had that effortless cool thing down, his iphone tucked casually in his shorts pocket like it wasn't a three-year-old model she'd saved six months of babysitting money for.

"Be right there!" Maya called back, grabbing her padel racket from her bag. Her fingers brushed against her charging cable, still tangled from last night when she'd stayed up way too late scrolling through Instagram, comparing her behind-the-scenes life to everyone else's highlight reel.

She and Jake had been partnered up for the summer tournament, and every time they practiced, her brain short-circuited. He was funny, genuinely funny — not try-hard funny like some of the guys at school who mimicked TikTok trends they didn't understand. And he didn't make her feel like the staff's daughter, the scholarship kid who'd grown up scrubbing pool decks while his family owned half the real estate in town.

"You're overthinking it," Jake said as she missed another serve. "Again."

"I'm not —"

"You are. Your forehead gets this little wrinkle, like you're solving calculus in your head." He demonstrated, scrunching up his face, and Maya laughed despite herself.

Her phone buzzed on the bench. A notification from Brianna: rumors are spreading abt u & jake lol 🤭

Maya's stomach did that thing it did whenever she felt watched, judged. The thing that made her want to disappear into the palm trees lining the property edge.

"You okay?" Jake's voice dropped, suddenly serious.

"Yeah, just... people talking. You know how it is."

"Honestly?" He propped his racket against the net. "I don't really care what people say. Like, at all."

The confession hung there, heavier than the humidity.

"That's easy for you to say," she muttered before she could stop herself. "You're not the scholarship kid. You're not... different."

Jake was quiet for a long moment. Then he grabbed his phone and handed it to her, unlocked.

"Read my Notes app," he said.

Maya hesitated, then scrolled. Lists of ideas, half-written songs, overthinking spirals that looked way too familiar. And a note from last month: *Dad says I need to focus on "useful" things. Says music's a hobby. Says real life is numbers and not feelings.*

"You're not the only one who feels different, Maya," Jake said softly. "You're just the only one brave enough to admit it."

Her phone buzzed again. 1% battery. The charging cable sat useless on the bench, yards away.

"Game point," Jake said, picking up his racket. "But I'm thinking we shake things up. You serve from the baseline. I'll cover net. We confuse them, we win."

"Confuse who?"

"Everyone. Including ourselves." He grinned. "What's the worst that happens?"

The ball sailed over the net, perfect. Her palms didn't sweat this time.

Maybe that's what growing up felt like — not getting it right, but being okay with getting it wrong together. The phone could wait. The rumors could wait. Some things were bigger than a charging cable and a notification light.

"Game on," she said, and meant it.