Serving Up Something Real

The first day at Canyon Creek High, I spotted him across the quad—Mateo, leaning against the **orange** painted wall near the padel courts, racquet in hand like he owned the place. My stomach did that annoying flutter thing it does whenever I see someone who actually looks like they belong.

"You play?" he asked, nodding at my worn racquet bag.

"Yeah," I lied. I'd never played **padel** in my life, but my abuela had sent me with her old equipment, insisting it would help me make friends. "Used to play all the time back home."

Back home being Miami, where the courts smelled like salt and humidity, not this dry mountain air that made my throat feel like I'd swallowed sand.

Mateo's grin was equal parts charming and terrifying. "Sweet. We're doing a mixed tournament this Friday. You should partner with me."

I said yes before I could talk myself out of it, which is how I ended up at his house Wednesday afternoon, "practicing" (watching him effortlessly crush balls I could barely return) while his **cat**—this judgmental calico named Luna—sat on the fence and stared at me like she knew I was frauding my way through every conversation.

"Want some **papaya**?" Mateo asked during a water break, pulling a container from his backpack. "My mom gets them from the mercado on Sundays."

The word hit me like sunlight through clouds. Papaya. Abuela grew papayas in her backyard. I'd spent my entire childhood running through her garden, dodging mosquitoes and learning that the sweetest fruit always had the toughest skin.

"I haven't had papaya since I left Miami," I admitted, and the truth in my voice surprised us both.

Mateo's expression softened, something genuine replacing the cool-guy facade. "Yeah? We've got extra. My family's Cuban—we go hard on the tropical fruit situation."

"Mine's Puerto Rican," I found myself saying. "My abuela sends me seeds because she thinks I can grow stuff in my dorm room."

We ended up sitting on his porch for two hours, talking about everything except padel. About how weird it is to be somewhere new, how everyone expects you to be this confident version of yourself you're still figuring out how to become. How food tastes like home even when you're four states away.

Friday, we lost every single match. But somewhere between the second game and Luna finally deigning to rub against my ankles, I realized I'd made something better than a winning partnership.

"Same time next week?" Mateo asked as we walked to our bikes.

"Definitely," I said. And this time, it wasn't a lie.