Smashed in the Palm

The sun beat down on my neck as I stood frozen at the baseline, my padel racket suddenly feeling like a foreign object. Across the net, Chase and Skylar — the undisputed royalty of sophomore year — were already chatting like they'd been best friends since birth. I was just the filler player, the extra body needed to complete the foursome.

My palms were sweating so bad the grip felt slippery. Great. First time hanging with the popular crowd and I was going to humiliate myself by launching my racket into someone's face.

"You ready, Maya?" Chase called out, grinning like this was just another Tuesday. Meanwhile, my heart was doing gymnastics.

"Yeah, totally," I lied. Because that's what you do when you're desperately trying to prove you belong somewhere you definitely don't.

The ball came flying at me and I swung — too early, too hard, completely missing. The ball thunked against the fence behind me. The bull that had been camped out in my stomach since Chase invited me to play started full-on charging.

"My bad," I mumbled, face burning. "Think my grip's all wrong."

"Here, try this." Skylar tossed me a different racket. "This one's got better tape. Also, cute cat."

I followed her gaze to my phone case — Mr. Pickles, my obese orange tabby who starred in half my posts.

"Thanks," I said, surprised she'd even noticed. "He's literally my entire personality."

"Same," she said, pulling out her own phone to show me her Persian. "Look at this diva."

We spent the next ten minutes gushing over our pets while Chase and some other guy argued about cable management for their gaming setups. Something about HDMI ports and HDMI cables and why wired connections were superior to WiFi.

"It's about reliability, bro," Chase was saying. "Wireless is cool until it isn't."

"Okay, Mr. Tech Support," I shot back, suddenly feeling brave. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Chase laughed, actually laughed, and something shifted. The sweaty palms, the overthinking, the desperate need to impress — it all faded a little. Maybe I didn't have to be perfect. Maybe I could just be the girl with the cat obsession who occasionally missed a shot.

"Rematch?" I asked, swinging the borrowed racket.

"You're on," Chase said. "But warning: I never go easy."

"Wouldn't want you to," I replied, and for the first time all afternoon, I meant it.