Sphinx on the Padel Court

The summer before freshman year, my mom signed me up for padel lessons because she said I needed 'socialization.' Whatever that meant when I spent six hours a day scrolling TikTok.

First day at the club, I walked onto the court holding the paddle like a weapon. Across from me stood Maya—she was already a legend in our school district, known for being unreadable, impossible to impress. The guys called her 'the Sphinx' because she'd stare right through you with those dark eyes and you'd never know what she was thinking.

"You're holding it wrong," she said, barely glancing at me.

My face burned. "Thanks."

Then this golden retriever—a regular at the club, belonged to the coach—bounded onto the court and knocked into my legs, sending me sprawling. The paddle clattered. Someone snorted.

I wanted to dissolve into the asphalt.

But then Sphinx laughed. Actually laughed. And reached down to help me up.

"Buster likes you," she said. "That's rare. He hates everyone."

We ended up sitting on the bench while Buster curled between us like a fuzzy overlord. Maya told me she was anxious too, before tournaments. That she painted her nails to stop from picking at her cuticles. That she called herself 'Sphinx' because if people thought she was mysterious and unapproachable, they wouldn't realize she was just terrified of saying the wrong thing.

"The riddle," she said, grinning, "isn't what I'm thinking. It's why anyone cares what I'm thinking."

We played padel terribly that afternoon. But we played together.

Three months later, I'm still terrible at padel. My backhand is tragic. But every Tuesday and Thursday, Sphinx and I own the worst court at the club, Buster snores at our feet, and for the first time since forever, I don't feel like I'm performing for an audience that doesn't exist.

Sometimes the real friends aren't the ones who have everything figured out. They're the ones holding the paddle wrong too, just quietly beside you.