Spinach and Second Serves

The problem wasn't that I'd never played **padel** before. The problem was that Lucas had, like, actually played it. Like, competitively. Meanwhile, I'd spent the summer trying to perfect my serve in the driveway using a **cable** spool as a makeshift ball machine until my mom's boyfriend finally asked me to stop because it was "affecting the WiFi."

"You coming?" Maya called from the passenger seat of her dad's Range Rover. "Lucas literally invited us. His cousin has a court at their beach house."

I stared at my reflection in the side mirror. My hair was doing that thing where it looked good inside but would immediately become a disaster the moment humidity hit it. I smoothed my **palm** over my frizz anyway, like that would somehow fix everything.

"Yeah," I said. "Just gotta grab something."

I ducked back into my kitchen and grabbed the green smoothie I'd prepped that morning because Pinterest said boys liked girls who "cared about their health" or whatever. The first sip was punishment enough—**spinach** should never be consumed in liquid form—but I forced it down anyway. Chased it with a **vitamin** D supplement because someone once told me it helps with confidence. (It doesn't.)

The beach house was exactly as expensive as you'd expect. Lucas was already there, wearing those stupidly good athletic shorts that somehow made his calves look like they'd been sculpted by gods or a very committed workout routine.

"Hey!" He waved his racket. "You ever play?"

"Once," I lied. "I'm rusty."

"I'll go easy on you."

That should have been my first clue. Lucas's version of "going easy" was still serving at approximately mach speed. But something weird happened around game three—maybe it was the second-hand confidence from Maya cheering from the sidelines, or maybe I just stopped caring about looking stupid.

I hit this backhand that somehow cleared the glass wall and landed exactly where I'd aimed. Lucas's eyebrows went up.

"Okay, rusty? Really?"

"Beginner's luck," I said, but I was grinning so hard my face hurt.

We lost anyway, but afterward Lucas sat next to me on the bench while everyone else grabbed drinks. My hands were shaking a little and I was pretty sure my hair looked like a bird's nest, but he didn't seem to notice.

"You're actually kind of good," he said. "You should come back next week."

I thought about my sad driveway setup. The cable spool. The smoothies.

"Yeah," I said. "I think I will."

Later that night, I texted Maya: "I need you to teach me how to actually play before next Saturday."

She sent back: "Already looked up YouTube tutorials. We're starting at 8 AM tomorrow."

I put down my phone and caught my reflection again. My hair was a mess. There was smoothie on my chin. I'd forgotten to reapply my vitamin D confidence supplement or whatever.

But I was going back next week.

That had to count for something.