Storm Over Center Court

Marcus had been crushing on Lena since seventh period English, so when she invited him to play padel at the country club, he didn't even think twice. Sure, he'd been the starting shortstop for the varsity baseball team since sophomore year, but padel was different—it was all glass walls and strategy and Lena laughing through the backboard.

"You're gripping it like a baseball bat," she said, smirking as he swung way too hard at the first serve. Marcus felt his cheeks burn. The court echoed with the distinctive thwack of rubber against glass, and somewhere beyond the ceiling, thunder rumbled like it was judging his form.

"I'll get the hang of it," he muttered, missing another shot by three feet of air.

They played through three games—Marcus mostly whiffing, Lena mostly annihilating him with these sneaky little drop shots that should've been physically impossible. Outside, the sky had turned that bruised purple color, the kind that meant trouble in about ten minutes.

"One more," Lena said, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Then we bail before the weather turns."

The first serve of game four hung in the air like a suspended breath when lightning struck somewhere close enough that the actual glass wall vibrated. The court's lights flickered, surged, died. Darkness swallowed them, sudden and complete.

Marcus's heart was doing something weird, knocking against his ribs like it was trying to escape. Not from the storm—from Lena's shoulder pressed against his in the blackness, from the way she smelled like coconut shampoo and expensive lotion.

"You know," she said, her voice low and oddly steady, "you're terrible at padel."

"Yeah, I know."

"But it's kind of..." She paused, and he could feel her shrug in the darkness. "I don't know. Endearing? That you'd embarrass yourself like this just to hang out with me."

Marcus opened his mouth, closed it. Outside, another lightning flash illuminated everything in stark, sudden silver—Lena's crooked smile, the scuff marks on his cleats, the whole ridiculous court where he'd made a complete fool of himself for an hour.

"Yeah," he said, finally. "Worth it."

Later, soaked from the sprint to her car, Lena suggested he just stick to baseball. Marcus agreed, but he was already thinking about how much worse he could possibly be at tennis.