Storms and Serve Returns

Mateo sucked at padel. Like, genuinely terrible. The ball kept ricocheting off the back wall at weird angles, and he'd already taken three balls to the shin. Camp wasn't supposed to be about humiliation—that was what eighth grade was for.

"You're holding the racket like it's about to bite you," said Connor, the counselor who was basically built like a Greek god and somehow still managed to be chill about it. Most camp counselors would've just moved on to the kids who actually showed promise. Not Connor. He kept coming back to Mateo's court, adjusting his grip, offering tips like "eyes on the ball, not on your insecurities."

Okay, maybe Mateo added that last part in his head.

"Whatever," Mateo muttered, barely loud enough to hear over the thunder rumbling in the distance. "Not like it matters."

"Everything matters," Connor said, and it was so earnest that Mateo wanted to barf. "Give it one more shot. Just... don't overthink it."

The sky was doing that thing where it turned that weird greenish-yellow color that meant trouble. Most of the other campers had already headed back to the cabins when the first lightning bolt cracked across the sky—close enough that Mateo's hair stood on end. But they kept playing.

"One more rally," Connor said, tossing the ball up. His serve hit perfect, then bounced off the wall at an impossible angle. Mateo scrambled, racket swinging wildly, and somehow—miraculously—connected.

The ball sailed back over the net, landed perfectly in the corner.

"HOLY—" Connor's eyes went wide. "Did you just...?

"I think I'm done," Mateo said, suddenly feeling like he might puke. The adrenaline was hitting him now, lightning-fast and overwhelming. He'd been so focused on not embarrassing himself that he hadn't realized how much he needed to not suck at something. Anything.

"You're actually kinda bull at this," Connor said, then immediately winced. "That came out wrong. I mean—you're not terrible. You could be good if you stopped thinking everyone's watching."

Mateo laughed, short and sharp. "Everyone IS watching."

"Not really." Connor leaned against the net. "They're all too busy worrying about themselves. Lightning lesson of the day: you're not the main character in everyone else's movie."

The rain started coming down then, hard and sudden, but neither of them moved. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the fact that Connor had used "lightning" as a metaphor without making it cringe, but Mateo felt something shift.

"Tomorrow?" Connor asked.

"Yeah," Mateo said, and it didn't feel like giving up anymore. "Tomorrow."