Sunset on Court Three

The orange polo shirt glowed against my skin like a radioactive traffic cone. Mom had bought it on sale, convinced it would help me "stand out" at the country club. She wasn't wrong—I stood out like a bruised thumb at this padel camp where everyone else wore navy and white, looking like they'd stepped out of a catalog.

"You're Riley, right?" A girl appeared at the fence surrounding Court Three, holding a racquet with casual ease. Her hair was in a perfect messy bun, the kind I could never pull off. "I'm Maya. Your partner for drills."

My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to be an organ. "Yeah. Hey."

I'd never played padel before—didn't even know what it was until Mom signed me up for this summer camp in hopes I'd "make friends" before sophomore year. Turned out it was like tennis but with walls, and everyone here had been playing since birth.

Maya's serve hit the glass wall behind me. "You okay? You look like you're calculating escape routes."

"Honestly? That's exactly what I'm doing."

She laughed, and it sounded real. "My first week here, I tripped over my own feet and face-planted in front of everyone. Coach still calls me 'Grace.'"

Something in my chest loosened. "No way."

"Swear on my life. My little brother's goldfish saw the whole thing through its bowl from the clubhouse window. Judged me so hard." She demonstrated the fish's judgment face, puffed lips and narrowed eyes.

I cracked up, and suddenly the orange shirt didn't feel so radioactive.

"Wanna hit instead of逃跑ing?" Maya asked, tossing me a ball. "I promise not to judge your form. Much."

The sun dipped behind the clubhouse, painting everything in gold and honey. I stepped onto the court, gripped the racquet, and for the first time all summer, I didn't want to disappear.

"Race you to twenty," I said.

"You're on, Orange." Maya grinned. "But I should warn you—Grace has a killer backhand."