Sweaty Palms

My first week at Vista Ridge Country Club, and I already felt like a fraud. Mom had scored us a summer membership through some work connection, and suddenly we were rubbing elbows with kids whose vacation homes had names. I stood by the padel courts, clutching a borrowed racket and trying to look like I belonged.

That's when I saw her—Maya Torres, leaning against the fence, laughing at something her friend said. She had this way of tilting her head back when she laughed, all confidence and ease. My palms went sweaty just watching her.

"New guy?" A voice snapped me back to reality. Tyler, varsity jacket even in June, smirked at me. "Wanna hit?"

I nodded, terrified.

Turns out, I could actually play. Dad had taught me on public courts back home, and padel was close enough to tennis that my muscle memory kicked in. Tyler's smirk faded as I returned everything he sent at the glass walls, then some.

By the third game, a crowd had gathered. Including Maya.

"Not bad," she said afterward, extending a hand. Her palm was warm, her grip firm. "I'm Maya."

"Leo," I managed, my voice cracking slightly. Smooth.

The rest of the summer became a blur of padel matches and forced socialization. But something weird started happening—kids started confiding in me. Maybe because I was the new guy, the outsider who'd beaten Tyler at his own game. I became an accidental spy into their world: who was hooking up with whom, whose parents were divorcing, who was secretly failing pre-calc.

I never asked for this information. It just accumulated like lint in my pocket.

July 4th party, pyramid of champagne flutes, someone's older brother sneaking us beers. Maya found me by the pool, her dress wet at the hem from wading in.

"You know," she said, "Tyler tells everyone you only beat him because he was hungover."

I laughed. "He say that about everyone?"

"Only the ones who matter." She stepped closer. My palms were sweating again, but this time it wasn't from nerves. "You're not like them, Leo."

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's real." She took my hand, interlacing our fingers. "That's rare here."

Her palm against mine, fireworks starting overhead, I realized something: I'd spent the whole summer trying to spy on their world from the outside, when really, I'd been building my own the whole time. And it wasn't so bad after all.