Sweaty Palms and Padel Courts

The invite had come two days ago via DM: 'Padel saturday? u should come, it's chill.' From Jordan. The Jordan whose hair somehow looked perfect even after PE. The Jordan I'd been secretly orbiting since September like a desperate moon.

Now here I was, standing on a blue court I'd never seen before, clutching a borrowed racquet like it might bite me. My palms were already sweating — classic anxiety move, body betraying me before I even swung.

'It's like tennis but cooler,' Jordan said, effortlessly bouncing a ball. Their friend Amir rolled his eyes. 'Jordan's just saying that because they actually win at padel. Tennis? They'd get cooked.'

The banger flew back and forth. I was running more than I'd expected, shoes squeaking on the court, lungs doing that thing where they forgot how to work properly. But I was hitting the ball. Sometimes even well.

'Solid shot, newbie!' Jordan called after I managed to angle it past Amir. My stomach did something ridiculous and flippy. Stop it, I told myself. You're literally just playing padel. This is not a romance movie.

But then Jordan sprinted for a ball I thought was impossible, diving and somehow slicing it back over the net. We both stared. 'Did you just —' I started.

'Yeah,' Jordan breathed, hair properly messy now, grinning like they'd won the lottery. 'I've been trying to pull that move since seventh grade.'

'And you choose now?' I laughed. 'With me and Amir watching?'

'Maybe.' Something in their voice shifted. 'Worth it.'

We stood there for three seconds too long, and then Amir shouted something about game point and the moment shattered. But my palms weren't sweating anymore.

Walking home later, Jordan texted: 'same time next week? u can be my partner, amir sucks'

I stared at my phone like it contained the meaning of everything. Maybe running toward what you want isn't so different from running on a court — same heart pounding, same desperation, same possibility that you might actually hit it where you're aiming.

'See you Saturday,' I typed back.

My phone lit up immediately: 'bet. wear the blue shoes again. they're lucky.'

I grinned at nothing on the sidewalk. Some wins don't need a scoreboard.