Sweaty Palms and Secret Stares

Maya dragged herself onto the padel court like a zombie — three hours of sleep and two AP exams would do that to you. Her teammates were already warming up, laughing about something on their phones, while Maya's brain felt like it had been replaced with cotton balls.

"You good, Maya?" called Jordan from across the court. His hair was messy from practice, and he had that annoyingly effortless energy that made Maya want to simultaneously roll her eyes and also maybe stare at him a little too long.

"Yeah, just tired," she lied, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt. They were always sweaty around Jordan lately, which was exactly as gross and embarrassing as it sounded.

Game started. Maya's body moved on autopilot, muscle memory from months of practice, while her brain replayed the conversation she'd overheard yesterday: Jordan telling his friends he'd been "spying" on someone's Instagram stories, waiting for them to post. She'd spent twenty-four hours spiraling, wondering who it was, feeling pathetic for caring so much.

Between points, Jordan caught her eye. "Hey, your backhand was sick just now."

Maya's heart did that stupid fluttery thing. "Thanks."

"Yeah, I've been watching your form all week," he said casually, then added, "You know, during practice and stuff."

Wait.

Maya nearly missed the next serve. Was Jordan admitting he'd been watching HER? Like, actually watching her, not just some random person? The realization hit her like a wave — maybe the Instagram spy wasn't some other girl. Maybe she'd been overthinking everything.

Later, when everyone else had left and it was just the two of them packing up, Jordan leaned against the fence. "Hey, so, I was gonna get boba after this. You wanna come?"

Maya's palms were sweating AGAIN. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool," Jordan grinned, and Maya could've sworn his ears turned pink. "I've been trying to ask you all week."

She walked away feeling less like a zombie and more like someone who might actually have a story worth living.