Sweaty Palms at Sunset

My palms were literally dripping onto the court. Three days into summer at my dad's new resort job and I'd already managed to embarrass myself in front of the only person who actually mattered. Which is ironic considering the only reason I even agreed to this whole summer abroad was because Sophia swore her cousin would be here. Spoiler: he wasn't.

"Earth to Luna," Maya said, fanning herself with her racquet. "You gonna serve or just stand there looking like you're about to throw up?"

We were playing padel—which, if you're uncultured like I was last week, is basically tennis but shorter and way more chaotic. My hair was already escaping its bun in approximately seventeen directions, because humidity hates me personally.

"I'm fine," I lied. "Just... strategizing."

"Your strategy sucks," said the hottest guy I'd ever seen in person, leaning against the chain-link fence like he was posing for a TikTok he didn't even know he was filming. Dark curly hair, obnoxiously perfect smile, the whole situation. "You're gripping that racquet like it's gonna fight back."

Mateo. Of course his name was Mateo. Of course he worked here as some kind of everything. Of course he'd been watching me fail at sports for forty-five minutes.

My face was probably the color of that orange slice Maya had tossed me earlier. The sunset was doing that whole dramatic thing across the sky—purples and pinks bleeding together like someone had spilled expensive watercolor all over the horizon. Palm trees framed everything like a postcard that was mocking my entire existence.

"Show me your grip," Mateo said, and wow, that came out wrong. He laughed. "Your hand, Luna. The racquet. Get your mind out of the gutter."

Maya cackled. "She's blushing so hard right now."

"Am not," I said, while absolutely dying inside.

Mateo stepped onto the court, suddenly way too close. He reached for my hand—my palm was definitely sweaty, kill me now—and adjusted my fingers on the racquet handle. His hands were warm. His hair smelled like coconut and expensive cologne. My entire brain short-circuited.

"Relax," he said softly, just for me. "You're trying too hard."

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting everything in gold. For a second, I forgot about my terrible hair and my sweaty palms and the fact that I was borderline terrible at padel. I just looked at him and thought: okay. Maybe this summer wouldn't be completely terrible after all.

"Thanks," I managed, barely above a whisper.

He grinned. "Anytime. But you're still gonna lose this game."

Watch me, I thought, and served the ball directly into his forehead.