Sweaty Palms at The Courts

Maya's palms were literally dripping. Not like, cute glisten—full-on waterfall situation. She wiped them on her denim shorts (third time in two minutes, not that anyone was counting) and stared at the padel court like it might actually eat her alive.

"You got this, May-bes," Chloe said, bumping her shoulder. "It's literally tennis with walls. How bad can it be?"

Famous last words.

The padel lesson had been her mom's idea—something about "expanding her social circle" at the country club where all the kids from her new school basically lived. Which was exactly the problem. Her social circle currently consisted of her dog and a very specific playlist.

The instructor, some dude named Carlos who was definitely too attractive to be holding a racquet at 9 AM, demonstrated a serve that looked effortless. Maya's attempt? The ball hit her own racket frame and ricocheted into some poor woman's chardonnay by the pool.

"My bad," Maya squeaked, face burning hotter than the asphalt.

But then—her phone buzzed. A notification from THAT boy. The one she'd been crushing on since April, whose jokes actually landed, who somehow made geometry feel bearable.

"u playin padel 2day?"

Her palms stopped sweating. The court didn't look so terrifying anymore.

By the water cooler an hour later, freshman year didn't feel so hopeless. He was there. She was there. And somehow, through a mess of missed serves and laughter and shared earbuds, Maya's summer had officially begun.

Her palms were still sweaty. But maybe, just maybe, that wasn't the worst thing in the world.