Sweaty Palms Game Point

The **water** in Marcus's backyard **pool** sparkled like someone had dumped actual diamonds into it—or maybe that was just my dehydration talking. It was ninety-four degrees, the kind of Florida heat that makes you question every life choice leading up to standing outside in cargo shorts.

"You gonna serve or what?" Chloe called from the other side of the **padel** court, grinning like she knew exactly how much she was in my head. Which she definitely did.

My palms were literally sweating. I wiped them on my shorts, which was useless because my heart was hammering so hard I was pretty sure everyone could hear it. Game point. Winner gets bragging rights until college, probably.

The yellow ball came at me, and I swung like my life depended on it. And missed. Completely. The racket sailed out of my hand, splashing into the deep end.

"That definitely counts as a point against you," Marcus said, not even looking up from his phone.

"My **cable** is dead anyway," I muttered, staring at my floating racket like it was a tragic victim. "Can someone get that?"

But then Chloe was laughing, and Marcus finally looked up, and everyone was cracking up, and somehow my spectacular failure became the highlight of the party. Later, when we were all dangling our feet in the pool, Chloe sat beside me.

"Nice form, though," she said, bumping my shoulder with hers.

My palms were sweating again. But for a totally different reason.

"Next time," I said. "Next time I'll get you."

"I'll believe it when I see it, Tennis Pro."

The sun set behind the **palm** trees, and I realized I didn't care about losing the game. Some things are worth missing a shot for.