Sweaty Palms & Padel Courts

My palms were literally dripping. Like, actually dripping onto my jeans as I sat on the bench outside the padel court. Finals week had turned me into a certified zombie – I'd survived on three hours of sleep and what felt like a thousand energy drinks.

"You coming, Maya?" Jake called from the court. He was wearing this stupidly perfect athletic outfit and smiling like he hadn't just spent seven days straight cramming for AP exams.

"Yeah, yeah, give me a sec." I shoved my iphone deeper into my bag – it had been buzzing all morning with texts from my old friend group, the ones who'd basically ghosted me after I transferred schools. Whatever. I was trying this whole "putting myself out there" thing now.

The padel racket felt weird in my hand – lighter than a tennis racket, with this perforated surface that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. I'd never played before, but apparently everyone at my new school was obsessed with it.

"Don't overthink it," Jake said, tossing me a ball. "Just hit it."

First swing? Complete fail. The ball sailed directly into the net.

"Smooth," said Lena, who I'd been trying to become friend with since like, February. But she was smiling, not laughing. "I was way worse my first time."

Something shifted. The zombie fog lifted a little. We played for hours – me missing easy shots, everyone laughing but not in a mean way. My palms stopped sweating. The sunlight hitting the court, the sound of the ball ricocheting off the walls, Jake's terrible attempt at teaching me a "killer serve" – it was all so unexpectedly normal.

By the time we collapsed on the bench afterward, my iphone had died. And I didn't even care.

"Same time next week?" Lena asked.

"Yeah," I said, and something in my chest loosened. "Yeah, definitely."