Sweaty Palms & Second Serve

Maya's palms were practically dripping as she stood on the padel court, clutching her borrowed racquet like it might save her from complete social suicide. This was supposed to be easy — just a casual hang with the popular crew before freshman year started. But somehow, she'd signed up for the one sport she knew absolutely nothing about.

"You got this, Maya!" Jake called from the sidelines, his easy grin making her stomach do backflips. Her iPhone buzzed in her pocket — probably her mom asking how it was going, but she couldn't check. Not now. Not when she was about to serve for the first time and everyone was watching.

The ball sailed past her racket, bouncing pitifully against the fence. Someone snickered. Maya's face burned hotter than the asphalt.

"Wait, you've never played?" Chloe, the queen bee of the incoming freshman class, raised perfectly plucked eyebrows. "I thought you said you played baseball?"

"Softball," Maya corrected weakly. "It's... different?"

"Yeah, no joke." Chloe exchanged a look with her friends. The kind that made Maya want to start running and never stop.

But then Jake stepped onto the court. "Here, I'll show you. It's like tennis but with walls and less depressing."

For the next hour, Jake patiently taught her the basics. Maya missed more serves than she hit, but every time she messed up, Jake made a joke that had everyone laughing with her instead of at her. By the time they headed to Smoothie King, her palm didn't feel so sweaty when Jake high-fived her.

"You're terrible," Chloe said, but she was smiling. "But you're kinda hilarious. Next time, wear actual athletic shoes, not Vans."

Maya checked her phone finally — thirty texts from her best friend asking how it went. She typed back: survived. might actually be okay.

Her palms were still sweaty. But maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a bad thing anymore.