Sweaty Palms & Second Serves

Maya's **palm**s were sweating so bad she could barely grip her **padel** racket. Across the net, Jake — okay, Jacob, nobody actually called him Jake except her in her head — was stretching, his baseball cap backwards like he owned the place. The same **baseball** cap he'd worn every day since seventh grade.

"You gonna serve or what?" he called, grinning that stupid grin that made her stomach do gymnastics.

"Yeah, just... stretching." Cool, Maya. So cool.

Her phone buzzed in her bag. Probably the group chat going feral about the party on Saturday. The one everyone was going to except her, apparently. Not that she cared. Well, she cared enough to stare at her phone for twenty minutes last night watching Instagram stories of people prepping.

The sky darkened. One moment it was sunny Florida afternoon, the next — BAM — **lightning** cracked across the sky like something out of a movie.

"Everyone inside NOW!" Coach Miller's voice cut through the complex.

They grabbed their gear and made a run for it. Halfway there, the sky opened up. By the time they ducked under the covered area, they were soaked. Maya's hair was doing something tragic. Jake's hat was ruined.

"Great," she muttered, squeezing water from her ponytail. "I look like a drowned rat."

"You look fine," Jake said. Then his face went kinda red. "I mean — like, actually fine. Not just... whatever."

Her heart did this weird flutter thing.

Her mom texted: Dinner's ready. Made that **spinach** lasagna you love.

"I gotta go," she said, weirdly disappointed.

"Hey," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "My friends are having people over Saturday. You should... I mean, if you wanted."

The butterflies went nuclear.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, trying to play it casual. Failing miserably. "I could get your number? For... directions. Or whatever."

Maya smiled as she typed her number into his phone. Her palms weren't sweating anymore. Sometimes the universe threw you **lightning**, but sometimes — just sometimes — you didn't get struck. You got asked to a party instead.