Sweaty Palms & Silent Screens

Maya's iPhone sat on the bench, screen staring up like a judgmental eye. The notification from last night—"u coming?"—still went unanswered because apparently her thumbs had forgotten how to function around Jake.

"You gonna stare at it all day or actually play?" Chloe called from the padel court, bouncing on her toes like she'd mainlined three Red Bulls. Her neon orange headband blazed against the overcast sky.

"I'm mentally preparing," Maya lied, though her actual mental preparation consisted of replaying every awkward interaction with Jake since sixth period when he'd asked if she wanted to hit the courts later. She'd said "sure" with all the confidence of someone who'd never picked up a padel racket in her life.

Her palms were sweating so much she could practically water plants with them. Great. First padel session, first potentially hangout-with-crush situation, and her body was betraying her like a terrible best friend.

Chloe's cat, Pickles, who'd somehow escaped their apartment and followed them to the rec center, wound around Maya's legs and let out this ungodly screech-meow that sounded like a dying bagpipe. "Pickles, NO!" she hissed, but the cat was already scratching at the fence where—yep, there was Jake, walking in like he owned the place with his own padel bag slung over one shoulder.

"Hey," he said, and Maya's brain conveniently emptied itself of all language, so she just stood there holding her racket like it was a foreign object she'd never encountered before.

"Hey," she managed, her voice cracking like she'd hit puberty again.

Jake's eyes flicked to her phone, then to her sweating palms, then to the orange headband she'd apparently forgotten to remove. "You play before?"

"Once," Maya said. "In a dream. I was really good."

Jake laughed—actually laughed, and Maya felt something in her chest do this tiny flutter thing that was either cardiac arrhythmia or feelings. "Wanna show me your dream moves?"

"My dream Maya had way better hand-eye coordination," she admitted, stepping onto the court.

"Real Maya's probably cooler," Jake said, and the way he said it—like he actually meant it—made Maya forget she was holding the racket wrong, forget her phone had blown up with unanswered texts, forget that her palms were still sweaty enough to rival a tropical rainforest.

"Only one way to find out," she said, and when she missed the first ball entirely and sent it flying into the fence where Pickles was aggressively grooming himself, Jake didn't even laugh. He just retrieved it, grinned, and said, "Round two?"

Maya's phone buzzed on the bench. She ignored it. Some things were worth being present for.