Sweaty Palms Sunday

My palms were literally dripping onto my jeans. Not figuratively. I checked twice.

"You're gonna crush it, Marcus," Jordan said, but he wouldn't look me in the eye. That's how I knew he was lying.

It was Sunday afternoon at the country club, and somehow I'd agreed to play padel with the popular kids. Padel — because apparently tennis wasn't exclusive enough anymore. The court was this glass-walled box where everyone could watch you fail in high definition.

My dad had been pushing baseball on me since I could walk. "Marcus's got an arm," he'd tell anyone who'd listen. I didn't. I threw like a koala on tranquilizers. But this was different — this was social warfare disguised as a casual game.

The older kids were already talking about college and internships and how weird it was that they used to think High School Musical was good cinema. I just wanted to survive the hour without vomiting.

"Hey, isn't that your dog?" Jordan pointed.

Buster. My family's ancient golden retriever had somehow wandered onto the padel court. He stood there, tail wagging, looking at us like we were the entertainment.

I burst out laughing. The tension just — poof. Gone.

"Buster, get out of here!" But he just flopped onto the cool concrete, groaning happily.

The popular kids stared. Then Chloe — actual Chloe, who sat at the fifth table at lunch — started cracking up. "Okay, I love him."

"He's terrible," I said. "Once ate my dad's baseball glove. Like, destroyed it. Dad cried."

"Wait, your dad's THE Coach Miller?"

I froze. My sweaty palms suddenly felt cold. "Uh, yeah?"

"He benched me freshman year," Chloe said, grinning. "I've been waiting for karma."

Buster chose that moment to let out the loudest, longest fart in human history.

We lost it. Like, actual tears. For the first time all year, I wasn't the nervous freshman trying to prove something. I was just a kid whose dog had excellent timing.

We played padel for two hours. I sucked. But by the end, Chloe asked for my number, and Jordan said we should hang Friday.

Walking home, I checked my palms. Still sweaty. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing anymore.