Sweaty Palms Sunday

The padel court smelled like expensive sunscreen and teenage desperation. I stood by the fence, my palms so sweaty I'd probably drop my racket if I actually tried to hit anything.

"You gonna play or just stand there looking like a lost puppy?"

Bull. That's what everyone called Eric Morrison, mostly because he charged through life like he owned everything and everyone. He was currently showing off for Jessica, serving padel balls hard enough to crack the glass walls.

Running was my specialty. Not the athletic kind – the avoid-confrontation-until-it-goes-away kind. But today was different. Today I'd actually promised Maya I'd play with her.

Maya, who was currently walking toward me with that easy smile that made my stomach do backflips.

"Hey! Ready to get destroyed?" she laughed, tossing me a racket.

I caught it despite my traitorous hands. "Pretty sure I should be saying that to you."

"Wanna bet?" She raised an eyebrow. "Loser buys boba?"

"You're on."

Bull loud-talked from the next court over, something about how real athletes played tennis, not padel. Maya ignored him, which somehow made him even louder.

"Your serve," she said.

My first attempt went straight into the net. So did the second. My palms were practically sliding off the grip now.

"You good?" Maya stepped closer, voice dropping. "You seem off."

I looked at Bull, now demonstrating his "superior" backhand for an increasingly bored Jessica. Then I looked at Maya, genuinely waiting for me to be okay.

"Yeah," I said, and actually meant it. "Just needed to warm up."

The next serve went in. We played for twenty minutes, and I didn't win – but I didn't get destroyed either. Maya's laugh when I somehow managed to put a ball past her? Worth every sweaty palm moment.

Later, as we walked to get boba, Bull made some comment about us finally leaving "his" court.

I kept walking. Some things weren't worth running from anymore.