Sweaty Palms & Zombie Mode

My palms were literally sweating through my shorts as I stood by the resort pool, clutching my phone like a lifeline. This wasn't even my scene — all these country club types with their pastel polos and dad energy, acting like they owned the place. Meanwhile, I was in full zombie mode from pulling an all-nighter scrolling through Mia's Instagram, wondering why she hadn't replied to my text in three days.

"You gonna stand there all day looking like a zombie?" This kid Leo — who I'd met yesterday because our parents were friends or something — tossed me a padel racquet. "Come play. It's literally just tennis but easier."

I caught it, mostly by reflex. "I don't play padel, Leo. I play FIFA. That's it."

"It's vibey, trust me." He pointed at the court where some girls were playing, including this one girl with curly hair who kept laughing every time she missed a shot. "That's Sasha. She thinks she's terrible at everything but she's actually not. It's kinda her whole thing."

My phone buzzed. My heart did that stupid lurch thing. Maybe it was Mia finally —

Nope. Just my dog sending me a selfie from my mom's phone. They were at the beach without me, living their best life while I was stuck at this resort weekend from hell.

"You good, bro?" Leo asked, because apparently my face was doing that thing where it looks like I'm about to cry.

"Yeah. Just —" I shoved my phone in my pocket. "Whatever. Let's play."

We walked toward the padel court, and I caught Sasha's eye. She waved, all casual, like she hadn't noticed me standing there being awkward for twenty minutes. My palms were sweating so hard I was practically sliding off the racquet grip.

"Hey," she said, smiling. "You want to join? We need four."

"I literally don't know what I'm doing," I said, which was the most honest thing I'd said all weekend.

"Perfect." She tossed me the ball. "Neither do we. That's the whole point."

And somehow that made it okay. The stupid pastel polo vibes, the fancy resort, the fact that Mia still hadn't texted back — it all mattered a little less when Sasha handed me her backup racquet and said, "Just hit the thing. Don't overthink it."

Which, honestly, might be the best advice anyone had given me all year.