Switching Courts

Jordan's baseball cleats collected dust in the corner of his room. Three months ago, he'd been the starting shortstop, living for that perfect crack of the bat and the teammates' chest bumps after a double play. Then his dad's job transferred them to Miami, and apparently nobody played fall baseball here. They played padel.

"It's basically tennis, but cooler," Sofia had told him at lunch, sliding her tray next to his. "Plus, everyone's trying out for the club team tomorrow. You should come."

Jordan had nodded, even though he had no idea what padel was. He'd spent the last six weeks in this new school feeling like a ghost, floating through hallways with his head down, iphone clutched in his pocket like a security blanket. Back in Chicago, he'd known exactly who he was—the guy with the golden arm and the messy dark hair that fell in his eyes when he pitched. Here, he was just the new kid.

The mirror showed what the bad haircut had done. The barber had "taken a little off the sides" and somehow created a disaster. Jordan's hair looked like a lawnmower had fought a weed whacker and lost. He'd been wearing a hoodie ever since, even though Miami in September was basically living inside a soup bowl.

"You coming or what?" Sofia texted. Her contact photo popped up on his screen—she was at the padel courts, neon yellow racket in hand, grinning like she knew something he didn't.

Jordan grabbed his old baseball cap and pulled it low. The courts were behind the community center, surrounded by palm trees that swayed in the humidity. Sofia waved him over, already talking strategy with some juniors Jordan recognized from his AP Bio class.

"Baseball guy, right?" asked Mateo, a senior with hair artfully messy in a way Jordan's definitely wasn't. "Think you can handle a racket instead of a bat?"

Jordan's grip tightened around the borrowed racket. "We'll see."

First serve went long. Second hit the net. The third—

The ball ricocheted off the back wall, Jordan spun, and somehow his baseball instincts kicked in. He didn't think. Just moved. His racket connected with a sound that felt surprisingly familiar, sending the ball skimming past Mateo's outstretched arm.

"Whoa," Sofia said, eyebrows raised. "Okay then."

An hour later, Jordan's shirt was soaked through, his bad haircut forgotten, his iphone still buried in his backpack. They were all laughing at something Mateo said about his terrible serve, and for the first time in months, Jordan felt the click—that moment when you're not the new kid anymore, you're just part of the team.

"Same time tomorrow?" Sofia asked as they gathered their stuff.

Jordan pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his disastrous hair. "Definitely."