The Art of Not Watching

The padel court at the rec center was basically summer headquarters for anyone who was anyone, which meant I spent approximately 47 hours a week pretending I belonged there. My brother's golden retriever, Buster, waited faithfully at the fence, tail thumping against the chainlink like a metronome counting down my awkwardness.

I wasn't even playing. Just "observing technique," I told myself, which was code for: trying not to stare at Maya from across the court while she destroyed everyone in mixed doubles.

"You're basically a spy at this point," my best friend Leo said, sliding onto the bench beside me and handing me a gummy vitamin from his pocket. "For someone who's 'just watching,' you know her entire schedule."

"It's called strategic awareness," I muttered, but I took the vitamin anyway because pretending to be chill about it.

That's when the fox appeared.

Not metaphorically. Like, an actual fox—sleek orange coat, ears perked, standing at the edge of the court like it owned the place. Everyone stopped playing. The ball rolled forgotten into the corner. The fox just stood there, watching us with this insanely composed energy, like it knew something we didn't.

Maya walked over, wiping her forehead with her wristband, and the fox didn't even flinch. "He comes here every Tuesday," she said, crouching down. "I named him Rusty."

"You—you named it?" I managed, suddenly extremely aware that I was speaking to HER.

She looked up, grinning. "Yeah. Why? Is that weird?"

"No," I said too fast. "I mean, yes. But like, in a cool way. A normal cool way. For cool people."

Kill me.

But Maya laughed, and the fox—Rusty—trotted away like he'd accomplished whatever he came for. "You're kind of dramatic," she said. "I like that."

Buster chose that moment to shove his nose through the fence and lick her hand. She didn't pull away. She scratched his ears and I stood there holding a chewed-up gummy vitamin feeling like maybe, just maybe, the court had some space for me after all.