The Bad Hair Day Save

My hair looked like a squirrel had nested in it overnight. I'd spent forty-five minutes trying to tame the frizz, but humidity was my personal villain.

"You look fine, Maya," Chloe said, not looking up from her phone. We'd been best friends since seventh grade, but lately she'd been distant. Always texting someone she wouldn't name. Always "busy" when I wanted to hang.

"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "Your hair actually obeys the laws of physics."

We were supposed to be at the community center in twenty minutes. The padel tournament. Chloe had talked me into signing up, even though I'd never played in my life. "It'll be fun," she'd said. "A bonding experience." Now I wondered if she'd just needed a fourth player for her team.

The tournament was already chaos when we arrived. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and I felt like the uncool kid at a party where I'd gotten the wrong invitation. Chloe introduced me to her other friends—Taylor, Jordan, and some guy named Marcus who wouldn't make eye contact.

"This is Maya," Chloe said flatly. "She's playing with us."

The tournament coordinator herded us toward court three. I gripped my racquet like it might save me from drowning. My hair kept falling in my face, and I kept pushing it back, feeling gross and sweaty and completely out of place.

Then it happened. Marcus's phone slid across the bench, the charging cable still attached. I bent to grab it before it hit the ground, and somehow managed to trip over my own feet. The cable snagged on my shoe, and suddenly I was flailing, racquet flying, dignity absolutely nowhere to be found.

Marcus caught me. Like, literally caught me by the arms before I face-planted.

"Whoa," he said, actually looking at me for the first time all day. "Nice save."

"That was literally the opposite of a save," I said, my face burning hotter than the summer air.

"No, I mean—you saved my phone." He grinned, and something about the way his eyes crinkled made my stomach do this weird little flip. "Most people would've just let it smash."

Chloe rolled her eyes. "Can we just play?"

But something shifted. Marcus started talking to me between games—asking about my classes, making me laugh when I messed up a serve. Even Chloe seemed less annoyed, maybe because she was too busy crushing everyone on the court.

By the time we won (okay, we didn't win, but we didn't come in last), my hair was a disaster and I'd probably earned a permanent bruise on my ego. But as Marcus asked for my number—"to coordinate next week's practice," he said, totally blushing—I caught Chloe's eye.

She gave me this tiny smile. "See? Told you it would be fun."

"You were right," I admitted, touching the frizz that I'd stopped caring about hours ago. "Hey, Chlo?"

"Yeah?"

"You're still my favorite person to be bad at sports with."

She laughed, really laughed, and something in my chest loosened. "Same, Maya. Same."