The Bear Who Couldn't Padel

Maya's phone had been dead for three hours. A new personal record, but also exactly why she felt like a zombie—stumbling through the summer sports complex with eyes that burned from screens, not sleep.

"You're up, Maya!" Coach yelled from the padel court.

She gripped the racquet like it was a weapon. Padel was supposed to be "fun," "social," "perfect for making friends." Maya's mom had said all these things in the group chat that still pinged with messages from people she barely knew.

Her opponent: Tyler, who played varsity everything and had a smile that made eighth-period math feel longer.

"You can do this, May-Bear," someone whispered.

Maya froze. That nickname. Only one person called her that, and she was three states away, because Maya's dad had gotten transferred and suddenly everything that made sense was scattered across I-95.

The serve came. She swung, missed entirely, and the ball smacked the glass wall.

"My bad," Tyler called, but his friends were already snickering.

Maya's face burned. She dropped the racquet and started running. Not the athletic kind—the escape kind. Past the pool, water shimmering with forbidden blue light. Through the snack bar where the scent of fake butter made her stomach twist. Into the woods behind the complex, where she'd definitely get in trouble but at least nobody would watch her fail.

Branches scratched her arms. Tears spilled—water she didn't ask for and couldn't stop.

"May-Bear?"

Maya stopped. She wasn't hallucinating. She wasn't that tired.

Sitting on a fallen log, wearing an oversized hoodie and eating grapes from a convenience store, was Riley. Her Riley. From before. The one who knew about her stuffed bear collection, who understood why May-Bear was perfect and not pathetic.

"How—"

"My aunt lives here now," Riley said. "I'm visiting. I saw you running from the padel court like the zombie apocalypse finally started."

Maya laughed, a cracked sound. "I'm just—I'm not good at this. The sports thing. The new place thing. The being a person thing."

Riley patted the log. "Sit. I can't padel either. Once, I served backwards."

They sat there as the sun dipped, eating stolen grapes, while other teens competed and flirted and performed behind them. Maya's phone stayed dead. For the first time all summer, her chest didn't feel tight.

"You know," Riley said, "sometimes you have to stop running from what feels like a zombie apocalypse and realize—you're just a person who served backwards. It's allowed."

Maya breathed. The woods smelled like rain and possibility.

"Tomorrow," she said, "I'm going back. And I'm going to play terrible padel, and I'm not going to run."

"Good," Riley said. "But if you do run, I'll be here. With grapes."

And somehow, that was enough.