The Bear Who Couldn't Padel

My brother was the Bear — six-foot-three, varsity everything, brooding aura that made teachers rearrange seating charts. I was just... Lucas. The vitamin-scented kid who carried a Trader Joe's bag and liked indie bands.

"You should try out for padel," Mom said at breakfast, pushing another orange gel capsule toward me. "It's like tennis but cooler. All the seniors are playing."

I stared at the vitamin. "Is this a D3 situation again, or are we experimenting with random supplements?"

"It's for focus," she said, which meant she'd read something on Facebook.

So there I was, fourth period PE, standing on a padel court while The Bear's former best friend Jake explained scoring. I held the racquet like a newborn animal.

"Bro," said Zara, actual varsity player and human sunshine, "you grip it like you're afraid it'll bite."

"I'm not bear-handed," I mumbled, then immediately wished for death. The joke was weak. My brother would've made it work. My brother would've crushed that serve.

But something happened when Zara corrected my grip. Her fingers brushed mine. She smelled like coconut and confidence. Suddenly I was swinging, connect-crack, watching the ball sail past Jake's ear.

"DAMN," Jake said. The Bear's best friend. Impressed. By me.

"You're actually kinda wicked at this," Zara said, grinning. And I felt something — not the vitamin-induced energy Mom promised, but real. Like maybe I didn't need to be Lucas, the Bear's little brother. Maybe I could be Lucas, the dude who accidentally slayed at padel.

After school, Zara texted: *wanna play tomorrow?*

I stared at my phone, then at the vitamin bottle on my counter. Took two anyway. Sometimes you need all the help you can get.