The Cable Connection

Maya's first mistake was thinking she could learn padel in a weekend.

"Your form's tragic," Jake said, barely looking up from his phone. He was the kind of guy who made everything look effortless—sporty, popular, probably had perfect hair even when sweaty. Maya, meanwhile, had already tripped over her own racket twice.

"I'm improving," she lied.

"You're not." He smirked. "But it's kinda cute watching you try."

Her face burned. Cute. The word landed like a backhanded compliment wrapped in a smile.

The real reason she'd joined the padel club had nothing to do with sports and everything to do with Jake's Instagram stories. She'd become a professional spy of his social media—knowing his coffee order, his dog's name, his weird obsession with 2000s emo bands. It was borderline creepy, even she admitted it. But in her defense, Jake had posted about needing a partner for the tournament, and she'd impulsively DM'd him before her brain could say "absolutely not."

Now here she was, sweating through her third practice, wondering if he'd even noticed her existence before she'd slid into his DMs.

"I forgot my charger," Jake groaned as his phone hit 3%. "You got a cable?"

Maya fished hers out of her bag. "Yeah, but it's finicky. You have to wiggle it—"

He grabbed it without listening. Five minutes later, while Maya was busy humiliating herself against the wall, Jake's phone chimed. Repeatedly. Notifications piling up.

"Yo, your phone's going crazy," someone called.

Jake jogged over, already annoyed. "Probably my mom again."

But when he unlocked it, his face dropped. The cable had connected to the club's speaker system instead of charging, and apparently, he'd left his Spotify synced to the last paired device. Which was now blasting his most played playlist through the entire court.

Everyone stopped playing.

"Is this... My Chemical Romance?" Jake's best friend asked, trying not to laugh.

Jake's playlist was not cool. It was aggressively, unapologetically emotional. Mid-2000s breakup anthems. Songs you only listened to alone in your room with the door locked.

Maya saw it happen—the mask slip. The cool guy thing cracking down the middle.

"I listen to this ironically," he tried, but nobody bought it.

The weirdest part? Nobody laughed meanly. Someone started humming along. Then another person. Within a minute, half the club was singing "Welcome to the Black Parade" while Jake stood there, red-faced but somehow... relieved.

"Your playlist's actually legit," Maya said later, sitting beside him on the bench.

"Don't tell anyone I admitted this," he said, "but I've been hiding my music taste since seventh grade. It's exhausting."

"I spy on your Instagram," Maya blurted out. "Like, in a creepy way. I already knew about the emo thing."

Jake stared at her for a second. Then he grinned—genuine, not performative. "So you're the one who liked that story about my cat's birthday party."

"That was an accident."

"Sure it was." He bumped her shoulder. "Hey, you still suck at padel."

"I know."

"Wanna practice again tomorrow? I promise to actually teach you this time."

"Only if we can listen to your playlist."

"Deal."

Maya walked home with her racket over her shoulder, still terrible at padel, but for the first time in forever, not worried about it at all. Being yourself was way easier than being cool. Who knew?