The Fox at the Fence Line

My first day as a junior counselor at Pine Ridge Country Club, and I'm already screwing up padel clinic. The ball whizzes past my ear—again.

"Watch your form, Maya," calls Max, the eighteen-year-old instructor with perfect hair and actual calves. "You're gripping the racquet like it owes you money."

Someone snickers. I flush and check my iPhone under my hair, even though Jenna's probably just posting thirst traps again. God, I hate summer jobs.

"You good?" Max asks afterward, leaning against the fence.

"Fine," I say, popping a gummy vitamin from the stash in my pocket. Mom's convinced I'm deficient in something. "Just allergic to exercise."

He laughs, and something shifts in his expression. "You know, this place is exhausting. Everyone watching everyone."

That's when I see it—a fox trotting along the fence line, impossibly orange against the manicured grass. It stops, looks right at me, eyes knowing and ancient.

"Does that happen a lot?" I point.

Max follows my gaze, then shrugs. "Never seen one before. But honestly, I'm too busy trying not to fail my summer courses to notice wildlife."

My stomach drops. He's not just some rich kid; he's grinding at community college while pretending to have it together.

"What are you studying?"

"Architectural engineering." He kicks the dirt. "My parents think I'm just working here for the country club connections. If they knew I was planning to transfer to State in the fall..." He shakes his head. "They'd flip."

I blink. "You're basically a double agent."

"Spying on my own life," he agrees, and our grins match.

The fox dips under the fence and vanishes into the woods.

"Hey," Max says quietly. "You want to grab dinner after shift? I know this place that doesn't care if your shirt has the logo."

I slip my iPhone into my pocket without checking it. "Absolutely."

Mom always says vitamins are what you need when something's missing. Turns out I just needed someone who gets the performance, someone pretending just as hard as I am.