The Fox in the Orange Hat

My cat Bastet judged me from the windowsill as I practiced my padel serve against the garage door. Again.

"You're embarrassing yourself," my older sister Mia called from the driveway. She was leaning against her orange Mini—the the color was aggressively bright, like she'd stolen a traffic cone and melted it down.

"Shut up," I muttered, missing the ball entirely. It clattered into the hydrangeas.

This was all Tyler's fault. Tyler-with-the- stupidly-pretty-eyes who'd moved here three months ago and immediately joined the padel club. Tyler who'd somehow become friends with everyone except me. Tyler who I'd overheard telling his friends he wanted someone to play against who wasn't "boringly predictable."

So here I was, sixteen years old and trying to become a padel prodigy in two weeks. Because nothing says "cool and casual" like obsessively learning a racquet sport alone in your driveway.

The first time I actually played with Tyler, I was so nervous I wore my lucky baseball hat—the gross, stained one from my middle school softball phase. I thought I was being mysterious. He probably thought I was hiding dandruff.

"Nice form," he said after I whiffed three serves in a row. His mouth twitched. "You really... commit."

"That's one word for it," I muttered.

But then something weird happened. He kept showing up at the court. We started playing every Wednesday. Sometimes we'd sit on the bench afterward, sharing his weird flavored sparkling waters while his fox terrier, Rusty, chased balls around the fenced enclosure.

"So," Tyler said one day, spinning his racquet. "There's this tournament next weekend. Pairs."

My stomach did that horrible fluttery thing. "Oh?"

"Yeah, I was thinking..." He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly fascinating by his shoes. "Maybe we could partner up? If you want."

"Like, as friends?" I heard myself ask, because apparently my brain had stopped filtering.

Tyler looked up. His expression was doing something complicated that made my chest feel tight. "Or," he said quietly, "not as friends."

The orange sunset light hit the court just right. Somewhere behind us, Rusty barked at a squirrel. Bastet was probably still judging me from the window, but honestly? She could wait.

"Not as friends," I repeated, testing how the words felt. "I think I could work with that."

Tyler grinned—really grinned, like he'd been waiting to do it for weeks. "Good. But you should probably know, I'm going to destroy you at the tournament."

"In your dreams, fox boy."

"Fox boy? Really?"

"Shut up and serve already."

Some things are worth embarrassing yourself for. A cat's judgment is a small price to pay.