The Fox's Backhand

The Padel club smelled like expensive perfume and nervous sweat — classic Friday night energy. My family had dragged me here again, pretending this would help me 'socialize more' instead of rotting in my room with Duolingo and anxiety.

"Elena, you're playing against them," my mom announced, pointing at three seniors who looked like they walked straight out of a TikTok fashion dump. Great. Nothing says 'please accept me' like flailing around with a racquet while wearing last season's everything.

At least I had my cousin Leo. Leo, who once ate an entire bag of raw spinach on a dare because someone said it would 'maximize his gains.' Leo, who I definitely was NOTdeveloping a tiny crush on because that would be embarrassing and weird and he called me 'little fox' whenever I got competitive about anything.

"You got this, fox," Leo whispered, bumping my shoulder with his. His hair was doing that fluffy thing and I hated how much I noticed it.

The game started. I wasn't terrible — I'd been taking lessons since September — but the senior squad was playing like they were training for the Olympics or something. Every time I missed a shot, I could feel my face getting hotter. Classic Elena behavior: making everything deeply personal and embarrassing.

Then it happened. The ball came flying at me, I positioned myself perfectly, swung with absolute conviction — and completely whiffed. My racquet hit nothing but air. I stumbled, recovered, and pretended that was exactly what I meant to do.

Leo burst out laughing. Not mean laughing — the kind where his eyes crinkled up and he had to lean on his knees. Something in my chest did that annoying flutter thing.

"That was legendary," he said, still laughing. "Like, goldfish energy. No memory, just vibes."

"Shut up," I muttered, but I was smiling. "I'm literally going to crush you next round."

"Whatever helps you sleep, little fox."

My mom came over with a smoothie afterward — "green juice for my little athlete" — and it was DISGUSTING. Like someone liquefied a lawn. But watching the sunset through the skylight, listening to Leo complain about his 'gains' while actual smoothie dribbled down his chin, I realized something kind of scary but mostly fine:

Maybe I didn't need to be perfectly socially calibrated. Maybe I could just be Elena — occasionally athletic goldfish-energy fox girl — and that was enough. Maybe.

"You want to play again next week?" Leo asked, and the flutter in my chest was definitely just from the smoothie. Probably.

"Absolutely," I said. "But I'm picking the teams."