The Goldfish at the Padel Court

Mateo's sneakers squeaked against the pristine court as he gripped the padel racquet, his palms sweating through his borrowed shorts. This was supposed to be summer camp, not a country club where everyone else's parents owned second homes in Cabo.

"You gonna serve or what, scholarship kid?" Bull McKenzie towered over him, all six feet of varsity lacrosse player. Bull wasn't actually mean—he'd just earned the nickname freshman year when he'd literally headbutted a vending machine that ate his dollar. Still, being on his bad side was like sleeping in a bed of

papaya prickles: uncomfortable and definitely not worth it.

The match was tied, deuce point. Mateo's partner was his cousin's goldfish in a plastic bag—well, technically he was supposed to be partnered with Bull's cousin Chloe, but she'd ditched them fifteen minutes ago to go live-post her açai bowl. So now it was just Mateo, alone on his side of the court, while

the popular kids' laughter carried over from the pool area.

His first serve hit the net. Someone snickered.

Mateo closed his eyes, hearing his abuela's voice: *No dejes que te vean sudar.* Don't let them see you sweat. But he was sweating, literally and metaphorically. He'd spent the whole week pretending padel was his thing, that he played back home instead of hitting a beat-up tennis ball against a

garage wall like a normal person.

"One more," Bull called, actually looking impressed. "You've got some spin on that thing."

Mateo served again. This time it sailed perfect, dropping just inside the line. Bull returned it hard, but Mateo was already moving, his body remembering those garage-wall sessions. He smashed it back, watching the ball arc beautifully past Bull's outstretched racquet.

Game point. The scholarship kid had won.

"Not bad," Bull said, nodding with genuine respect. "You wanna play again tomorrow?"

Mateo looked at the plastic bag by the bench, where Chloe's goldfish floated obliviously, its tiny mouth opening and closing like it had something profound to say about belonging, about fitting into spaces that weren't built for you.

"Yeah," Mateo found himself saying. "But I'm bringing my own racquet."

He walked off the court feeling lighter than he had all week, finally understanding that some games weren't about beating the bull at their own sport—they were about finding the courage to play your own.