The Padel Court Protocol

The orange soda can was sweating in my hand, leaving condensation rings on my cargo shorts. First house party of sophomore year, and I was already regretting the outfit choice.

"You're full of bull, Mateo," Chloe said, grinning like she knew something I didn't. She always did. "You've never played padel in your life."

The crowd around the outdoor court erupted in laughter. My face burned hotter than the string lights crisscrossing above us.

"I totally have," I insisted, trying to sound casual instead of terrified. "My dad's friend has a court. I'm basically pro."

Another lie. Another layer of fake Mateo I was constructing to impress the girl whose Snapchat stories I screenshot but never replied to. The real me had spent the weekend at my abuela's house, eating papaya from her garden and watching telenovelas. But real Mateo didn't get invited to Chloe Rodriguez's party.

Her brother Luis tossed me a racquet. "Alright, Pro. Let's see what you got. Me and Chloe versus you and ..." He scanned the dwindling group. "... whoever's brave enough."

A sophomore I barely knew, deep in conversation about vinyl records, reluctantly stepped forward. Great. My teammate was actively avoiding eye contact.

The first point lasted approximately seven seconds. I swung at the ball like I was fighting off a swarm of bees, missed completely, and tripped over my own feet. The can of orange soda flew from my hand, showering everyone in sticky spray.

Chloe didn't laugh. She just looked at me, really looked at me, like she was waiting for something.

"That was the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen," she said softly. "But ... also kind of the most honest you've been all night."

My stomach did that thing where it feels like it's falling through the floorboards.

"I've never played," I admitted. "I grew up watching my abuela cook papaya empanadas while my cousins played soccer in the street. That's my sports background."

Luis whistled. "Papaya empanadas? That hits different. Can you bring some to the next party?"

"Only if I don't have to play padel again."

"Deal."

Chloe's hand brushed mine as we walked toward the snack table. "Real Mateo is way cooler than fake pro athlete Mateo," she whispered. "Just saying."

The orange soda was still sticky on my shorts. The evening had been a disaster. But for the first time all night, I wasn't pretending.