The Padel Dropout

I stood outside the community center, gripping my dad's old baseball bat like it was some kind of emotional support animal. Inside, through the glass doors, I could see them—Jake and his crew, all wearing matching neon padel outfits and laughing like they'd invented the sport itself.

"You coming in or what?" My little sister Emma leaned against the bike rack, looking entirely too amused. "Or are you just gonna stand there looking like a lost little leaguer?"

"Shut up," I muttered, adjusting my backpack. Inside, my pet goldfish Bubbles was probably swimming in confused circles, wondering why his human had abandoned him for this.

The thing was, I didn't even *like* padel. But when Jake—the cute junior who'd actually looked at me in homeroom last week—mentioned he played every Saturday, suddenly I was watching padel tutorials at 2 AM and convincing my mom to buy me a racquet.

The community center smelled like floor wax and teen desperation. I spotted Jake immediately, his messy dark hair falling over his eyes as he served against the wall. Every muscle in my body wanted to turn around and run back to my baseball field, where everything made sense and I didn't have to pretend to be someone I wasn't.

"Hey! You made it!" Jake waved me over, and I swear my stomach did something illegal. "You ever played before?"

"Once or twice," I lied. I had exactly zero experience with anything involving a small enclosed court and a racquet that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie.

"Awesome." He tossed me a ball. "Show us what you got."

Ten minutes later, I was sweating through my shirt, missing every shot, and accidentally hitting Jake in the shoulder with a serve that went rogue. The entire group went silent.

"Sorry," I choked out, face burning. "I—uh, forgot my vitamin this morning. Low energy, haha."

Why. WHY did I just say that.

But then Jake started laughing. Not mean laughing, but like, actual laughing. He walked over and picked up the ball I'd completely failed to hit. "Dude, you're worse than my grandma. It's kind of impressive."

"That bad, huh?"

"Tragically bad." He grinned, and it was different from before—more real. "Hey, you play baseball, right? I've seen you at the park. You're actually good at that."

"Yeah."

"Wanna skip this?" Jake checked his phone. "There's a batting cage down the street. My treat."

My knees nearly gave out. "Seriously?"

"Padel's whatever." He slung his bag over his shoulder. "I only come because my dad makes me. I'd rather watch someone actually crush it at something they love."

We walked out of the community center, the neon padel court fading behind us. Later, I'd tell Bubbles all about it while sprinkling his fish flakes—he was the only one who'd understand that sometimes the worst days turn out to be the best ones.