The Sphinx at Center Court

Maya dragged herself to the padel courts like a zombie—actually, worse than a zombie. Zombies at least had a purpose. Brains. Survival. Maya's purpose was apparently letting Chloe recruit her for the mixed doubles tournament because "we need bodies and you're vaguely athletic."

"You've been in zombie mode since finals week," Chloe said, bouncing a yellow ball off Maya's forehead. "Live a little."

Maya didn't mention that "living a little" was hard when you were the new girl who'd spent three months sitting alone at lunch, scrolling through your phone while everyone else seemed to speak a secret language of inside jokes you'd never crack.

And then there was the Sphinx.

Leona, senior captain of everything, sat on the bench near court three, knees pulled to her chest, watching practice with those unnerving golden eyes that seemed to see everything and reveal nothing. Someone had started calling her the Sphinx freshman year—impossible to read, impossible to impress, posed riddles instead of conversations. The nickname stuck because it was terrifyingly accurate.

Chloe elbowed Maya. "She's watching you."

"She's watching everyone. She's a weirdo."

"She's been single-handedly carrying the debate team to regionals since she was a sophomore. Ask her about partner tryouts."

Maya's stomach flipped. Debate team—where words mattered, where being the new girl with good grades might actually count for something.

The Sphinx moved.

She glided over, all effortless grace and scary calm. Maya's brain short-circuited. But instead of some cryptic riddle, Leona just said, "You hit with your backhand too early. Your follow-through's all wrist."

Maya blinked. "What?"

"Your backhand." Leona stepped behind her, placed a hand on Maya's shoulder, adjusted her stance. "Relax. You're playing like someone's holding a gun to your head. It's padel, not the Hunger Games."

Something in Maya's chest unlocked. Maybe it was the casual touch. Maybe it was that the Sphinx wasn't actually a sphinx at all—just a tired senior who'd been carrying everything since she was fourteen.

"Yeah, well." Maya swung the racquet properly this time. "I've been in zombie mode since, like, November."

"Freshman year will do that to you." Leona actually smiled—barely, but it was there. "Debate tryouts are Friday. If you can argue half as well as you overthink your backhand, you'll make varsity."

Maya hit the ball perfectly over the net.

"I'll think about it," she said, and meant it.