The Spy Who Couldn't Padel

I'm crouched behind the chain-link fence, basically attempting espionage level: amateur. My mission: observe the popular kids who've claimed the public padel courts every Friday since September like they own the place.

"Tyler! Are you seriously stalking them again?" My mom yells it from our balcony. Because subtlety is dead, and my mother killed it.

I die inside. Because Leo—the Leo, with hair that falls into his eyes like he's in a constant music video—has definitely heard. He's jogging over, all golden skin and easy confidence, swinging a padel racquet like it's an extension of his arm.

"Hey," he says, stopping way too close. "I've seen you watching. For, like, three weeks now."

"I was just—"

"Spying?" He grins. "It's cool. You've got potential."

"What?"

"Padel," he says, passing me his racquet. "You've got the build. Try it."

I should say no. I should decline and retreat to my bedroom and never emerge again. But suddenly I'm on the court, barefoot because I didn't exactly plan for athletic tryouts, gripping a racquet while Leo's friends watch from the other side.

"It's like tennis but chill," he explains. "Baseball coordination meets soccer movement. You'll pick it up."

I don't pick it up. I miss everything. My first swing hits nothing but air. My second sends the ball backward over the fence. It's humiliating.

But Leo doesn't laugh. He adjusts my grip, his fingers warm against mine. "Relax. You're playing like you've got a bear chasing you."

"Maybe I do," I mutter.

"Then we fight the bear together," he says. "Again. Swing through."

On my fifth attempt, I actually connect. The ball sails over the net, landing perfectly in the corner. Leo's friends actually cheer.

"There it is," Leo says, sounding genuinely proud. "You're coming back next Friday."

"I am?"

"You are. We need someone who can actually hit." He winks. "Besides, you're already part of the operation. Can't have a spy who doesn't play."

I'm blushing so hard it's probably visible from space.

Later, sitting on the edge of the court while his friends debate something called "the goldfish incident," Leo leans in. "Hey, for what it's worth? I used to watch everyone from my window before I joined. It's not that different."

"You used to spy on them?"

"I still do," he says. "That's how I knew you'd be good. I've been scouting you, Tyler. You're terrible at being stealthy, but you've got crazy good hand-eye coordination."

I laugh, startled. "You've been scouting me?"

"Someone's gotta replace me when I graduate." He bumps my shoulder. "Welcome to the team, spy."