The Summer I Chose Wrong

I spent fifteen that summer crashing at the local padel club, hoping Jake would finally notice me. My best friend Maya - loyal as a golden retriever, ride or die till the end - dragged herself along every Saturday morning despite hating sports.

My padel game was tragic. Like, genuinely embarrassing. I'd whiff serves directly into the net, accidentally drill balls at the elderly couples playing on adjacent courts, and faceplant while attempting fancy backhands. Jake, effortlessly athletic and infuriatingly handsome, would sometimes glance my way during his matches with his teammates. I'd catch his eye and flash my best cool-girl smile. He'd nod and turn back to his game.

Still, I kept showing up. Maya kept bringing me iced coffee and holding my towel and telling me I was "improving" even though I absolutely wasn't.

The summer tournament rolled around. Singles. I entered. Maya signed up too, just so I wouldn't have to suffer alone. I made it through exactly one round before getting demolished 6-0, 6-1 by a twelve-year-old named Kyle who hadn't even hit puberty yet. Jake won his division, naturally. The announcer handed out trophies - plastic cups filled with goldfish as consolation prizes for everyone who didn't place.

I sat on the bench outside, nursing my humiliation and contemplating never returning to the club again. Maya found me there, clutching her own goldfish in a plastic bag filled with neon-pink water.

"You okay?" she asked. I shook my head, suddenly tearful. I'd wasted my whole summer chasing someone who barely knew I existed.

Maya sat beside me and thrust her goldfish bag toward me. "Here. You can have mine. He looks kind of like Jake. Same vacant expression."

I laughed through my tears and looked at the tiny orange fish swimming obliviously in its cramped prison. Then I looked at Maya - who had spent her entire summer watching me be embarrassing, who had learned a sport she hated just because I asked, who was sitting beside me on a bench making me laugh when I wanted to cry.

"You're a good friend, Maya," I said. "Like, actually the best."

"I know," she said. "I'm a straight-up golden retriever in human form. Devoted. Adorable. Excellent snack-provider."

We released the goldfish into a pond near the parking lot. We got smoothies. We came back next weekend and played terrible padel together and nobody cared because we were having fun. Jake remained on his pedestal - athletic and distant and irrelevant. Maya was right there, loyal and funny and suddenly... everything.

That autumn, I realized I'd been chasing the wrong prize the whole time.