The Summer of First Serves

The **padel** court smelled like heat and competition, exactly how my entire summer in Barcelona felt. Fifteen and trying not to look like a total tourist while my Spanish cousins laughed at my terrible footwork. Again.

"You swing like a sleepy **bear**, mateo," Carlos grinned, effortlessly returning my serve with backspin I couldn't even replicate in my daydreams. "Relax your grip. You're choking the racket."

Easy for him to say. Carlos was built for this — all fluid motion and effortless cool. Meanwhile, I was overthinking everything, especially because Sofía was watching from the bench behind the glass wall. She'd been showing up to our matches for three days straight, and I still hadn't managed more than a pathetic wave and something that sounded like "hola" but might have been a sneeze.

Then **Toro** showed up.

Everyone called him Toro — "bull" in Spanish — and the nickname fit perfectly. This guy was built like a rugby forward and played like he had something to prove to every living creature within a ten-mile radius. When he stepped onto the court, the air pressure changed.

"Let's make this interesting," Toro said, his voice carrying that specific kind of confidence that made me simultaneously want to be him and also hide forever. "Loser buys everyone mojitos at the club tonight."

My stomach did something complicated. Tonight. Sofía would be there. My Spanish was still garbage, and Toro spoke like he'd been born fluent in everything.

"You're on," I heard myself say. Because apparently my mouth had a death wish.

We played. I stopped thinking. Somewhere between the second set and my dignity completely abandoning me, I realized Toro wasn't just naturally talented — he was arrogant. He'd stopped watching the ball and started watching himself in the glass reflection, showing off for exactly the same person I'd been trying not to embarrass myself in front of.

"Your form's garbage when you're distracted," Sofía said later, appearing beside me like she'd been there the whole time. She reached out, turning my hand over and tracing the lines in my **palm** like she was reading something written there. "You played better when you stopped caring what Toro thought."

"You noticed?"

"I notice everything, mateo." She smiled. "Especially the part where you almost beat him."

The Spanish sunlight hit her hair, and suddenly summer didn't feel so impossible anymore. Maybe I'd still trip over my feet, maybe my Spanish would always be terrible, but apparently that didn't matter as much as I'd thought.

"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, trying to sound casual and mostly succeeding.

"Bring your A-game," she called over her shoulder. "And stop swinging like a bear."