The Tryout Truth

My palms were sweating so much they practically dripped on my *padel* racquet. I'd begged my parents to sign me up for the summer league, thinking it'd be my ticket to finally hanging with the popular crew. Instead, I stood at the edge of the court while they casually rallied like they'd been born holding racquets.

"Hey *baseball* star," Jason called out, using the nickname that haunted me since I struck out during gym class last month. "Wanna sub in?"

My stomach flipped. This was it—my chance to prove I wasn't just that awkward kid who took *vitamin* gummies every morning because my mom was obsessed with "immune health." The coach blew the whistle, and suddenly I was in the game.

First hit? Straight into the fence. Second? Air. The third connected perfectly, soaring over Jason's head. Point for us.

"Dude!" Marcus high-fived me. "Where'd that come from?"

I shrugged like it was nothing, but my *palm* sweat had turned into actual confidence. By the end of the match, I'd earned something better than popularity—respect. And maybe, just maybe, I'd finally found my place.

Later, Jason's crew invited me to the beach. I almost said yes until I remembered they called the quiet kid in our English class a *bear* last week—like it was some hilarious joke about him being "big and scary" when really he just kept to himself.

"Nah," I said, grabbing my bag. "I've got plans."

And you know what? I did. With myself. My actual self—not whoever I thought I needed to be to fit in. Some hits really are worth more than points.