The Vitamin Shot Strategy

Jordan stood at the padel court entrance, clutching their racquet like a lifeline. The new kid, Sam, was already there, effortlessly warming up with that annoying natural athleticism that made everyone else look like they were moving through molasses.

"You coming?" Sam called, grinning.

"Yeah, just... taking a vitamin." Jordan fumbled in their bag, fingers grazing the orange bottle they'd brought for "energy" — really just a prop to buy ten seconds of composure.

Their sister's golden retriever, Buster, had chosen this exact moment to escape the backyard and sprint toward the courts. The dog bolted past Jordan, tongue flapping, making a beeline for Sam's water bottle.

"Buster! No!" Jordan's face burned hotter than the court surface. "That's my sister's dog. I'm... bear-sitting? No, dog-sitting. Obviously."

Sam laughed, not mean but genuinely amused, and corralled Buster with surprising patience. "Cool dog. What's his name?"

"Buster. He's... a lot."

"That's the best kind." Sam handed Jordan a ball. "So, you ever play padel before?"

"Once. At summer camp. I was terrible."

"Same here." Sam's smile was easy, unforced. "First time I played, I hit myself in the forehead with my own racquet. Swore for three minutes straight."

Jordan's shoulders dropped two inches. The crushing pressure in their chest lightened, just a fraction.

They played. Jordan still missed easy shots. Sam still won most points. But somewhere between game two and game three, Jordan wasn't thinking about Sam's effortless cool anymore. They were just... playing. Laughing when shots went wildly astray. Calling Buster back every time he sneaked onto the court.

"You know," Sam said afterward as they sat in the shade, sharing electrolyte drinks, "you've got a killer backhand when you're not overthinking it."

Jordan felt something shift inside. Not world-altering, but real. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Next week? Same time?"

"Sure. But I'm bringing dog treats this time. Buster's clearly running this friendship."

Sam laughed. "Deal."

Walking home, Jordan texted their sister: "Buster's officially my wingdog now."

The vitamin bottle rattled in their bag — still full, still unnecessary. Some things, Jordan realized, you didn't need to fake. You just needed someone who didn't mind when your dog — or your awkwardness — crashed the party.