Three Serves Short

The padel court smelled like rubber and desperation. I stood there gripping the rental racket like my life depended on it, which it kind of did, because across the net stood Chloe—actual Chloe, who'd barely glanced my way since seventh grade.

"You coming?" called Sam, my best friend since we'd compared goldfish at our eighth birthday parties and discovered both were named Finny. He'd talked me into this. Him and his stupid idea that joining the padel club would somehow elevate our social status from invisible to maybe kinda sorta noticed.

"Yeah," I squeaked. "Just stretching."

My dog, Buster, would've been better at this. At least when he embarrassed himself, everyone thought it was cute.

"Serve!" Chloe's voice cut through my panic spiral.

I tossed the ball up. It hit the frame. Clanged into the net. The entire varsity squad—watching from the sidelines—tried not to laugh and failed.

"My bad," I muttered, face burning. "First time."

"Obviously," someone whispered.

But then Chloe was walking over to the net. Close up, I could see she had a tiny constellation of freckles across her nose and this intensity in her eyes that made my chest feel weird.

"You're gripping it too tight," she said. "Relax your wrists. Let the racket do the work."

She demonstrated, her movements fluid and effortless. Something about the way she explained it—no sarcasm, no making me feel small—made the knot in my stomach loosen.

"Try again," she said.

So I did. And this time, the ball actually went over. Not perfect, but not mortifying either.

"See?" She grinned. "Not hopeless."

Later, Sam high-fived me so hard my shoulder hurt. "Dude. She talked to you. That's basically marriage."

"Shut up," I said, but I was smiling.

Running home that evening, everything felt different. The sunset looked brighter. My awkward footsteps sounded like music. Sometimes the best moments aren't the ones you nail perfectly—they're the ones where you mess up, someone helps you, and suddenly the world feels a little less lonely.