Thunder Court Crush

The hat was a problem. Specifically, Jake's dad's cringe-worthy fedora that he'd dared to wear to the first **padel** tournament of the season.

"You're gonna look like a substitute teacher from 2004," Marcus said, barely containing his laughter as they walked toward the courts. The indoor sports complex buzzed with energy—eight courts of wall-bouncing action, neon lights reflecting off the glass walls.

"It's called swag," Jake shot back, though his fingers twitched toward the brim. "Besides, it gives me powers. Like those anime characters.

Marcus rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Bro, your dad bought that at a TJ Maxx clearance rack. The only power it has is maximum secondhand embarrassment."

They reached Court 4, where their opponents waited. Chloe and Ethan—the duo who'd crushed everyone in fall league. Chloe adjusted her ponytail with practiced precision, while Ethan bounced a ball like he was already bored.

"Nice hat," Chloe said, with zero sincerity. "Vintage?"

Jake's face burned. He yanked off the fedora, shoving it into his backpack. Whatever anime-character magic he'd imagined evaporating instantly.

The first set was a disaster. Jake couldn't focus, overthinking every shot. His returns sailed long. His volleys found the net. Chloe and Ethan toyed with them like cat-and-mouse, 6-2, 6-3.

"Water break," Marcus called, tossing him a bottle. "Bro, you're in your head. Just hit the stupid ball."

Jake fished through his bag for his emergency stash—the **vitamin** C supplements his mom insisted he take before every competition. "I hate this," he muttered, swallowing two dry. "I'm never gonna be good enough.

"Dude. You're sixteen. You're not supposed to have it figured out yet." Marcus nodded toward the vending machines. "Get a **papaya** juice or something. Exotic fruit juice clearly fixes sports performance issues. It's basically science."

Despite himself, Jake laughed. The knot in his chest loosened a fraction.

Suddenly—CRACK.

**Lightning** struck somewhere close. The building's lights flickered, dimmed, then surged back. Players paused mid-serve. Conversation died.

"Power surge!" someone yelled.

The momentary chaos was perfect. Jake grabbed his **hat** and pulled it back on—fedora and all. Something about the collective weirdness made him care less.

"Alright," he said, bouncing the ball. "Let's play."

Second set, everything clicked. Jake stopped thinking. His returns found corners. His volleys skimmed the tape. They broke Chloe's serve twice. When match point came—his shot, a perfect cross-court winner that kissed the line—Chloe actually nodded.

"Not bad, fedora boy," she said at the net. "Not bad at all."

Walking out later, papaya juice in hand, Jake caught his reflection in the gym's glass doors. The hat still looked ridiculous. But he was wearing it anyway.

"Told you," Jake said. "Anime character energy."