Vitamin You Can't Buy

Maya's dad kept pushing the **vitamin** supplements on her. "For energy," he'd say, sliding the orange bottles across the kitchen counter while she shoved her **padel** racket into her backpack. "Big tournament this weekend."

She'd swallow them dry because arguing took effort she didn't have. Especially when Jake—the absolute finest specimen in sophomore homeroom—had finally noticed her at practice yesterday. His "nice swing, Castillo" still echoed in her head like a prayer.

The academy courts smelled like rubber and ambition. Coach Mendez, who everyone called **Bear** behind his back because he'd hibernate in his office between berating students, stalked the sidelines. "ELBOW UP, CASTILLO! You're swinging like a drunk toddler!"

Her opponent, Chloe, crushed every ball with scary precision. The scorecard read like Maya's GPA: not terrible, but not scholarship material either.

Then came the **lightning**.

Not real lightning—though summer storms had been threatening all week. This was worse. Jake walked past with his squad, and someone said, loud enough to slice through the thwack of rackets: "Maya's trying too hard. It's cringe."

Her arm went dead mid-swing. The ball hit the fence with a sad little thud.

Chloe paused. "You okay?"

Maya's vision swam. All those vitamins, all those extra practices, all for some boy who thought she was "cringe." She thought of the sketchbook hidden under her bed—pages filled with court designs, athletes in motion, beauty in angles and trajectory that nobody else saw.

"Actually?" Maya's voice came out stronger than she felt. "No. I'm done trying to be something I'm not."

She walked off the court. Past Jake's crew. Past Bear Mendez. Out into the muggy afternoon where real lightning finally cracked the sky open, rain washing away the sweat and the stupid expectations.

Her phone buzzed: Dad's third vitamin reminder.

Maya smiled. Some things you can't buy in a bottle. Some things—like self-respect—you have to earn the hard way.