Washing Up

The padel court smelled like rubber and desperation. I adjusted my grip on the racquet for the tenth time, sweat already making my palms slick. Tryouts. Why did I let Maya talk me into this?

"You got this, Chloe!" she called from the sidelines, already part of the varsity squad, already everything I wasn't.

I'd have to bear another week of her pep talks if I flunked this. Actually, I'd have to bear an entire semester of "I told you so" and that pitying look she gave people who didn't make varsity anything.

The coach blew his whistle. "Alright, ladies. Pair up. We're doing drills."

I found myself partnered with Sasha, this girl who wore her retainer to practice and kept her water bottle in a personalized holder that said 'Queen of the Court' in glitter letters. Great.

"Hey," Sasha said, bouncing on her toes like she'd mainlined three energy drinks. "You're Chloe, right? Maya's friend?"

"That's me," I managed, trying not to think about how I'd tripped over my own feet during warm-ups.

We started hitting the ball back and forth. My returns were sloppy. I couldn't get my footwork right. Meanwhile, Sasha was smashing it into the corners like she'd been training for the Olympics since birth.

"You're tighting up," she said between hits. "Loosen up. It's just padel, not brain surgery."

Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one whose entire social survival depended on making this team.

Then it happened. I went for a forehand and my feet completely betrayed me. I ate it—hard—my racquet flying across the court, my dignity following close behind.

The court went silent.

I pushed myself up, my face burning hotter than I'd ever felt in my life. I could feel tears stinging my eyes, which just made everything worse. Crying at tryouts? Actually humiliating.

Then Sasha was there, handing me her water bottle. "Here. You look like you need this more than me."

I took it, my hands shaking. "Thanks. I'm such a mess."

"Nah," she said, shrugging. "Last week? I forgot my racquet and had to borrow one from the lost-and-found that smelled like middle school PE. We've all been there."

Something about the way she said it—no pity, no awkwardness—made my chest loosen up a little.

"Really?"

"Swear it." She grinned. "Plus, you've got a killer backhand. You just need to stop thinking everyone's watching you. We're all just trying not to look stupid."

I handed back her water and picked up my racquet.

"Ready to try again?" Sasha asked.

"Yeah," I said, and this time I actually meant it.

Maybe tryouts wouldn't be so bad after all.