Water Under the Bridge

The country club tennis courts smelled like privilege and sunscreen. I stood there holding a lukewarm **water** bottle, watching Dylan and the other rich kids play **padel** like they'd been born with racquets in their hands. Me? I'd been working the snack bar all summer to save for my first car, which my mom kept reminding me wouldn't buy itself.

"Hey, Rico," Dylan called from the court. "Want to sub in? Devon's mom's here early."

My stomach did that thing where it forgets how to be an organ. Dylan was the kind of gorgeous that made you forget basic motor skills. Also, I'd never played padel in my life. But I'd also never say no to Dylan freaking Martinez.

"Yeah, sure," I said, like it wasn't a complete lie.

I grabbed a spare racquet and stepped onto the court, immediately regretting every choice that led here. I missed the ball. Then again. Then tripped over my own feet.

"Whoa, easy there," Dylan said, but he was smiling. "It's like **baseball**, you know? Track it with your eyes, not your whole body."

"I don't play baseball either," I muttered.

"What DO you play?"

"I don't play," I said, then immediately wanted to disappear. "I mean, I work. And, like, exist. Poorly."

Dylan laughed, and it wasn't mean. It was real.

"Show me your stance," he said, stepping closer. "Like, how do you stand when you're about to serve?"

I had no idea what I was doing, but I planted my feet and gripped the racquet like a baseball bat, which made him laugh again.

"Okay, wrong sport, but we can work with that," he said, and his hand brushed mine adjusting my grip. "There. Better?"

"Better," I squeaked.

I hit the next ball clean over the net. Dylan high-fived me, and I stood there grinning like an idiot, sun burning my neck, water bottle sweating onto the court, thinking maybe country clubs weren't the worst place on earth after all.

Then I checked my phone. Three texts from my mom asking if I'd picked up my shift tomorrow.

Right. I wasn't one of them. I was just the kid who worked the snack bar.

"I gotta go," I said, but something in my chest felt different. Lighter.

"Same time next week?" Dylan asked.

"If I'm not working."

"I'll cover your shift," he called as I walked away, and I turned back to see him watching me.

Maybe this summer wasn't going to be so bad after all.