Water Under the Padel Court

The palm trees swayed against the Santa Monica skyline like they were mocking me. Sixteen years old and somehow still the only one at our school who didn't know how to play padel.

"Dude, it's literally tennis with walls," Mateo had said when he invited me to the beach club's Saturday clinic. "Even Kevin can play, and Kevin thinks a volley is something you do with words."

I stood at the edge of the court, my borrowed racket feeling like a foreign object. Across the net, Sofia—the girl I'd been lowkey crushing since seventh grade—was already warming up with Kevin. Her serve actually sounded like a serve. Mine would probably sound like a question mark.

"You coming or what?" Sofia called out, grinning. That grin that made me forget my own middle name sometimes.

"Yeah," I managed, stepping onto the court. "Just. admiring the scenery."

"The scenery is Kevin's backhand," she laughed. "Come on."

Twenty minutes later, I was dripping. Like, actually dripping sweat onto the expensive blue surface. My racket had somehow become a weapon of mass distraction—I'd missed three balls, hit two into the ceiling, and accidentally whacked the fence when I tried to look cool.

Then came the water bottle incident.

I reached for my bottle, made this dramatic move like I was some professional athlete taking a timeout, and somehow managed to dump the entire contents down my front. Water everywhere. My shirt stuck to me like second skin I didn't want.

The court went silent.

"Bro," Kevin said, which didn't help.

I froze, waiting for the laughter. Instead, Sofia jogged over, handed me her towel, and said, "Happens to everyone. Last week, Mateo tripped over his own feet and did a full split in front of the juniors from the other school. Still recovering."

"Really?" I wiped my face, trying to process.

"Cross my heart." She demonstrated with her palm. "You're doing fine. Better than my first week—I cried when I missed my first ball. Actual tears."

She smiled, and something shifted. Like the humidity had broken.

"Show me your grip again," she said, moving beside me. Her hand corrected my fingers on the racket handle. "You're holding it like you're choking it, not playing with it. Relax."

We practiced like that for twenty minutes. Me failing, her correcting, both of us laughing when I hit a ball that actually went over the net.

Later, sitting on the beach watching the sun set behind the palm trees, Mateo and Kevin arguing about something stupid, Sofia sat next to me.

"Next Saturday," she said. "Same time. I'll help you with your backhand if you help me with Spanish homework."

"Deal," I said, and we actually did the pinky promise thing, palms pressed together like we were eight instead of sixteen. "But just so you know, I'm terrible at Spanish too."

"Whatever." She bumped my shoulder with hers. "At least you're not Kevin."