Realizing I can be quite straightforward when I like someone amazes me. The knowledge that maybe there's the chance I can get carried away by my emotions and feelings, and that I might be able to do something as bold as take Santiago’s hand. What would Santiago think if I manage to do that? What would he do? Pretend as if it’s nothing? Would he be grossed out? I ask myself all of these in a second.

Santiago opens the door and we go to the yard where Sandy’s already stretching.

“Guys! Hurry up and change your clothes, time flies! You know, time’s always short when you’re having fun!” Sandy says without stopping her arm stretching.

Santiago takes me to the bathroom and I learn that it has been recently remodeled with 2 showers and lockers for the players. Everything looks shiny and new, and I almost feel sorry that I’m the only one using the place.

“Make yourself at home. If you need anything, just let me know. I’m going to my room to change, be right back,” Santiago says, closing the door behind him. I hurry and empty my backpack to find my t-shirt, shorts and sneakers, which were at the bottom, under my school books. I change and run to the yard.

Sandy's there, still stretching, and tells me to do the same. It’s important to stretch before practicing or playing, to avoid any injuries; even if it doesn’t look like it, badminton requires players to do some harsh movements with legs, arms and shoulders. Afterwards, Santiago teaches me how to do other stretching exercises. He tells me if he notices I’m not flexing my elbows and knees like I should, and I try to copy his movements. When the stretching ends, I feel as if I’ve run a marathon, and we haven’t even started practicing.

“First, we’re going to do some exercises for you to get comfortable with the feather. As you can see, it’s different than a normal ball, and hence, it flies differently. But you’ll quickly learn to calculate the right time you need to hit it with the racket. Do it for ten minutes.” Sandy suggests, and she starts hitting the feather up high, high, high, and when it comes down, she calculates the time to hit it with the racket again. She repeats this a few times so I can do the same. This reminds me of the little kicks footballers do, to avoid the ball from touching the floor. I already know Santiago doesn’t need to do this exercise, but he keeps me company.

At first I can’t even hit the ball to make it go up, or hit it again and not drop it, but soon enough, I get used to the speed of the ball, or at least it looks like I do.

“Max, I’m heading outside to hand out leaflets while you two practice. Let’s see if I can find more boys who’re interested in badminton. Santiago knows the entire routine, he’ll teach you.” Sandy smiles at me and heads out with a bunch of leaflets.

Being alone with Santiago makes me a little nervous, and I soon go back to zero, as if I hadn’t made any progress. I drop the feather a lot. I stop to look how Santiago’s doing, it seems like he’s never going to drop the feather, he controls the racket and the feather in a way that would make people think they are tied with a very thin string. Suddenly, he catches the feather and turns around to look at me.

“What’s up, Max?” He asks, worried. “If you’re tired, we can take a break.”

“Oh, no. It’s nothing, Santiago. I was just trying to see how you never drop the feather.”

“It’s just practice, you’ll see how you’re soon doing this with your eyes closed.” And he goes back to the exercise. I can’t just stare, so I go back to practicing next to him. But it turns out I’m clumsier than I thought because, instead of hitting the feather I’m using, for some reason, I hit Santiago’s, and when I’m lowering my racket, I hit his forehead accidentally. When Santiago squats, with his hands on his forehead, I panic and when I come closer, to see if he’s okay, I trip over my own leg and fall on top of him, hitting his stomach with my elbow. Everything becomes still, just like when someone tells a bad joke. I almost stop breathing, until Santiago starts laughing loudly, rolling on the floor.

“You sure are clumsy. This is too funny,” he says, and stands up, motioning for me to follow him. We go upstairs and go through a long corridor with a lot of doors. I wonder why there are so many rooms, if the only ones here are Santiago, Sandy, and their parents. But before I get to ask something, Santiago opens one of the doors and tells me it’s his room. He opens a closet and starts looking for something with one hand while he’s rubbing his forehead with the other one.

“You have to treat my wound, as punishment,” he says, smiling, handing me a box with creams, cotton, and band aids.