Cable Guy's Court

Jordan's pockets were jingling with tip money, but his social battery was hovering at 2%.

"Next stop's Mrs. Chen's," his supervisor Gary said, tossing him the work tablet. "Cable internet's been down since Tuesday. She's probably gonna offer you tea again. Just be polite and get out."

Jordan nodded, adjusting his company polo. He'd only been working for ConnectTech since summer started, but he already had the routine down: assess the situation, reroute cables if needed, collect the signature, bounce. It wasn't exactly how he'd planned to spend his sixteenth summer, but his parents had been clear: either get a job or spend the break "constructively." Installing cable internet beat youth group. Probably.

Mrs. Chen's house smelled like lavender and old books. She led him to the den where the modem sat dead, its lights unblinking.

"My grandson says it's the coaxial cable," she explained, already heading toward the kitchen. "I'll put on tea."

Jordan dropped to his knees behind the TV stand, feeling around in the dusty tangle of wires. His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably his friends blowing up the group chat. They were all at the new padel courts that had opened near the rec center. Apparently it was like tennis but easier, which was perfect because none of them could play tennis to save their lives. Meanwhile, Jordan was here, alone, touching stranger's cables.

He'd turned down their invitation with some vague excuse about family stuff. The truth? He'd never picked up a racquet in his life. What if he was terrible? What if they laughed?

"Found it," he muttered. The coaxial cable had somehow worked itself loose during Mrs. Chen's intense vacuuming session. He clicked it back into place, and the modem's lights began their reassuring dance from blinking red to solid green.

His phone buzzed again. A photo from Mia: the whole squad at the padel courts, laughing, orange balls flying. CAPTION: "wish u were here loser (affectionate)"

Jordan stared at it, that familiar tightness in his chest. The fear of missing out, but deeper—the fear of not being enough. Of being the guy who sat on the sidelines because sitting on the sidelines was safe.

"Tea's ready, dear," Mrs. Chen called.

Jordan stood up, wiping dust from his knees. The cable was fixed. The job was done. He could grab his tea, make polite small talk, and leave.

Or.

"Hey Mrs. Chen," he said, surprising himself. "What's padel? Like, exactly?"

She paused, tea cup halfway to her lips. "Oh! It's quite popular now. My neighbor plays—she says it's tennis without the pretension. Why do you ask?"

Jordan pulled up the photo Mia had sent. "My friends are playing. I've never... I don't really do sports."

Mrs. Chen set down her tea and studied him, her eyes crinkling with something like recognition. "You know what I've learned in seventy-three years? The cable guy who's too afraid to try something new is just as sad as the cable guy who tried and failed. At least the second one has a story."

Jordan laughed despite himself.

"Go," she said, shooing him toward the door. "The cable's fixed. Your job here is done. Your real job is out there." She pointed toward the window, toward the rec center, toward his friends.

"But you wanted tea—"

"I want you to stop running from things because you might not be perfect at them immediately," she said firmly. "Now go. And text your mother, she worries."

Jordan found himself running—not away from something, but toward it. He texted the group chat: "OMW. Whoever's up first has to teach me everything."

Mia replied immediately: "DEAL. Also bring snacks we're starving"

Jordan's pockets still had the tip money. His social battery was somehow at 100%. And somewhere in a den he'd just left, a cable modem was blinking steadily green, transmitting data that didn't matter half as much as the text he was about to send.

Maybe summer jobs weren't just about the money. Maybe they were about the old ladies who saw right through you, and the friends who waited anyway, and the version of yourself that was finally brave enough to pick up a racquet and swing.

He was still scared. But he was running.