Cable to Anywhere But Here

The coaxial cable dangling from our living room wall was like my social life — frayed at the edges, barely holding a connection, and completely incapable of streaming anything in HD.

"You going to the courts?" Jordan asked, spinning a padel racquet like it was nothing. Meanwhile, I was still trying to figure out which end was up.

"Maybe." I shrugged, trying to match his energy. "My dad needs me to fix the cable first. Again."

He laughed. "Bro, just tell him to get actual internet. It's 2026."

Right. Because everyone's parents could just drop three hundred bucks on fiber optic service whenever they felt like it. Another reminder that I didn't belong at Pinecrest Academy, where everyone's weekend involved padel tournaments and my weekends involved troubleshooting router issues.

The sport was basically tennis but shorter, faster, and somehow way more pretentious. Glass walls, expensive equipment, and a whole social hierarchy I couldn't crack. But I kept showing up to the open courts after school, because apparently I was a masochist who enjoyed humiliating myself in front of the popular crowd.

"Your form's trash," Maya called out from the sidelines. She was leaned against a palm tree near the fence, pineapple smoothie in hand, watching me miss yet another easy return.

"I know," I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead.

"You're gripping it too tight." She set her drink down and walked onto the court. "Show me your hands."

"What?"

"Your hands. Give 'em."

I held them out, palms up. She traced the lines with her finger, seriously, like she was reading them.

"You're overthinking everything," she said. "See these tension lines? You're carrying stress in your grip. Relax your wrist. Let the racquet do the work."

"Since when do you know padel?"

"Since I was eight. Also, my aunt does palm readings at the carnival on weekends. I picked up some stuff."

She didn't invite me to sit with her crowd the next day at lunch, but when I served an ace against Ethan—the actual captain of the padel team—she fist-bumped me like I'd just won the lottery.

Maybe later I'd figure out how to fix the cable. Maybe I'd never truly fit in at Pinecrest. But for once, my palms weren't sweating when I stepped onto the court. And honestly? That felt like enough.