Goldfish & Padel Summers

The chlorine smell hit me before I even pushed through the gate. Another summer lifeguarding at the rec center pool while my friends were off doing literally anything else. Even Jason—Jason who once got a C in gym—was working at that fancy new padel club everyone couldn't shut up about.

"Bro, you should see this place," he'd texted me earlier, sending a selfie with his stupid padel racquet like he was some kind of athlete. "The members here are loaded. Plus, Rachel's there every Thursday."

Rachel. The one person from our friend group I hadn't seen since graduation, when she'd left me with a quick hug and a "we'll hang soon" that never happened.

"Marcus!"

I jumped. Mrs. Chen, the pool manager, was already pointing at the filtration system. "The pressure's dropping again. And someone left something in the lost and found—" She held up a small plastic bag, cloudy water sloshing inside. "Another goldfish from the carnival prizes. Poor thing didn't make two hours."

My throat tightened. That goldfish smell. Chlorine and dead things and eighth grade, when I'd won a fish at the spring carnival, carried it home in a plastic bag, and watched it die on my nightstand by midnight while my mom said, "That's life, sweetie. Nothing lasts forever."

I'd cried for three days. Jason had made fun of me for a month.

"I'll flush it," I said, but Mrs. Chen shook her head.

"No, I've got a tank at home for the rescues. You've got that look again." She softened. "Your first summer here, you had that same look when that kid threw up in the deep end. What's on your mind?"

Everything. Nothing. How I was stuck in this same loop—pool, chlorine, dead fish—while everyone else was moving forward. Jason, finding a sport and a social life. Rachel, probably dating some padel prodigy with nice hair.

"I just... I feel like I'm missing out," I admitted, which was huge for me. I never admitted anything.

Mrs. Chen considered me. "You know what my grandson says about padel? He says it's just tennis for people who want to look cool playing sports. He's 17, by the way. Also terrible at it."

I cracked up. Couldn't help it.

"Listen," she said, "Jason invited you to that club, didn't he? Tonight's free trial night. Go. Let me close up here."

"But—"

"Go. Before I change my mind and make you clean the filters again."

The padel club was sleek and modern, glass walls enclosing courts where people in matching outfits hit neon balls back and forth. I spotted Jason immediately, missing every shot while Rachel laughed at something some guy said.

"Marcus!" Jason waved me over, sweaty and terrible. "Dude, you gotta try this. It's actually kind of fun once you stop thinking about how dumb you look."

Rachel turned, spotting me. Her face lit up. "Marcus! Finally! I've been asking Jason where you've been."

"Working," I said, suddenly self-conscious in my pool-stained t-shirt.

"Here, take my racquet," Jason insisted, shoving it into my hands. "I need a break. Rachel, you got next?"

We played for an hour. I was awful. Rachel was better than both of us combined, laughing when I missed serves, teaching me how to spin the ball. We talked about everything—nothing—graduation, next year, the smell of chlorine versus the smell of new racquets.

"You know," she said at one point, watching me finally connect with the ball, "I really missed you this summer."

"Yeah," I said, and meant it. "Me too."

Later, sitting on the bench with Jason, drinking terrible sports drinks, he nudged me. "So? Better than the dead fish days, right?"

"Way better," I said, thinking of eighth grade and that plastic bag on my nightstand. "Hey, maybe next week you can teach me that spin serve?"

"Bet," Jason grinned. "But fair warning—I'm still gonna beat you."

"You wish."

And for the first time all summer, I didn't feel like I was missing out on anything at all.