Green Smoothies and Game Points

The spinach hit my blender with a wet thwack. Mom's new phase: "Wellness Summer 2024." I was three weeks in and still waiting for the glowing skin and boundless energy she promised.

"You're going to thank me, Marcus," she called from the living room, where cable news droned in the background. Because apparently, our family still lived in 2010 while everyone else had cut the cord years ago.

I rolled my eyes, threw in some banana (the only thing making this drinkable), and hit blend. The kitchen shook.

My phone buzzed. Jordan: *padel courts @ 3? Mia's cousin is bringing friends*

Padel. The sport that had taken over my friend group overnight. Like tennis but with walls and somehow way more social. I'd been dodging it for weeks—athletics weren't exactly my brand—but Jordan's text had that tone. The *you should really come out* tone.

I checked the time. 2:47 PM.

Green smoothie in hand, I grabbed my bike. The court was at the rec center, where I'd spent exactly zero hours since middle school. My stomach did that thing where it simultaneously wanted to throw up and also maybe disappear entirely.

When I rolled up, Jordan waved from the fence. "Marcus! You made it!"

"Barely," I called, locking my bike against the rack. "I come bearing zero athletic ability but maximum emotional support."

Mia's cousin turned out to be Priya, who went to North High and had those effortless curls that defied gravity. "We're playing mixed doubles," she said, handing me a paddle. "You're with me. Don't overthink it—it's basically just tennis in a box."

Basic. Right.

The first twenty minutes were exactly what I expected: me swinging at air, tripping over nothing, and hitting more fence than ball. But then something clicked. The ball rebounded off the back wall, I pivoted without thinking, and—*thwack*—a perfect shot down the line.

"YESSS," Priya yelled, high-fiving me. "See? You've got game."

By the fourth game, I was sweating through my shirt, laughing at my own terrible serves, and somehow keeping up with people who'd been playing for months. My spinach smoothie sat untouched on the bench, forgotten.

"We should do this weekly," Jordan said as we packed up. "Like, every Friday. Official padel crew."

"I'm in," I heard myself say. And I meant it.

Pedaling home under the orange-pink sky, my arms weirdly sore but in a good way, I realized Mom's wellness kick wasn't the problem. The problem was the version of myself I'd been stuck in—the one who said no to everything before even trying.

The smoothie was warm and separated when I finally drank it. Gross. But tomorrow, I decided, I'd add some berries. Baby steps.