Marco's Covert Summer Operation

Marco's palms were sweating. Again. He wiped them on his swim trunks for the third time, watching from behind the snack bar as Chloe laughed at something Tyler said. Tyler, whose family owned the country club. Tyler, with the perfect hair and the expensive padel lessons.

"Dude, you look like a total creep," said Jamal, sliding up beside him with a snow cone. "Just go talk to her."

"I can't just GO talk to her," Marco hissed. "I'm conducting a mission here. Gathering intel. Like a spy."

Jamal snorted. "You're not a spy, Marco. You're a fifteen-year-old hiding behind a vending machine."

Marco ignored him. This was phase three of Operation Chloe: observe target interactions, identify competition, formulate approach strategy. So far, Tyler was the obvious threat — the bull in the china shop, all confidence and inherited wealth. Meanwhile, Marco was still working up the courage to say more than "hey" in homeroom.

But then he saw something that made his spy mission instantly more complicated.

Tyler was showing off at the padel court, hitting trick shots and acting like he owned the place. But when Chloe tried to play, he started "correcting" her form in that patronizing way that made Marco's blood boil. Chloe's smile looked forced now, her shoulders tense. She wasn't having fun.

"He's mansplaining padel," Marco said, shocked. "Who even does that?"

"Go rescue her," Jamal urged, shoving him forward. "Be the hero."

Marco didn't move. His palms were sweating again. But then Chloe looked over and caught his eye, and something in her expression said please help me.

So Marco marched over to the padel court like he was going to face a literal bull. "Hey Chloe," he called out, voice cracking slightly. "Want to play? I suck at this too, so it'll be actual fun."

The relief on her face was worth everything. Tyler looked annoyed. Marco's palms stopped sweating.

Later, when they were both sitting at the edge of the swimming pool, feet dangling in the water, Chloe said, "Thanks for the rescue. You're my favorite terrible padel player."

Marco's heart did something complicated. "I'm never playing padel again," he said, and she laughed, and that was somehow better than winning any match.

"Spy mission accomplished," Jamal texted him from somewhere across the pool. Marco grinned and put his phone away. Some operations were better off declassified.