Orange Slice Sundays

The vitamin gummies stared back at me from the kitchen counter — my mom's latest attempt to fix my "deficient teenage lifestyle." I grabbed the orange bottle, feeling like a fraud. If she knew the real deficiency was my inability to talk to Maya without sounding like a malfunctioning robot, she'd have prescribed something stronger.

"You going to Marcus's padel tournament?" My little sister lounged in the doorway, probably waiting to use the bathroom before me. "Heard it's, like, actually social this time."

I almost choked on my toothpaste. Marcus was hosting. Marcus, whose smile made my brain turn into static. Marcus, who played padel like he was waging war against the ball itself.

"Maybe," I said, too casual. "If I finish my homework."

"Lame. You're totally going."

She wasn't wrong.

Three hours later, I stood at the edge of the court, clutching a borrowed racquet like it might bite me. The air smelled of expensive cologne and pre-game jitters. Someone's playlist bounced off the concrete walls — trap music that vibrated in my chest.

And there he was, sweating and glorious, wiping his forehead with an orange bandana that matched his ridiculous neon shoes. He caught me staring and grinned, and suddenly my vitamin gummies felt very far away.

"You playing?" He jogged over, all easy confidence and messy curls. "We need a fourth for mixed doubles."

My brain short-circuited. "I — um. I'm not good. Like, at all."

"Perfect." He winked. "Neither am I."

He was lying. He was absolutely lying. But somehow I found myself on the court, missing serves and laughing so hard my sides hurt. His partner, some sophomore with killer eyeliner, kept yelling "GOAT ENERGY" whenever anyone made a decent shot.

When I finally managed to hit the ball back (pure luck, honestly), the entire group cheered like I'd just won the Olympics. Marcus high-fived me, his palm warm against mine, and that's when I realized: I wasn't deficient at all. I was just hungry.

Not for vitamins or validation or whatever my mom thought I needed. I was hungry for this — for messy games and inside jokes and people who cheered at your lucky shots.

Afterward, sitting on the curb sharing an orange that someone's mom had packed, Marcus's knee brushed against mine. Not accidental. Not casual.

"Same time next Sunday?" he asked, all pretend-casual.

"Definitely," I said. "I'll bring more vitamin gummies. We'll need the energy."

He laughed, and I felt something bloom in my chest that no supplement could ever provide.