Paddle Protocol

I was running on zombie mode—third consecutive night of finishing AP Euro outlines until 2 AM—and my brain felt like it had been put through a blender. But Maya had dragged me to the padel courts again, claiming fresh air would fix everything.

"You look like you haven't slept since Obama was president," she said, smashing the ball against the glass wall.

"Thanks for the glow-up review," I muttered, fumbling with my racket. The thing about padel is it's like tennis but with walls involved, which meant more opportunities for me to embarrass myself in front of everyone.

That's when I noticed it.

A black cable snaked along the perimeter fence, disappearing into the bushes behind court 3. I'd seen something similar in that spy show Maya binge-watched—the one where the government agent plants listening devices.

Maya caught me staring. "What? You finally seeing ghosts from sleep deprivation?"

"No," I said, lowering my voice. "That cable. It wasn't there yesterday."

She rolled her eyes. "Bro, it's probably just internet for the club house."

"Since when does the club house need a cable running through the bushes?" I countered, suddenly wide awake. "And why's it taped to the fence?"

We spent the next twenty minutes "investigating" (sneaking around like total weirdos) until the groundskeeper caught us and explained it was for the new security camera system because someone kept vandalizing the courts at night.

"We thought you were, like, a spy or something," Maya admitted, face burning.

The guy just laughed. "Teenagers and their imagulations. Go back to playing."

We died. We literally died. Maya was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, and even I had to crack a smile. Later, as we sat on the bench sharing her leftover smoothie, I realized something: maybe being in zombie mode wasn't so bad when you had friends who'd go along with your wild conspiracy theories at 9 AM.

"Same time next week?" Maya asked, wiping tears from her face.

"Absolutely," I said. "But I'm bringing coffee."