Running Towards Everything

Chloe's first week at Westwood High felt like she was moving through molasses—or maybe she was just turning into a literal zombie. Between adjusting to honors classes, missing her old friends back in Austin, and her mom's new early-to-rise philosophy, she'd managed exactly four hours of sleep total since Monday.

"You look like death," Marcus whispered in AP Bio, sliding a note onto her desk. "Zombie mode activated?"

"Thanks," she whispered back, barely resisting the urge to flip him off. Marcus, with his perfect hair and effortless charm, had somehow been elected to show her around. He was exactly the kind of guy who'd be impossible to hate if she wasn't so busy trying not to stare at him.

The turning point came when she discovered the underground padel scene at Westwood. Every Friday after school, a group of kids snuck into the community center's padel courts—paddle tennis, but cooler—and played until security kicked them out. Something about the rhythm of the game, the sound of the ball hitting the wall, the way you had to move with your partner—it felt like home.

"You're not bad," Marcus said after their third Friday playing together, sweat dripping down his temple. The sun was setting, casting everything in gold.

"You're not terrible yourself," she shot back, grinning despite herself.

They'd been paired up randomly, but something clicked. They moved like they'd been playing together for years, reading each other's instincts without speaking. When Jake, the self-appointed king of Westwood sports, announced a fall padel tournament with real prizes, Marcus grabbed her arm before she could overthink it.

"We're signing up. Together."

"I don't do tournaments," she protested. "Tournaments are for people who like, have their lives together."

"You're kidding, right? You've been carrying me all month." His hand lingered on her arm. "Please?"

And okay, maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking, or maybe it was the way he looked at her like she was something worth betting on, but she said yes.

They practiced every day that week, until her legs burned and her phone buzzed with texts from friends she'd been ignoring. On the night before the tournament, she found herself running through her neighborhood at 2 AM, too anxious to sleep, too terrified to back out now. The streetlights blurred together, her breath fogging in the cold air, and suddenly she couldn't remember why she'd been so desperate to stay invisible.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Marcus.

"Zombie still awake?"

"How'd you guess?"

"I can hear you thinking all the way from my house. I'm outside."

She found him sitting on her front steps in sweatpants and a hoodie, holding two Gatorades like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"We're gonna win," he said simply, handing her the blue one.

"We're terrible," she laughed, but it came out breathless.

"We're terrible together. There's a difference." He stood up, suddenly awkward, and okay, maybe it was the zombie brain talking, but she grabbed his hand before she could talk herself out of it.

"Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"Tomorrow. Win or lose... I'm really glad I moved here."

His smile was worth all the sleepless nights. "Me too, Chlo. Me too."