Served Fresh

The sun beat down on the outdoor padel court at Riverside Park. I wiped sweat from my forehead, gripping my racket tighter.

Marco's smirk said everything. "Too slow, bro." His new varsity friends lounged nearby, barely watching.

My stomach churned. Since Marco made the tennis squad, he'd ditched me for Taco Bell runs with teammates who wouldn't look twice at me in the halls. Today's padel session was supposed to be our thing.

Instead, I felt like the NPC in his coming-of-age movie.

"Break!" I grabbed my water bottle, hands shaking. An orange sat there — I'd packed it thinking I'd be hungry, but nerves killed my appetite hours ago. I started peeling it anyway.

Marco jogged over. "You good, man?"

"Yeah." I sank onto the bench, separating the orange into segments. "Just thinking how you're basically a different person now."

The words hung between us, heavier than any serve. Marco's expression shifted from defensive to something else. Recognition.

"I'm not trying to be," he said, sitting beside me. "It's just... varsity's different."

"I get it," I said. "But being left behind by my best friend doesn't suck any less."

His friends were still watching. Marco glanced at them, then back at me. For the first time all afternoon, he looked unsure of himself.

"You want half?" I offered the orange. "Citrus helps with cramping. Or whatever."

Marco hesitated, then took it. "Thanks."

We sat there eating orange segments in silence while his friends started their own game. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades that matched my mood.

"One more set?" Marco asked finally. "Just us."

"You're going down," I said, grabbing my racket.

He laughed, and for the first time in months, it sounded real. "Bring it, loser."

We played until we couldn't see the ball anymore. His friends came and went, but neither of us cared. Some matches end with a score, but this one ended with something better — the understanding that friendship doesn't need to be perfect. It just needs to keep showing up.