Spinach and Second Chances

The spinach smoothie sat on the counter like radioactive sludge, swirling with chunks of something that might've been kale in a past life.

"Drink up, champ," my mom said, already in her yoga gear. "Big day at the padel club."

I grabbed the cup and chugged, trying not to taste my shame. Padel. The sport nobody actually cares about unless they're over forty and trying to recapture their youth. Meanwhile, half my school was at baseball tryouts, where guys like Jaxon were probably getting scouted by actual teams.

Instead, I was heading to the club with my retired-jock dad, who'd decided that padel would be "my thing" this year. Last year it was karate. Before that, chess club. I was a jack of all trades, master of feeling mediocre at everything.

The fox — that's what we called Sophia, because she was cunning as hell with that sarcastic smile — caught me by the locker rooms.

"Rough morning, Marcus? You look like you're trying to solve a math problem with your face."

"Spinach smoothie," I muttered. "And my life is a math problem I can't solve."

She laughed, and I felt that stupid flip in my chest. Sophia was effortlessly cool, the kind of person who knew exactly who she was.

"Hey," she said, "cable's out at my place. My mom's losing it without her shows. You think your dad could fix it? He's like, the tech guy, right?"

My dad. The "tech guy" because he'd once fixed a router.

"Sure," I said, because I was pathetic. "I'll ask him."

Later that week, I stood in Sophia's living room while my dad fiddled with cables and connections. I watched Sophia's little brother trying to hit a baseball against a wall in the backyard, missing every time.

"You're doing it wrong," I found myself saying. "Grip it like this."

I showed him, and he connected. The crack of the bat echoed. Sophia watched from the doorway, arms crossed, smiling like she'd caught me doing something illegal.

"You're secretly good at baseball?"

"I'm secretly mediocre at everything. That's different."

"Mediocre's fine," she said. "At least you're trying stuff. Most people just scroll and complain."

That night, I drank my spinach smoothie and thought: maybe mediocre wasn't the worst thing to be. Maybe it was just part of figuring out who the hell I was becoming.

I'd tell Jaxon that at baseball tryouts next year. Right after I asked Sophia if she wanted to grab food and complain about our parents.