The Goldfish in My Backhand

Alex stared at the dead goldfish floating in its bowl. "Bubbles" had survived three family moves, two siblings, and that time Dad forgot to feed him for a week. But now he was definitely gone, and Alex had volleyball tryouts in an hour.

"Your brother needs help with his padel serve," Mom called from downstairs, her voice cutting through Alex's spiral. "And don't think you're getting out of it."

Every Tuesday was the same: forced family bonding time where Alex had to help little Miles with his terrible padel form while the neighborhood kids watched through the fence. It was humiliating, especially when Tyler—gorgeous, popular Tyler who'd actually looked at Alex in homeroom yesterday—practiced with his squad on the next court over.

"Just tell him you're busy," whispered Sam, Alex's best friend, over the phone. "Or fake sick. Or literally anything else."

Alex grabbed the biggest, most obvious family-size bag of spinach from the fridge. The plan formed quickly: claim a sudden health kick, offer to make smoothies, and escape the padel embarrassment entirely. It was brilliant, until they discovered the power was out because some construction crew sliced through a cable. No blender. No escape. No excuses.

"Fine," Alex muttered, heading toward the court. "I'll help him serve. But I'm doing it my way."

What happened next either cemented Alex's social death or started something completely unexpected. Alex taught Miles the most ridiculous, wrong technique imaginable—hitting everything backwards, serving underhand between their legs. It was absurd. It was embarrassing.

And apparently, it was exactly what Tyler had been watching for.

"Dude," Tyler said, appearing at the fence with that grin that made Alex's brain glitch. "That was chaos." Then: "You run?"

"Uh," Alex said, because coherent speech wasn't happening right now.

"Morning runs? Coach wants someone who can actually do distance. Tryouts are a joke, but if you can handle five miles before school, you're on the team."

Later that night, Alex buried Bubbles in the backyard garden beneath the tomato plants. Running was tomorrow's problem. Today had been weird enough.