The Last Game at Sunset

My hat kept falling over my eyes as I adjusted the strap for the third time. Stupid target hat. Marcus said it looked cool, but Marcus says everything looks cool when he's trying to get me to do something I'm not ready for.

"You coming?" he called from the padel court, spinning his racket like a pro. Behind him, the group waited—perfect, shiny, terrifying. I'd spent three weeks convincing myself I belonged here. Three weeks of mentally rehearsing conversations that never happened.

"Yeah," I said, voice cracking. "Just fixing my... thing."

My iphone buzzed in my pocket. Mom again. Are you eating? Did you take your vitamins? ARE YOU GETTING ENOUGH IRON?? The spinach incident of seventh grade still haunted her. One fainting spell in gym class, three years of nagging later. I pocketed the phone without checking.

"Nice hat," someone said. A girl. She was leaning against the fence, all effortless cool that I faked so badly it hurt. "Zombie apocalypse survival gear?"

"What?" I blinked.

"You know," she grinned. "Keep your brains safe from the undead. Strategic."

The joke landed. I laughed, surprised. Her name was Riley. She had this way of making everything feel like an inside joke we'd been sharing for years. As we played padel—terribly, hilariously badly—she kept making zombie apocalypse scenarios up. Every missed shot became a close call. Every point won was survival.

"Okay but," she said between points, wiping sweat from her forehead, "if zombies actually came, you're keeping me alive. You've got those strategic vibes."

"My strategic vibes?" I adjusted the hat again, but this time I didn't mind. "I got this hat at Target, Riley. I'm not exactly prepared."

"Target is strategic," she said, like this was obvious. "Everything in one place. Food, weapons, camping gear. It's basically a prepper's dream."

The sun set behind us. Marcus and his group had moved on, but Riley stayed. We played until we could barely see the ball, until my phone buzzed again with MOM'S inevitable are-you-alive check. This time, I answered.

"Hey Mom. Yeah, I'm eating. Actually, I might even try spinach."

Riley made a face. I laughed.

"What's that about spinach?" she asked later.

"Long story," I said. "I'll tell you sometime."

"I'll hold you to that." She adjusted her bag. "Same time next week? Target hat and all?"

"Target hat and all."

Walking home, I didn't feel like a zombie anymore. I didn't feel like the kid who fainted in gym class or the one pretending to fit in with Marcus's crowd. I was just someone with a stupid hat, a terrible padel game, and plans for next Tuesday. Sometimes, that's enough.