The Real Score

Brendan's thumbs moved like lightning across his iPhone screen, double-tapping sunsets and strategically liking Maya's newest mirror selfie. His social credit balance was fragile, and one wrong post could tank it.

"Dude, you coming?" Jake called from the doorway. "Padel with the crew starts in twenty."

Padel. The sport that had suddenly taken over their suburban high school, replacing baseball as the weekend activity of choice. Brendan had played baseball since he was seven — the crack of the bat, the ritual of winding tape around his wrists, the way his cleats left perfect patterns in the dirt. But baseball wasn't trending. Padel, with its neon courts and aesthetic potential, was.

"Yeah," Brendan said, pocketing his phone. "Let me grab my gear."

The court was buzzing — literally. Everyone was documenting everything. Jake was filming his serve for TikTok. Maya was setting up her ring light. Even the spectators were curated, their outfits matching the court's aesthetic color scheme.

Brendan felt like he'd stepped into a reality show where he kept forgetting his lines.

His phone buzzed. A notification: *Maya started a broadcast.* He should join. Everyone was. That's what you did when you were trying to exist in someone's orbit.

But then something weird happened. Across the net, a girl in ripped sleeves and worn Converse served with zero theatrical flair. No phone, no posing, just efficient movement that made the ball sing. Backswing like a baseball swing, finish like a golf stroke. Athlete to athlete.

"You gonna stare or hit back?" she called, grinning.

"Who are you?" blurted Brendan, immediately regretting how weird it sounded.

"Chloe. The anti-influencer." She shrugged. "Baseball varsity,春秋 padel casualty. My parents forced me to try something 'social.'"

The rest of the afternoon blurred into something real — not performative, not documented, not filtered. Just two people who'd rather be playing baseball, finding rhythm in a sport they didn't choose, while everyone around them treated a casual game like content production.

At sunset, Jake finally put down his phone. "Bro, are you even posting any of this?"

Brendan looked at his lock screen: 47 notifications. He looked at Chloe, who was packing up her gear, unconcerned with whether anyone had witnessed her skills.

"Nah," said Brendan. "I was kinda busy playing."

His phone stayed in his pocket. His follower count remained frozen. But for the first time in months, his social credit balance felt totally fine.