The Sphinx at Net Post

The orange hung between us like a question mark.

"You want this?" Marcus asked, peeling it with those long fingers that made every serve look effortless. We were sitting on the bench after our third straight loss in the regional padel tournament. My white shirt was grass-stained, my ego was bruised, and I was pretty sure I'd forgotten what it felt like to win.

"I'm good," I mumbled, even though my stomach was growling loud enough to echo across the court.

Marcus just laughed and tossed me a segment. "Dude, you've been running yourself into the ground all week. I saw you at the park this morning—laps at six AM? That's not normal people behavior."

I caught the orange slice, embarrassed. "Just trying to get faster, you know? For the team."

"You're already fast," he said, and something about how he said it—like it was obvious, like it was a fact—made my chest feel weirdly tight.

Marcus was everything I wasn't: popular, relaxed, effortless. His nickname around school was "The Sphinx" because he never gave anything away in conversation—just these cryptic little smiles that made people wonder what he was actually thinking. Girls wrote about him in their Instagram stories. Guys wanted to be him.

And here he was, sharing his post-match orange with me.

"My mom's making this spinach lasagna tonight," I blurted out, because apparently my brain had stopped filtering my thoughts somewhere around the second set. "If you wanted to come over. After."

The words hung there, and I immediately regretted everything. I started mentally drafting my apology text, my escape route, maybe transferring schools.

Marcus blinked. Then grinned—actually grinned, not just a Sphinx-smile. "Spinach lasagna sounds legit. That stuff with the white sauce?"

"Yeah."

"Bet," he said, bumping my shoulder with his. "Pick you up at seven."

I sat there holding my orange segment, grass stains and all, realizing that maybe—just maybe—I wasn't as invisible as I thought.

And maybe neither was he.