The Summer I Swam

My mom stood in the kitchen doorway, holding out the green sludge like it was a peace offering. "Vitamin D supplement, kale, spinach, and actual prayers," she announced. "Drink. Your hair is falling out in clumps, Marcus."

I groaned but chugged it. Junior year had wrecked me—AP classes, varsity tennis rejection, and watching Layla Hernandez choose Tyler over me at spring fling. My hair wasn't actually falling out, but it had lost its swagger. And so had I.

"You need to get out of the house," Mom added. "Mrs. Chen's son is starting a padel league at the rec center. Sign up."

Padel. The sport everyone played at my old school before we moved. The sport where I'd been benched seventh grade for smashing a racket into the fence. The sport Tyler dominated.

"Hard pass."

"Water under the bridge, Mars. You were thirteen."

"You've never used that expression correctly in your life."

But I showed up anyway. First practice, I choked. My legs felt like lead, my grip slippery, my brain overloaded with flashbacks to That Incident. Then I saw him—Tyler, across the net, laughing at something Layla said from the sidelines.

Something in me snapped. Not anger—just clarity.

I played like my life depended on it. My hair flopped into my eyes, sweat dripping, lungs burning, but I found my rhythm again. The satisfying *thwack* of the ball against the padel walls. The strategic positioning. The dance.

Tyler noticed. He stopped laughing.

Afterward, Layla approached me. "You were... actually kind of fire out there."

I looked at my spinach-stained water bottle, at Tyler heading toward the parking lot, at my frizzy reflection in the gym door. "Yeah," I said, something unclenching in my chest. "I think I'm back."