The Zombie Padel Champion

Maya dragged herself into the kitchen feeling like a straight-up zombie. Three hours of AP Bio homework would do that to a person. Her hair was doing that thing where it looked cute six hours ago but now resembled a small explosion.

"Morning, sunshine," her brother said, completely failing to read the room. "Big day. You ready for your redemption arc at the padel tournament?"

Maya groaned into her cereal. The only thing she was ready for was another three hours of sleep. But apparently her whole social survival depended on this dumb padel tournament because Jordan—her crush since September—would be there, and apparently he'd mentioned he thought girls who played racket sports were "lowkey fire." Whatever that meant.

Her brother's friend Tyler waltzed in, wearing his usual outfit: basketball shorts and an ego the size of a compact car.

"No pressure, but I heard Jordan's watching your match," Tyler said, pouring himself way too much coffee. "Don't want to look like a total bull out there, you know?"

Maya's eye twitched. "Did you just call me a bull?"

"No, like—when you're all awkward and stuff. Bull in a china shop type situation." Tyler backpedaled poorly, as always.

Two hours later, Maya stood at the padel court, her hair somehow simultaneously perfect and a disaster. The tournament was in full swing, music thumping, people everywhere. And there was Jordan, sitting courtside with his friends, looking annoyingly good in his backwards cap.

Her opponent: some girl from the rival school who played like she had something to prove. The match was brutal—sweating, diving, Maya's hair escaping its ponytail like it had a death wish. But somewhere between game point and absolute exhaustion, Maya stopped caring. She stopped thinking about Jordan and Tyler's dumb bull comment and whether her hair looked good.

She just played. And for the first time all year, she didn't feel like a zombie going through the motions. She felt awake.

"GAME POINT!" the ref shouted.

Maya smashed the ball past her opponent's racket. The crowd went wild. Jordan actually stood up and clapped. And Tyler, bless his chaotic heart, yelled "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT" while pumping his fist like a maniac.

Later, covered in sweat and smelling like a middle school locker room, Maya sat in the shade with an electrolyte drink. Jordan wandered over, all shy smiles and awkward hand movements.

"You were insane out there," he said. "Seriously. That backhand? Lowkey fire."

Maya laughed, her hair a complete disaster, her legs tired, her weird zombie mood totally gone. "Thanks. I think."