The Zombie Padel Protocol

My mom's latest phase? "Functional nutrition." Which is code for: our fridge now looks like a salad bar vomited in it. I'm staring at a plastic container of spinach—actual spinach—while my brain feels like it's running on 3% battery. Welcome to junior year, where I've been a certified zombie since September.

"You coming to padel tonight?" Jake texts, and I nearly drop my phone. Jake—who I've been lowkey crushing on since seventh grade when he still had that unfortunate haircut—just invited me to play padel with the popular crowd.

Here's the thing: I don't play padel. I don't play anything that requires hand-eye coordination and not looking like a complete idiot in front of people who matter. But I also don't want to spend another Friday watching Netflix while my phone stays silent.

"Yeah, see you there," I type back, immediately regretting all my life choices.

I spend three hours watching padel tutorials on YouTube. I eat a depressing spinach smoothie because apparently it's supposed to help with "mental clarity." I show up to the courts wearing my sister's old tennis outfit, feeling like a fraud and a zombie simultaneously.

Jake's there with his friends—Chloe and Marcus, who are basically human versions of Instagram filters. They're all laughing, holding padel racquets like they were born with them permanently attached.

"Hey!" Jake waves. "Ready to get destroyed?"

"Born ready," I lie.

First five minutes? I miss everything. The ball hits the fence. I trip over my own feet. I'm pretty sure I hear Chloe snort.

Then something weird happens. Jake's not laughing at me. He's giving me tips, actually helping. "Relax your grip," he says, stepping closer than necessary to adjust my hold on the racquet. His hand brushes mine, and suddenly I'm not tired anymore. The zombie fog lifts.

I actually hit a winner.

"Damn," Chloe says, sounding genuinely impressed. "Since when do you play?"

"Since today," I say, and they all laugh—but like, in a good way. A real way.

Afterward, Jake suggests we grab food. Everyone wants pizza, obviously, because normal teenagers eat pizza. But then Jake goes, "Actually, there's this place with amazing smoothies nearby?"

He looks at ME when he says it.

We end up getting spinach smoothies together, just the two of us. My zombie brain can't process this. Jake Martinez, who could hang out with literally anyone, is voluntarily drinking liquid spinach with me.

"My mom's going through a health phase too," he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world. "I've been drinking this stuff for months. It grows on you."

I look at him—really look at him—and realize he's not perfect. He drinks gross smoothies. He's tired too. Maybe everyone's kind of a zombie sometimes.

"Yeah," I say, taking another sip. "I think I'm starting to like it."