Zombie Mode Padel

The fluorescents buzzed overhead like dying insects as I dragged myself onto the padel court at 7 AM. Coach Martinez blew her whistle—sharper than my mom's lectures about my posture—and I flinched, the sound ricocheting through my skull like a pinball machine from hell.

"You good, Lucas?" Maya asked from across the net, flipping her ponytail. She wore that Nike headband I'd been eyeing at Foot Locker, the one I couldn't afford because I'd blown my allowance on those stupid gummy vitamins from TikTok that were supposed to make me "limitless."

"Yeah," I managed, though my voice cracked like I was still twelve. "Just tired."

Zombie mode. That's what my sister called it when she found me at 3 AM, mainlining Mountain Dew and grinding ranked matches. "You're literally a zombie," she'd said, closing my door with that judgmental click that made me want to scream.

But Maya didn't know I was a zombie. She just knew I was the new kid who'd somehow made varsity, even though I'd barely touched a racquet until tryouts last week. She didn't know I'd spent every night since then watching padel tutorials until my eyes burned, trying to memorize backhand techniques like they were lyrics to a song I needed to know before school tomorrow.

"Alright, pairs!" Coach Martinez called. "Lucas, you're with Maya."

My stomach dropped through the court. Maya, who'd been playing padel since kindergarten. Maya, whose Instagram stories were filled with tournament trophies and candid laughing photos with friends who seemed to have their whole lives figured out.

She jogged over, all easy confidence and coconut shampoo. "Ready to get crushed, new kid?" she grinned, but her eyes were kind. "I'll go easy on you."

The first serve came at me like a comet. I swung—and missed completely, the ball whizzing past my ear as the court erupted in laughter. But not Maya's laugh. Hers was this surprised little exhale, like she hadn't expected me to even try.

"Not bad for a zombie," she said, tossing the ball back.

I blinked. "What?"

"Zombie mode." She gestured at my face. "You've got that look. Like you haven't slept since finals week."

Before I could respond, my stomach growled—loudly. Someone snorted. I felt my face burn hotter than a fever.

Maya dug into her bag and tossed me something. It was one of those gummy vitamin packs. "My mom's obsessed with these. Says they're supposed to help with 'teen brain development' or whatever. Take 'em."

I caught it instinctively. The packaging was exactly like mine.

"Wait, you take those too?" I asked, genuinely shocked.

"Unfortunately." She rolled her eyes. "Total waste of money, right? But my mom won't stop buying them."

We stood there for a second, just two tired kids with overprotective moms and fake vitamins, staring at each other across the padel court. And then she smiled—not the pity-smile I'd been expecting, but something real.

"Hey," she said, "you any good at video games? Because my brother needs a new Fortnite duos partner and he's literally insufferable."

"I'm decent," I admitted, feeling something in my chest loosen for the first time in weeks.

"Cool." She served again, slower this time. "After school? My place. We can order pizza and complain about how we're both zombies trying to survive high school."

The ball hit my racquet with a satisfying thwack. I was still exhausted, still a fake athlete, still taking useless vitamins—but somehow, for the first time since moving here, I didn't feel like the walking dead anymore.