Zombies Don't Play Padel

I looked like a zombie. And not the cool Netflix kind — more like I'd been dead for three days and reanimated solely to suffer through 8am Chemistry. Which, honestly, wasn't far from the truth.

Blame the spy mission.

"You're staring again," Maya whispered from beside me, barely looking up from her phone. "It's getting creepy."

"I'm not staring," I lied. "I'm... observing. From a tactical distance."

We were at the padel courts — the new social battlefield where reputations were made and crushes were crushed. My dog, Buster, a chaos-powered Golden Retriever who'd somehow earned VIP status at the club, was currently losing his mind over a tennis ball three courts away.

And Lucas was there. Being Lucas. Being infuriatingly perfect with his stupid perfect hair and his stupid perfect backhand.

"So you've been 'tactically observing' Lucas for how long now?" Maya asked. "Two weeks? Three?"

"Shut up."

"Here comes the fox," she murmured.

I didn't have to ask. Chloe slid up to Lucas like she was greased with social confidence, laughing at something he'd said, touching his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. She'd been working him all month, cunning and patient and absolutely devastating.

I wanted to hate her. I couldn't. She was good at this game. I was... whatever the opposite of good was.

Buster chose that moment to launch himself into full panic mode, barking at absolutely nothing, causing a chain reaction that ended with Chloe's racquet flying out of her hand and landing squarely in Lucas's expensive water bottle.

Everyone stared. My face burned.

But then Lucas started laughing. Not the awkward laugh. The real one. He looked over at me, grinning, and I forgot how to breathe.

"Your dog," he called out, walking over, "is literally my favorite person here."

Maya elbowed me. Hard. "Tactical advantage secured."

Maybe I wasn't dead yet. Maybe being a zombie just meant you were waiting for something worth waking up for.