Zombies on the Padel Court

I looked like a zombie. No, seriously—if the apocalypse hit during third period, I'd blend right in with the undead. My hair was doing that weird staticky thing, and I'd survived the morning on nothing but panic and a chewable vitamin I'd found at the bottom of my backpack.

"You coming, or what?" Maya called from the padel court. She waved her racket like she was conducting an orchestra, completely effortless, completely gorgeous.

"Yeah! Just, uh, fixing my shoe!" I lied. My shoes were fine. My soul was not.

This was it: the moment. Maya Chen, junior varsity royalty, had invited ME—quiet, weird, keeps-to-herself Riley—to play padel with her friend group. The group that sat at the good lunch table. The group that didn't have to worry about green things stuck in their braces.

I froze.

Spinach. From the breakfast smoothie my mom force-fed me because "you need your greens, honey." I'd checked my teeth four times. Had I missed something?

"Your face is doing that thing again," said Lucas, materializing beside me. He had this way of showing up like a cat—silent, judging, impossible to shake.

"What thing?"

"The 'I'm socially malfunctioning' thing." He adjusted his glasses, which somehow made him look more intimidating. "You've got nothing in your teeth, by the way. I saw you checking."

My face burned. "I wasn't—"

"You were. Look, can I tell you something?" He stepped closer, and I noticed for the first time that his sneakers were the same brand as mine, just more scuffed. "Maya's competitive. Like, scary competitive. Last week she made her boyfriend cry because he couldn't return her serve."

"Wait, she has a boyfriend?"

"Had. Past tense. Because he couldn't handle the padel trauma." Lucas cracked a smile, and I saw it—that tiny bit of nerd energy hiding behind the cool-kid exterior. "Anyway, what I'm saying is, you don't have to be good. You just have to not cry."

I laughed. Actually laughed.

"What's so funny?" Maya called, walking over with her racket still swinging.

"Nothing," I said, and for once, it wasn't a lie. "Just zombie stuff."

"Cool," she said, like that made sense. "We're doubles. You and Lucas versus me and Sam. Prepare to die."

Lucas bumped my shoulder with his. "Good thing we're already dead then, right?"

I walked onto that court feeling something shift—maybe it was just the vitamin finally kicking in, maybe it was Lucas standing there like he belonged, maybe it was Maya looking human-sized instead of larger than life.

Whatever it was, the zombie feeling faded. And when I missed my first serve and sent the ball flying into the fence, and Lucas said "nice shot, very artistic" with completely deadpan sarcasm, and Maya laughed so hard she snorted—I knew I was going to be okay.

Even if I never became a padel queen. Even if I still got anxious about spinach in my teeth. I had this. A team. A weird, unexpected, surprisingly perfect team.

And that was better than sitting at any lunch table alone.