Championship Point

The orange ball bounced once, twice, against the blue glass wall before Sofia returned it with a vicious slice that kissed the line. Championship point.

Marcus didn't move.

He stood at the service line, his padel racket dangling from his hand, watching the ball spin lazily against the plexiglass. They'd been running toward this moment for six months—weekly matches that became biweekly, then whenever their schedules allowed. Which wasn't often enough anymore.

"You're going to let it go?" Sofia asked, her voice flat.

"I'm tired, Sof."

"Of the game?" She stepped closer, her sneakers squeaking on the artificial turf. "Or us?"

The bull-shaped tattoo on her forearm—something she'd gotten drunk on their tenth anniversary—seemed to mock him. She'd always been stubborn, charging through life with that same relentless force. But Marcus had stopped being the matador years ago. He'd stopped dodging and simply started taking the hits.

"I saw the texts," he said quietly. "From David."

Sofia's expression didn't change. "He's my business partner."

"Business partners don't send heart emojis at 2 AM."

"You're checking my phone now?" A flash of anger. "That's rich, coming from the man who's been emotionally absent for two years."

"I was building us a future!"

"You were building a business," she shot back. "And I was just supposed to wait around like some trophy wife?"

Marcus looked at the orange ball, still spinning. It reminded him of their wedding in Seville—how the sunset had turned the whole world that same impossible shade, how they'd promised forever beneath an endless Spanish sky. Now they stood in a climate-controlled indoor court in London, surrounded by silence and broken promises.

"I'm done running," he said, setting down his racket. "From this, from us, from pretending we're not both miserable."

Sofia studied him for a long moment. Then she picked up the ball, walked to the baseline, and served. It hit the glass and ricocheted perfectly into the corner.

"Your point," she said, walking past him toward the exit without looking back. "Game, set, match."

Marcus watched the orange door close behind her, and realized sometimes losing isn't the worst thing that can happen.