Forehand of Forgotten Things

The ball hit the padel racket with a sharp crack that echoed across the court. Sweat dripped down Marcus's back as he watched it arc toward the baseline—just out of reach.

"Game point," Elena called out, not even winded. She adjusted her ponytail, her palm resting briefly on her hip, that same casual gesture that used to make his stomach flip seven years ago. Now it just made him tired.

The coastal resort stretched behind them—palm trees swaying in the humid evening breeze, the infinity pool blurring into the Pacific beyond. They'd come here to fix things, or at least that's what the marriage counselor had suggested. "A change of scenery," she'd said. "Somewhere neutral."

"You're letting me win," Elena said, walking to the net. Her paddle hung loose at her side.

Marcus laughed, a dry sound. "I'm not."

"You are. You haven't made a proper serve in twenty minutes." She stepped closer, the net between them. "Talk to me, Marcus."

The sun was setting now, turning the water pink and gold. A weekend group at the neighboring court erupted in laughter—colleagues from some tech conference, loosening up after panels and networking events. They sounded like people who still knew how to be alive.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore," Marcus said finally. "Not the game. Us."

Elena's expression didn't change. She'd been preparing for this, he realized. She'd probably rehearsed her response in hotel mirrors while he was at the bar.

"I know," she said softly. "But we still have two more days. And you still owe me a rematch." She held up her palm, fingers slightly curled. "Read my future first. Tell me what happens next."

Marcus looked at her hand—familiar lines, the small scar from cooking mishap, the worn engagement ring. In the distance, someone dived into the pool, the sound of water breaking carrying across the fading light.

"You win," he said. "Then we get dinner, drink too much wine, and figure it out from there."

Elena smiled—a real one this time. "Game on."