Forehand of the Absent

The corporate **bull** had cornered her in the breakroom again, spewing quarterly projections like they were gospel. Elena nodded, clutching her paper coffee cup, wondering when she'd lost the ability to say no to him. At forty-two, she should've been past this—past needing approval from a man half her age who treated every meeting like a medieval joust.

She fled to the padel court at lunch, the only place where her mind quieted. The game had been Marcus's idea, back when they still tried. Now she played alone against the wall, her old **hat** pulled low against judgment. The rhythm was hypnotic: swing, connect, return. Sweat pooled at the base of her spine.

"You're dropping your shoulder," a voice said.

Elena turned. A woman in her thirties stood there, racquet resting on her shoulder. "I'm Sarah. From accounting."

They played. Sarah moved like **lightning** across the court, graceful and predatory. Elena's shots went wild, her focus fractured by how long it had been since someone looked at her without expecting something.

Afterward, they sat on the bench, sharing takeout containers. Elena picked at her **spinach**, her appetite suddenly gone.

"You're good," Sarah said. "But you play like you're waiting for permission."

The words hit harder than any serve. Elena felt something crack open in her chest—a reservoir of resentments she'd been damming for years. The promotions she'd declined to not threaten Marcus. The ideas she'd swallowed in meetings. The version of herself she'd whittled away to fit someone else's life.

"I am," Elena said, surprised by her own honesty.

Sarah's hand covered hers, warm and deliberate. "Stop."

The **bull** was waiting in her office when she returned, pontificating about synergy. Elena listened for exactly thirty seconds before packing her bag.

"Where are you going?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Padel," she said, at the door. "And then I'm not coming back."

The freedom tasted like salt and possibility.