Game Point

Elena stood at the baseline of the padel court, racquet trembling in her grip. Three years since she'd stepped foot here — three years since the accident. The glass walls reflected the fluorescent lights, mocking her with memories of Sarah's laugh, the way her sister had dominated these courts with effortless grace.

"You're slicing it again," Marco said from across the net. Sarah's husband. His hair had grayed at the temples, deep lines etching around eyes that couldn't quite meet hers. "Always your weakness."

"It's been a while." Elena's voice came out sharper than intended.

Marco adjusted his baseball cap — Sarah's baseball cap, the faded blue one with the brewery logo she'd refused to throw away. Seeing it on him made something twist in Elena's chest, old jealousy mixing with guilt, so tangled she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

They played in silence, the rhythmic *thwack* of ball against racquet filling the space between them. Elena missed shots she should've made. Marco kept sending her easy lobs, almost insulting in their gentleness.

Then the dog appeared through the gate — a golden retriever, tail wagging, carrying a muddy tennis shoe in its mouth like a prize.

"Buster!" Marco called, dropping his racquet. The dog bounded to him, depositing the shoe at his feet and looking expectantly between them.

Elena stared. Buster had been Sarah's service dog, trained during those terrible months of chemo. He'd slept at the foot of Sarah's hospital bed every night.

"He still brings me her shoes," Marco said softly, kneeling to ruffle the dog's ears. "Every morning. Like she's just... stepped out of them."

The padel game forgotten, Elena crossed the net. The glass walls, the competition, the three years of silence — it all seemed suddenly, impossibly small.

"I should have come to the funeral," she said.

Marco looked up, eyes wet. "She would have wanted you here instead. On the court. Like old times."

Buster nudged Elena's hand with his wet nose, and something broke loose inside her — not forgiveness exactly, but the possibility of it. Not resolution, but the beginning of something.

"One more set?" she asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Marco smiled, pulling Sarah's cap lower over his face. "Your serve."