Love and Zeroes

The ball kept finding the gap between them—precisely where Elena used to stand.

She hadn't stepped onto a padel court in three months, not since Marcus cancelled their wedding registry two weeks before the ceremony. Yet here she was, running drills at seven on a Tuesday morning, sweat already pooling at the base of her spine. The pro shop manager had given her that look when she booked the court—the kind that said *poor thing, still hoping he'll show*.

Her palm stung where the grip rubbed raw, familiar and grounding. Padel had always been their thing. Sunday matches at the club, vacations to Spanish resorts where they'd play until their hands shook. Marcus claimed he loved how competitive she got, how she'd smash her racket against the fence when a call went against them. He called it passion. She called it the only time she was allowed to be angry without him walking out.

"You're gripping too tight."

Elena jumped. Marcus stood at the gate, hair wet from the shower, wearing that devastated expression that had somehow become her undoing. The same expression that appeared in her doorway at midnight, flowers in hand, the morning after he'd drunkenly told his sister he'd made a mistake.

"I'm not playing with you."

"Just drills. Like we used to." He stepped onto the court, and her body betrayed her—muscles relaxing into patterns etched by three years together. His serve arced toward the back glass, and she moved without thinking, returning it deep.

They fell into rhythm. Elena felt that old dangerous ache—the way he moved, the specific angle of his shoulder when he prepared for a volley. The familiarity that felt like home and like a cage all at once.

"I miss this," he said between points. "I miss us."

She missed it too. That was the problem.

Her palm connected with the racket's handle for a final shot—hard enough to hurt. The ball sailed past him, inches from the line.

"Game."

Marcus smiled, that slow charmer's grin that had convinced her to give him second chances, third chances, seventh chances. "Same time next week?"

Elena walked to the gate, not looking back. Some drills you kept running. Others you finally walked away from.