Love Game

The padel ball bounced against the court with a rhythm that used to sync with their heartbeats. Julia watched Mark lunge for the shot, his graying hair damp with sweat, and felt a strange detachment. Ten years of marriage, and this was what it had come to: Thursday evening matches at the club, playing partners with people who didn't know the sound of his genuine laugh anymore.

"Your serve," Mark called, but his attention drifted to the bench where his iPhone lay face up. It lit up again—third time in fifteen minutes. Julia knew that particular notification pattern. The quick double buzz. The way his eyes flicked nervously toward it before swinging his racquet.

"Who's texting?" she asked, her voice flat.

"Work. You know how Richard is."

Richard was twenty-six, with the kind of thick, glossy hair Mark had had at that age. Richard was also sleeping with her husband—that much Julia had figured out three weeks ago, when she'd picked up Mark's phone during dinner and seen a message that made her stomach turn cold: "Can't stop thinking about today."

She'd said nothing. Hadn't confronted him. Had barely slept. Instead, she'd shown up here, week after week, playing padel with a man who looked at his phone more than he looked at her.

"Game point," Mark said now, missing her completely. He bounced the ball, tossed it up, served. It hit the net.

"You're distracted," she said, walking to the bench. She picked up his iPhone—his lifeline, his door to her replacement—and slipped it into her pocket.

"Julia—" He reached for it.

"Richard's pretty," she said. "For a man."

Mark froze. The padel court went silent. Somewhere, children laughed. A phone buzzed—hers now, vibrating against her hip with messages meant for him.

"How long?" she asked.

"Six months."

She nodded, pulling a hair tie from her wrist. "I'm going to cut my hair," she said abruptly. "Something shorter. Something easier."

"Julia, please."

"The game's over, Mark. We both lost."

She walked off the court, his phone still in her pocket, its screen lighting up with Richard's name again and again, desperate messages meant for a man who had already become someone else entirely.