Love Games

The padel court hummed with the rhythmic thwack of racquets against ball, but Marcus couldn't focus. His iphone vibrated against the bench—again—and he knew without looking that it was Elena. Three missed calls already, each one a small tremor in the earthquake of their collapsing marriage.

'You're up, Marcus.' His opponent gestured, sweat dripping from his forehead like guilty confessions.

Marcus peeled his orange, the citrus spray sharp and sudden against the stale air of the club. The fruit's vibrant flesh reminded him of the dress Elena wore to their anniversary dinner, the same night she'd whispered that she'd met someone else. Someone who made her feel seen, heard—alive.

His phone lit up: *Can we talk?*

'You playing or what?' the guy called from across the court.

Marcus's father had loved baseball. The crack of the bat, the ritual statistics, the comforting certainty of rules and boundaries. 'You can't control the pitch,' his father would say, 'but you control how you swing.' Wise words from a man who'd died before seeing his son strike out in every relationship he'd ever attempted.

The orange segments sat on his palm like broken promises. He thought of Elena's laughter when she'd discovered his secret—that he'd been reading her texts for months, his insecurity a cancer eating whatever trust remained. She hadn't even been angry. Just sad. Just done.

*Please,* the screen read now.

Marcus stood slowly, padel racquet dangling from his hand like a weapon he no longer knew how to use. He walked to the club's entrance, the orange peel still sticky on his fingers, and typed back: *I'm done trying to hit pitches I can't see coming.*

Outside, the evening light painted everything in shades of forgiveness and finality. He deleted her contact. Then he found himself standing at a bodega, buying another orange, something simple and whole in a world that kept splitting apart at the seams.