Out of Bounds

The iphone buzzed against the nightstand at 3 AM. Sarah's hand fumbled for it, screen illuminating her face with a cold blue glow as she squinted at the notification: *Marcus S. viewed your profile.*

Three years since the disaster at Morrison & Drake, and he was still looking.

She padded barefoot to the kitchen, the naval base apartment silent except for the refrigerator's hum. Barnaby, her retired racing greyhound, lifted his head from his bed by the sliding door, then settled back down with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his own disappointments. At least someone here knew how to let things go.

The baseball sat on the windowsill where she'd placed it that evening—a dusty artifact she'd found while clearing out her home office. Rawlings, 2018, the signature faded but still legible: *To Marcus, with gratitude.* She'd won it at the company charity auction, outbidding everyone, believing it would be the perfect gift for the friend who'd brought her into the firm. Who'd mentored her through those brutal first months. Who she'd trusted completely until the day she discovered he'd been quietly undermining her with the partners for six months.

Her palm still remembered how it felt to throw the baseball at his office door that afternoon. The solid thud. The way he hadn't even flinched when she stormed in, just stared at his computer with that infuriating calm.

"You think this is personal," he'd said. "This is how the game is played."

She'd thought she'd moved past it. The new consulting business was thriving. She'd rebuilt. But seeing his name on her screen tonight—him checking on her, wondering, perhaps, if she'd finally failed—opened something she thought had scarred over.

Barnaby stood up and ambled over, pressing his bony shoulder against her leg. His brown eyes regarded her with that particular greyhound wisdom: all things pass, everything ends, would you please open the treat cabinet anyway.

Sarah set the baseball back on the windowsill, where it caught the moonlight through the palm fronds beyond her balcony. Tomorrow she'd throw it away. Or donate it. Or keep it as a reminder that some victories aren't wins at all.

She picked up her phone, deleted the notification, and turned it face down on the counter. Some games you only win by refusing to play anymore.