Service Fault

The glass walls of the padel court enclosed us like a transparent coffin, trapping the silence between Martin's racquet and the ball. I watched him serve — that fluid motion I'd admired for three years, since we'd met in the London office where we both climbed the corporate ladder. We were friends in the way only two people surviving the same brutal workplace could be. We grabbed drinks after performance reviews. We complained about the same manager. We celebrated each other's promotions.

'Your backhand's off today,' Martin said, retrieving the ball from the corner.

'Had a meeting with HR.' I wiped sweat from my forehead. 'They showed me the security logs.'

Martin's smile faltered. A microexpression, barely there. 'Oh?'

'Someone's been accessing my files. Late nights. Weekends.' I gripped my racquet tighter. 'They traced it to your credentials, Martin.'

He laughed — a sharp, desperate sound. 'Is this a joke?'

'The spy software on your laptop tells a different story.' I met his eyes across the court. 'You've been documenting everything. My mistakes. My client complaints. Even our drinks after work.'

'They made me do it.' His voice cracked. 'Corporate wanted dirt on everyone before the merger. I was supposed to choose someone I trusted.' He stepped closer to the net. 'I picked you because I thought you'd survive it. You're better than me.'

'You sold me out for a promotion.'

'I sold myself.' He slammed his racquet against the glass. 'They have my emails too. My mistakes. I gave them yours so they'd look at yours instead.'

The ball rolled between us, stopped at the service line.

'Did you ever actually like me?' I asked.

'That's the worst part.' Martin looked at the floor. 'I did. That's why this hurts.'

I walked to the net, reached across, and shook his hand. 'Goodbye, Martin.'

'You're leaving?'

'Someone has to be the better player.' I picked up my bag. 'And I'm done playing games with people who cheat.'

The glass doors clicked shut behind me. Outside, the London rain had started, washing the court, washing everything clean. Some friendships, I realized, are just matches where one person serves and the other gets served.