Service Fault

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of racquet against ball, each shot a punctuation mark in the silence between them. Marcos adjusted his grip on the racquet, sweat stinging his eyes. Across the net, Elena checked her iphone for the third time that set.

'Your serve,' she said, not looking up.

'Always is.' Marcos served into the net. The ball dribbled pathetically at his feet.

They'd met at this club three years ago. Elena had been watching from the viewing gallery, goldfish darting in a massive aquarium behind her. He'd asked her out halfway through his match, distracted enough to lose 6-0, 6-1. Worth it, he'd thought then.

Now, a different kind of loss was unfolding.

'You're not trying,' Elena said softly. She pocketed her phone—finally—and met his eyes.

'Marcos thought of his father's baseball glove, still in the closet back home. How his dad had taught him that some games you played to win, others you played not to lose. This one, he didn't know how to play anymore.

'I am,' he said. 'I'm just not sure what we're playing for.'

She laughed without humor. 'That's rich coming from the man who spent our anniversary sexting his colleague.'

'It wasn't like that.'

'Wasn't it?' Elena walked to the net. 'She forwarded me the messages, Marcos. Unless autocorrect invented all those things about her legs and your hotel room.'

The goldfish in the lobby swam in endless circles, Marcos remembered, never realizing they were going nowhere. He and Elena had been like that—circling the same conflicts, the same accusations, believing they were making progress.

He gripped the racquet tighter. 'I made a mistake. One mistake. Doesn't three years count for anything?'

Elena's shoulders dropped. The fight left her. 'It counted. That's why I'm still here, still playing this game with you. But I look at you and I don't know you anymore. You check your phone during dinner. You work late every night. You forgot my mother's birthday—again.'

'I can fix this.'

'Can you?' She picked up her bag. 'Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear, like last time?'

The padel ball lay still between them. Marcos wanted to scoop it up, serve again, keep the game going. Anything to delay the ending he knew was coming.

'I love you,' he said, and meant it.

Elena's eyes glistened. 'I know. I love you too. But that's not enough anymore.'

She walked toward the exit, each step echoing off the court walls. Marcos watched her go, iphone vibrating in his pocket—work, probably, or maybe her, or maybe the colleague whose name he couldn't even remember now.

The goldfish in the lobby would be fed tomorrow. The court would be reserved by someone else next week. Life, Marcos realized, didn't stop for broken hearts. It just kept serving, waiting for you to return the ball or walk away.

He stood alone on the court, racquet dangling at his side, and finally understood that some games end not with a winner or loser, but with both players walking off the court, still holding everything they needed to win.