Service Game

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of rubber against glass walls, each strike punctuating the silence between them. Elena adjusted her ponytail, sweat-darkened hair clinging to her neck, watching David across the net. His movements were precise, calculated—everything their marriage hadn't been in months.

'You're holding back,' she said, smashing the ball into the corner.

David's iPhone vibrated on the bench nearby. He glanced at it, then away. 'Work. Can wait.'

Like her father's baseball glove in the attic—preserved, untouched, gathering dust. Elena remembered summer evenings at the park, the smell of leather and cut grass, her father's voice explaining how a batter's stance revealed everything: fear, confidence, the lie of a next move. David's stance was perfect. Too perfect.

'I talked to Sarah,' Elena said, serving hard.

The ball sailed long.

'She told me about the messages.'

David's racquet lowered slowly. 'Elena—'

'Her hair's blonde now,' she continued, walking to the net. 'Like mine used to be, before the kids, before everything.' She touched her own graying temple. 'Before I stopped being someone you needed to impress.'

'This isn't about hair. Or messages.'

'Isn't it?'

He set down the racquet, approached the net with hands raised like surrender. 'I'm lonely here, El. You're present but you're not—'

'And sending texts to your college ex fixes that?'

'No.' His voice cracked. 'It makes it worse.'

Elena studied him—really looked—at the man who'd held her through two miscarriages, who'd learned to braid their daughter's hair on YouTube, who kept her father's baseball glove polished and oiled. The vibration from his iPhone had stopped. The court was quiet except for their breathing.

'Then come home,' she said. 'Actually home. Not to the house where we sleep in separate rooms and measure conversations in syllables.'

David stepped through the gate onto her side of the court. 'I don't know how anymore.'

Elena extended her hand. 'Start here. Pick up the racquet. Play to lose this time.'

He took her hand, calloused palm against hers, and for the first time in months, the score didn't matter at all.