The Court We Shared

The glass-walled padel court hummed with the echo of the final point. Marco leaned against the mesh, chest heaving, watching Tomas collect the ball from the corner. Forty years of friendship reduced to this weekly ritual, this sweaty hour on a enclosed court.

"You still swing like a bull in a china shop," Marco said, the compliment laced with something sharper. He'd always been the bull—charging forward, blind to collateral damage, while Tomas calculated angles.

Tomas shrugged. "At least I'm still swinging."

The words hung between them, heavier than the humidity in the air. They were forty-seven now, the age where paths diverged so sharply they became unrecognizable. Marco had ridden the bull market to a penthouse and a second wife. Tomas had stayed in their hometown, teaching high school history, caring for a dying mother.

"Your sister called," Tomas said, not meeting his eyes. "She's worried about you."

Marco's jaw tightened. "My sister has opinions on everything."

"She said you haven't visited Elena's grave in six months."

The silence stretched, painful and absolute. Elena—Marco's first wife, Tomas's college sweetheart. The ghost that had lived between them for fifteen years, in every padel game, every drink, every carefully chosen topic of conversation.

"I'm busy," Marco said, but his voice cracked.

"We're all busy, Marco." Tomas walked to the net, his posture imperfect, his game unchanged from the countless nights they'd played under harsh fluorescent lights in their twenties. "But grief isn't something you schedule."

Marco looked at his friend—really looked at him. The gray in his temples, the lines around eyes that had seen too much, the quiet dignity of a man who had stayed when everyone else left. The bull had charged ahead, trampling everything in its path. The friend had remained, holding the pieces.

"Next Tuesday," Marco said softly. "Same time?"

Tomas's eyes crinkled. "I'll bring the balls."

As they walked to their cars, Marco realized the bull wasn't the market, wasn't the charging animal. The bull was the grief he carried, the stubborn refusal to face what he'd lost. And the court, this stupid glass box, was the only place he could still be seen.