The Fox at Center Court

The storm broke just as Elena's serve clipped the net. A bolt of lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating the padel court in harsh white, and there—padding along the fence line like it owned the place—was a fox.

"Did you see that?" Marcos breathed, wiping his sweating palms against his shorts. He'd been sweating all night, actually. Since before he told her about the promotion in Singapore.

Elena lowered her racket. The fox sat, watching them with amber eyes that seemed to know everything. "The fox? Yes. I see it."

"No," Marcos said. "Before. The—"

"I know what you meant, Marcos." Her voice was flat. "I heard you the first time."

Another lightning flash. The fox twitched its tail, almost bored.

"You're not upset," Marcos said, testing.

"I'm processing. Is that allowed?"

"Of course. I just—you've been so quiet since I told you."

"Since you told me you applied, accepted, negotiated the package, and signed the contract—all without mentioning it once?" Elena laughed, short and sharp. "What exactly is there to say, Marcos?"

The fox stood, stretched, and slipped through the fence. It moved with that particular cleverness that demands respect—unapologetic, efficient, gone before you could quite process what you'd seen.

"We could make it work," he said. "Long distance isn't what it used to be."

"You didn't ask me if I wanted to make it work."

"I didn't think—"

"No," she said. "You didn't."

The rain started then, warm and sudden. They stood on either side of the net, palms slick with rain and sweat and something else—the realization that some games end long before the final point is played.

"Your serve," Elena said, and picked up her ball.

Marcos watched her walk back to the baseline. The fox was gone. The court was empty except for the two of them, and wasn't that exactly the problem?

He bounced the ball once. Twice. Somewhere beyond the fence, he thought he heard something move—quick, clever, leaving.