The Friday Night Padel League

The artificial light hummed over the padel court as Marcus adjusted his grip on the racket. His palm was sweating—whether from the exertion or the conversation he'd been avoiding all week, he couldn't tell anymore.

Across the net, Elena laughed at something Greg said. Her head tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat. Greg, with his perfect forehand and his corner office and his subtle way of making everyone feel like they were in on the joke. Marcus watched Elena's hand brush Greg's arm as she served. The familiarity of it made something twist in his chest.

"You're staring again," his partner Sarah said, stepping closer to prepare for the return volley. "It's pathetic, Marc."

"I'm not staring. I'm analyzing their strategy."

"Their strategy is that they're sleeping together and we're not." Sarah rolled her eyes. "Also, you just hit the ball into the fence."

After the match—they lost, badly—everyone gathered at the clubhouse pool. The water reflected the string lights, casting rippling shadows across the terrace. Marcus found himself at the edge, watching Elena and Greg submerged to their waists in the heated water, their heads bent together in intimate conference.

He remembered last month, when it was him in that pool with Elena, her fingers tracing the tattoos on his forearm, her breath warm against his neck as she whispered about how trapped she felt in her marriage. How different the water had felt then—electric, pregnant with possibility.

Now Greg's hand rested on Elena's lower back, beneath the water's surface where no one could see. Possessive. Casual. Like he'd been doing it for years.

Marcus's phone buzzed. A message from Elena: Can we talk? Tomorrow?

He watched her laugh at something Greg said, throwing her head back again. The palm fronds overhead rustled in the evening breeze, casting dancing shadows across her face.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. The water looked inviting, dark and bottomless. He could simply step in—no, not that. He could simply leave. Drive home. Open a bottle of wine and pretend this night never happened.

Instead, he typed: Sure. Same place?

She didn't reply. She was too busy leaning in to whisper something in Greg's ear, something that made them both laugh.

Marcus slipped his phone into his pocket and walked toward the parking lot, leaving behind the splash of laughter, the warm glow of the clubhouse, the certainty that he would be back here next Friday, racket in hand, watching someone else's life from the sidelines.