The Hat on Court Four

Maya watched the hat from the sideline bench—a crushed navy fedora, incongruous beside the sleek padel rackets. It belonged to Richard, the VP she'd been sleeping with for three months, the man currently on court four, sweat dripping down his temple as he smashed a winner past his opponent.

Running, that's what they'd been doing. Literally, in these dawn padel sessions at the club where deals were made between volleys. Figuratively, from everything that mattered. Richard's wife thought he was at early meetings. Maya's therapist thought she was setting boundaries.

"Your serve, Mr. Wentworth," Richard called to the prospective client, all teeth and charm.

The hat had been his father's. Richard had told her that the second time they fucked in his office, between gasps about legacy and expectation and how he'd never wanted finance, just wanted to open a bookstore. The hat was the only remnant of that other Richard—the one who read poetry and cried during movies and pretended the corporate ladder was something he climbed by choice.

Maya's phone vibrated. Her sister: *Mom had another fall. Hospice discussion today.*

She'd been running from that phone call for six weeks.

On court, Richard laughed—too loud, too performative. He'd mentioned once that he hated padel, hated the performance of male bonding disguised as sport. But he was excellent at it. Excellent at most things he loathed.

"You coming back next week?" Richard asked later, in the locker room, his hand on her waist like he owned her there but nowhere else.

Maya looked at his fedora on the bench. A costume piece for a role he'd forgotten he was playing.

"No," she said. "I think I'm done running."