The Last Game

Elena watched from the padel court's sidelines as Carlos's racquet connected with the ball—a sharp, satisfying crack that echoed through the indoor arena. His shirt was soaked through, his movements aggressive, precise. She hadn't seen him this alive in months.

"You're staring," he said afterward, catching her gaze in the mirror-lined wall as he toweled off.

"I'm remembering."

"Remembering what?"

"Remembering when you used to watch me play baseball in college. How you'd bring orange slices to every dugout."

Carlos's jaw tightened. The bull market crash had taken his hedge fund last month, their savings, their future—all of it evaporated in a week of frantic phone calls and sleepless nights. He'd been different since. Harder. Like he was made of something that couldn't break, but also couldn't bend.

"That was a lifetime ago, El."

"It was six years."

"It's a different life." He shouldered his bag, already moving toward the exit. "I'm meeting Marcus about the startup. Don't wait up."

She didn't follow him. Instead, she walked to the vending machine, bought an orange juice, and sat alone on the bench where they'd first kissed after his championship game. The court lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a fluorescent glow that felt like a hospital waiting room.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus's name on Carlos's screen, left unlocked on the bench. A message: *She still doesn't know about the bonus, does she?*

Elena closed her eyes. The orange juice carton warmed in her hand. Somewhere in the distance, another game began—the familiar thwack of ball against racquet, laughter, the illusion of forward motion. She stood up, left the juice untouched, and walked out into the orange wash of sunset, leaving her keys on the bench.