The Last Set

The orange sky burned above the padel court as Marcus adjusted his wristband for the third time. Elena stood across the net, her racket loose in her hand, watching him with that look—the one that said she'd already left, her body just hadn't caught up yet.

"You serving?" she asked, and her voice sounded like water running down a drain.

"Yeah." Marcus tossed the ball up, missed it completely. "Sorry."

"You've been sorry for six months, Marcus." She walked to the fence where their water bottles sat, sweating in the heat. "Remember when we used to actually play? Before everything started feeling like... like we were just going through the motions? Like zombies?"

The word hit harder than she meant it to. They'd met at a baseball game three years ago—some minor league match where they'd ended up sharing a bag of stale peanuts and laughing until security shushed them. He'd bought her an orange soda afterward. She'd hated it. He'd kissed the sticky taste from her lips anyway, and for a year, everything had been effortless.

Now everything was effort.

"Elena—"

"Don't." She picked up her racket again. "Just serve. Let's finish this set."

Marcus served. She returned. They fell into rhythm, the ball bouncing between them like a conversation they couldn't quite have. The glass walls of the court reflected their movements—two people playing a game, pretending it wasn't over.

He missed an easy shot. The ball rolled toward the corner.

"You're not even trying anymore," she said softly.

"I'm tired, El."

"Me too." She walked to the net, leaned her forehead against the glass. "I got that job offer. In Austin."

Marcus stood in the center of the court, the orange sun sinking below the horizon line. "Oh."

"I think I'm going to take it."

"Okay."

"You're not going to fight for it?" She turned, and finally he saw it—the hope she was still carrying, small and fragile.

Marcus thought about baseball games and orange soda and the way her laugh used to sound. Then he thought about yesterday, and last week, and all the days they'd been pretending.

"No," he said. "I don't think I am."

Something broke in her face—relief, maybe. Or disappointment. It was hard to tell anymore.

"Good game," she said.

"Yeah." He watched her pack up her bag, already gone. "Good game."