The Last Set

The ball hit the padel racket with a sharp crack, echoing off the glass walls. David stood across the net, sweat dripping down his temple, palm trees swaying against the twilight sky behind him. Three years since we'd spoken, and this was how he chose to reach out—a casual text about a court booking at the Marina club.

"You're still angry," he said, hitting a perfect drop shot that I couldn't return.

"Bullshit," I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. "I'm not anything anymore. That's the point."

The bastard had taken my idea—my algorithm—and sold it to his startup's investors as his own. Made millions while I collected unemployment checks in a studio apartment with peeling paint. Some friend.

"I came back," he said. "I could've stayed in San Francisco. I came back to fix this."

"Fix what?" The words tasted like bile. "Your conscience?"

"Us."

David's palm pressed against the glass wall as he leaned forward. "Sarah, it wasn't like that. It was complicated. The investors—"

"The investors what? Needed a bull to charge at windmills? Needed someone who could sell horseshit with a straight face?"

He didn't deny it.

We finished the set in silence. Outside, the palm fronds caught the last light, turning gold against the deepening blue. A quarter of our lives tangled together in lies and betrayal, and all we had was this game, this moment.

"Next week?" David asked at the gate, hand on the latch like maybe he could still walk through it.

I looked at his hand, the same one that had shaken mine on our college graduation, the same one that had held his daughter when she was born. The same one that had signed the papers that destroyed my career.

"Same time," I said. "And bring your wallet. You're buying drinks."

His mouth twitched—something like relief, something like pain. I walked to my car knowing this would never be okay, knowing some wounds never really heal, just scar over and ache when it rains. But sometimes, that's enough. Sometimes, that's all you get.