The Last Set

The hat sat cocked at an impossible angle on his head — a battered straw thing she'd bought him in Spain three years ago, when they still believed in the myth of second honeymoons. Elena watched from the bench as Marcus served, the ball cracking against the padel court with that satisfying pop that used to make her smile. Now it just sounded like a door closing.

He played with the bull-headed stubbornness that had eroded their marriage layer by layer — the same quality that had made him a formidable litigator, the same force that now drove her to pack her bags in secret bursts when he was at work. He'd never understood that winning wasn't the point.

"Water?" he called out, not really asking, just acknowledging her presence like a ball girl. He expected her to be there, supplying and supporting, a role she'd performed for twelve years with diminishing returns.

She handed him the bottle. Their fingers didn't touch. "I'm leaving, Marcus."

He froze mid-swing. The ball bounced harmlessly past him. "What?"

"The cat. I'm taking her. You never liked her anyway."

He laughed — that dismissive, knowing sound that made her skin prickle. "This again? We're at the club, El. Can't this wait?"

It couldn't wait. It had been waiting for years, gathering weight like water behind a dam, and today, watching him move across the court with that predatory grace that had first drawn her in, she'd realized she didn't love him anymore. She didn't even like him. She just loved the memory of who they'd been when loving was easy.

"I told Julia I'd sub in the mixed doubles tournament," he said, returning his focus to the game as if her declaration had been a minor distraction, like a leaf skittering across the court. "Saturday at noon. Don't book anything."

Elena stood up. The hat tilted further as he prepared another serve, refusing to look at her. She walked toward the exit gate, leaving him to his winning streak, his assumptions, the hollow victory of playing alone against the wall.