The Score We Settle

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of rubber against ball, but Elena's mind was elsewhere. She watched Marcus across the net—his graying hair, sweat-dampened at the temples, the way his shoulders had begun to round forward like he was perpetually apologizing for something. They'd been playing Sunday mornings for twelve years, longer than their marriage had lasted.

'You're staring,' Marcus called out, pivoting for a backhand.

'I'm strategizing.' Elena lied.

Afterward, they sat on the bench between courts. Marcus peeled an orange, his movements careful, practiced. The citrus scent hung between them, sharp and reminding her of breakfasts they'd shared, fights they'd pretended weren't happening.

'I started taking B12,' he said, not looking at her. 'Doctor says my fatigue might be a vitamin deficiency.'

Elena studied her hands. 'Your fatigue is living someone else's life.'

He laughed, a dry, rusted sound. 'Potassium, kettle.'

The papaya in her lunch bag sat heavy, uneaten. She'd bought it because he liked it, this habit of accommodation she couldn't shake even two years post-divorce. Even here, on this court where they'd once screamed at each other over line calls, where she'd told him she wanted a baby and he'd said he wasn't ready, never told her until he was fifty-three that he'd never wanted children at all.

'The new woman,' Elena said, the words tasting like ash. 'Does she play?'

Marcus's smile didn't reach his eyes. 'She thinks sports are barbaric.'

'Good.' Elena stood, shouldered her bag. 'You deserve barbaric.'

'El.' His hand brushed her arm, the touch almost automatic. 'The padel club membership renewal—I was going to let it lapse.'

She turned toward the parking lot, the papaya weight pressing against her hip like a stone. 'See you next Sunday.'

Behind her, Marcus called her name. Elena kept walking, some part of her already dreading the game she'd show up to play, the score she'd keep settling for even when she'd already lost everything that mattered.