The Score We Settle

The ball hit the glass wall with that familiar hollow thud, the sound that had haunted Maria's Tuesday evenings for six months. Across the padel court, Elena wiped her palms on her skirt—not from nerves, but from the humid weight of unspoken things between them.

They'd been friends since they were twenty-two, sharing apartments, lovers, and secrets in that seamless way only women in their thirties can. But friendship, Maria had learned recently, is just another negotiation with an expiration date.

'Your serve,' Elena said, her voice flat. She'd already moved on—maybe to the promotion Maria hadn't gotten, maybe to Marco from accounting who'd stopped returning Maria's texts after happy hour three weeks ago. The specifics didn't matter anymore. Elena collected wins like some people collected resentment; she stored both in the same careful space behind her eyes.

Maria bounced the ball. Her own palm was slick against the grip. The court smelled of rubber and the faint metallic tang of competition. She thought about how she and Elena had once lain on a beach in Spain, palms pressed together in that solemn way girls do when they swear they'll never become their mothers, never compromise, never drift apart. Elena had a palm tree tattoo on her wrist then; she'd lasered it off last year, said it was unprofessional.

The first serve went long. Elena didn't bother chasing it.

'Marco asked about you,' Elena said, walking to the baseline. 'He wondered why you didn't come to his promotion party.' She hit the ball back without waiting for a response, a sharp angle that would've landed near Maria's feet if she'd been trying.

'Maybe I'm tired of celebrating other people's good fortune.' Maria let the ball pass.

The score was 4-4 in the third set. They'd been at this point for twenty minutes, neither willing to win, neither willing to lose. A stalemate felt safer than whatever came after.

Elena served again. This time Maria returned it, a perfect shot down the line. Elena scrambled, racket scraping the floor, and sent it back. The ball hit the metal frame at the top of the cage, bounced wildly, and landed inches from Elena's feet. She didn't move.

Maria walked to the net. 'We don't have to do this anymore.'

Elena studied her palm, tracing a line that Maria knew had been there since they were twenty-two. 'No,' she said quietly. 'I suppose we don't.'

They left their rackets by the bench. Outside, the evening air was cool. They walked to their cars without saying goodbye, which was exactly what friendship had become—a series of endings they both pretended were natural, inevitable, like the sun setting or padel scores that refused to resolve.