The Service Break

The padel court smelled of rubber and sweat, the kind of honest smell Elena used to find comforting. Now it just reminded her of Thursday evenings, 7 PM sharp, like clockwork. David adjusted his hat—white, pristine, utterly ridiculous—and bent to tie his shoelace with theatrical care.

"You going to serve or just stand there?" David called, already in position at the net. His white sneakers squeaked against the synthetic surface. Everything about him was white today: the shorts, the polo, the hat. A blank canvas.

Elena's iPhone buzzed in her bag on the sideline. Again. The third time in ten minutes. She knew who it was.

"I'm serving," she said, tossing the ball. Her hands were shaking.

The padel racket met the ball with a hollow thud. Into the net. She watched it roll, a blue sphere coming to rest at David's feet.

"Rough night?" He scooped it up, his grin infuriatingly patient. They'd been playing together for six months, sleeping together for four. He didn't know she'd been sleeping with someone else for two.

"Just tired." Elena bent to retrieve her phone, fingers trembling over the screen. Two messages. *Are you going to tell him?* and *I can't do this anymore.*

"Everything okay?" David stood at the service line, still clutching his racket. The brim of his hat shadowed his eyes, but she could feel him watching her.

"David." She straightened, the phone heavy in her hand. "We need to stop seeing each other."

The silence stretched between them, thicker than the humid air. He adjusted his hat, then took it off completely, revealing thinning hair Elena had never seen in the harsh fluorescent light. He looked suddenly older, fragile.

"Is it someone else?" His voice cracked.

Elena thought about lying. Instead, she said, "Yes."

"Do I know him?"

"No." But David would. Everyone in their friend group played padel at this club. Everyone knew everyone. The network of suspicion would spread like ink in water.

"Okay." David set his hat on the bench, folded it neatly. "Can we finish the set?"

"What?"

"I'm up 4-3. Let's finish. Then you can go."

So they played. Elena's serves landed in. David's returns found the corners. The ball moved between them, a blue punctuation mark in a conversation they'd finished having. When David finally hit the winner—a clean backhand down the line—he didn't cheer.

"Game, set," he said quietly.

Elena collected her things. The phone screen stayed dark. "I'm sorry, David."

"Yeah." He put his hat back on, pulling the brim low. "Me too."

She walked out leaving him on the court, alone with his white shoes and his pristine hat, bouncing the ball rhythmically against the floor. Thud, thud, thud. Like a heartbeat that wouldn't quit.