The Service Game

The hat sat on the bench between them, a gray fedora that had belonged to his father. At forty-seven, Marcus finally understood his father's ritual of wearing the hat everywhere—to the grocery store, to dinner, even to Sunday mass. It was a shield against the world's gaze.

"Your serve," Elena said from across the padel court. Her iphone lay on the sidelines, screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications she ignored.

Marcus adjusted his grip on the racket. They'd been playing padel together for seven years, ever since her brother had introduced them to the sport at that sweaty July barbecue. The enclosed court, the glass walls, the way the ball could be played off them—it had felt like a metaphor for their marriage. Contained. Strategic.

Now, watching her stretch her calves, he noticed how she avoided his eyes.

*Three missed calls from "Gym buddy"*

He'd seen it yesterday when she'd left her iphone unlocked on the kitchen counter. Gym buddy. Who called anyone three times on a Tuesday afternoon?

"What are you thinking about?" she called across the court.

Marcus picked up the hat from the bench and put it on. The brim shadowed his face, and for the first time in his life, he understood the appeal. You could hide beneath it. You could lie.

"Just the game," he said.

He served. The ball hit the glass wall, ricocheted wildly, and landed perfectly in the corner—unreturnable.

"Good one," she said, but her iphone buzzed again.

Marcus walked to the sideline, picked up his phone, and declined the call from his broker. Then he texted the number he'd memorized yesterday—Elena's so-called gym buddy.

*She's at her padel match. Call back in an hour.*

He hit send. Then he deleted the message, deleted the thread, deleted the number.

"Ready for another set?" Elena asked.

Marcus adjusted his hat, lowered the brim against the sun, and wondered what his father had been hiding all those years.

"After you," he said.

The ball bounced between them, back and forth, a game of perfect, elegant lies.