The Sunday Morning Shift

Sarah stood at the edge of the **padel** court, her racquet feeling foreign in hands that had spent decades gripping other things. At forty-three, she was learning a sport her colleagues played on weekends, trying to carve out space in conversations that always seemed to happen on Monday mornings around the espresso machine.

Her father had coached **baseball** for thirty years, his voice still echoing in her head whenever she swung too early. 'Patience, Sarah. Wait for it.' He'd died before he could see she'd never learned to wait. Three marriages. Six jobs in fifteen years. A pattern of leaving before things could fall apart.

The ball hit the wall with a satisfying thud. Her opponent, Javier—the CEO's nephew, of course—smiled across the court. His dark **hair** was still thick, his smile still easy. Everything about him was easy.

"You're holding back," he called out.

Sarah's ex-husband used to say that. Right before he told her she was like a **bull** in a china shop, all force and no finesse. The irony: he was the one who'd smashed their marriage to pieces with his secretary's wedding planner.

"I'm just warming up," she lied.

Her phone buzzed in her bag. The HR director. Again. The investigation into the marketing VP—the one who'd cornered her at the holiday party, whose hand had lingered too long on her waist, who'd called her 'emotional' when she'd filed the complaint—was reaching its conclusion.

She could take the settlement. Run again. Start somewhere new, learn another sport, pretend this time would be different. Or she could stay. Fight. Possibly lose everything, but finally, finally, plant her feet.

Her father's voice: 'You gotta pick your pitches, Sarah. Sometimes you swing. Sometimes you let it go.'

Javier served. The ball came hard and fast. For the first time in years, Sarah didn't think about running. She planted her feet. She watched. She waited. And then she swung.