Service Games

The glass wall of the padel court reflected everything Marcia didn't want to see: her own exhaustion, Elena's predatory grin, and the corporate headquarters looming beyond the club's perimeter like a judgmental parent. They'd been playing weekly for three years—since Elena's promotion, since Marcia's divorce, since they'd become something between colleagues and friends in that particular shade of workplace intimacy that feels safe until it suddenly isn't.

"Your backhand's getting sloppy," Elena called out, smashing the ball toward the corner. Marcia lunged, racket connecting with glass instead of rubber. The shatter echoed through the empty club.

"Sorry," Marcia said, but Elena was already checking her phone. The notification sound had become Pavlovian in their meetings—the signal that someone above them wanted something.

"They're announcing the restructuring tomorrow," Elena said, her voice flat. "I wanted you to hear it from me."

Marcia waited.

"Your team's being dissolved. You're being moved under me."

The locker room was silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights. Marcia sat on the bench, towel pressed to her face, breathing in the smell of chlorine and expensive shampoo. Elena's locker was open beside hers—neat, organized, efficient. On the top shelf, in a small bowl that Marcia had given her as a joke after their first padel victory, swam a single goldfish. It had been alive for years, a testament to Elena's competence or luck or whatever quality made her always land on her feet.

"I fought for you," Elena said from the doorway. "They wanted you out completely."

"And you'll have me reporting to you."

"It's something."

Marcia stood up and met her friend's eyes. The goldfish swam in its endless loop, oblivious to the currents that swirled around it.

"Did you?" Marcia asked. "Fight for me, I mean. Or did you fight to keep me where you could watch me?"

Elena's expression flickered—something almost like guilt, or what passed for guilt in people who'd made too many necessary sacrifices. The goldfish rose to the surface, opened its mouth, and sank back down.

"We're still playing next week, right?" Elena asked, already retreating.

Marcia watched her go. Outside, the corporate building caught the last light of day, its windows flashing gold like scales in deep water. She thought about the goldfish, swimming in circles, believing it was traveling somewhere. She thought about how some cages are built so carefully you never notice you're inside them until you try to leave.

"Sure," Marcia called after her. "Next week."

The goldfish turned again, completing another circuit in water that had never, not once, been the ocean.