Serving Without Sound

Marcus adjusted his hat—cream linen, foolishly impractical for the indoor court—and watched the padel ball bounce against the glass wall. His racket felt foreign in his hand, though he'd played twice a week for three years. This wasn't a game anymore. It was a performance.

"Your form's off, Sinclair," Chen called from the opposite side of the court. The managing partner's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Like you're not fully committed to the swing."

Marcus wondered if Chen knew he'd spent the morning in a bathroom stall at his daughter's school, crying because his ex-wife was marrying someone who actually deserved her. Probably not. Chen's empathy ended where his billable hours began.

They were supposed to be discussing the merger. Instead, they were hitting neon balls back and forth while pretending this wasn't an interview for partnership. Marcus's career, distilled to sweaty palms and forced laughter.

He served. The ball clipped the net and died.

"Water break," Chen said, though they'd only played seven minutes. He pulled a bottle from his bag—a premium brand Marcus had mentioned liking once, months ago. Small details, catalogued and deployed.

At the club restaurant, Chen ordered the salad course. "You know what's funny about spinach?" he said, picking at his fork. "It looks enormous on the plate. But when you actually cook it down? Practically nothing."

Marcus stared at his own untouched portion. He was thirty-eight, and he was being given a metaphor about value dilution over lunch.

"My grandfather owned a farm," Marcus said. "He used to say: spinach grows fast, but the real crop takes seasons."

Chen paused, fork hovering. Then he laughed, startled and genuine. "I've been pitching you for twenty minutes, and you're still talking about seasons."

"I'm not the one who needs a partner," Marcus said. "You do."

He stood up, left his hat on the table, and walked out without looking back at the glass-walled court. Some games you win by refusing to play.