Sunday's Padel Lesson

The bull — meaning Marcus, the managing director who'd made partner by systematically destroying everyone in his path — served first. His padel racket cut through the humid morning air like a weapon, the yellow ball exploding off the wall inches from my face.

"You're running on fumes, David," Marcus smirked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just like our third quarter projections."

I didn't respond. I couldn't. I'd spent the night before explaining to my seven-year-old why her goldfish wasn't actually sleeping, why its floating position wasn't some peaceful fish meditation. Sometimes things just die, I'd told her, and the lie had tasted like copper in my mouth.

"Bear market's coming, boys," Marcus continued, bouncing the ball between his pointlessly expensive sneakers. "I can smell it. Same way I smelled trouble in the Zurich merger." He never mentioned that the merger trouble had been caused by his own negligence, or that the bear he claimed to have in his portfolio was likely fictional.

My wife had left me three months ago. Said she was tired of being married to a man who treated their life like another quarterly report to be optimized. She'd taken the goldfish bowl too.

"David?" Marcus snapped his fingers. "Your serve."

I hit the ball into the net. Again.

"You know what your problem is?" Marcus said, advancing toward the net with that predatory grin. "You've forgotten how to be the bull. You're waiting to get trampled."

The sun glinted off his watch — a timepiece worth more than my first car. Something broke open in my chest, sharp and sudden.

"Actually, Marcus," I said, surprised by the steadiness of my voice, "I've been the bull. I've been charging at everything you put in front of me — the deals, the hours, this weekend warrior bullshit. I'm done running."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't care about the bear market. I don't care about the projections. I'm going home to explain to my daughter that sometimes, things don't come back to life. That sometimes, you have to stop swimming and just let the water hold you up."

I walked off the court, leaving Marcus holding his serve, leaving the game unfinished, leaving behind the bull who finally learned he didn't have to charge at every red cape waved in his direction.