The Glass Court

The padel ball ricocheted off the glass wall with a sound like a pistol crack. Marcus lunged for it, his thirty-five-year-old knees protesting in ways they never had at twenty-five. He missed. The ball died softly against the floor.

"Point, me," said David, barely winded. He adjusted his glasses—designer frames that cost more than Marcus's monthly rent. "That's three games in a row, Marc. You're off your game."

Marcus wiped sweat from his forehead. The climate-controlled indoor court smelled faintly of rubber and privilege. They'd been playing weekly since college, back when they were both broke graduates sharing a studio apartment, dreaming of changing the world. Now David was vice president of something Marcus still didn't understand, and Marcus was... what? Senior associate? A fancy title for someone who built other people's pyramids.

"Sorry," Marcus said. "Work's been hell. The Denver merger." He didn't mention his wife had left him three weeks ago. That wasn't something you dropped between sets.

"Mergers." David waved his racket dismissively. "Remember when we swore we'd never become corporate drones? We were going to start that environmental consultancy. Save the planet."

He laughed, but Marcus heard something underneath it. Something tired.

"We were young," Marcus said. "We needed health insurance."

"You needed health insurance," David said softly. "I needed to prove my father wrong. Turns out, he was right about everything except one thing."

"What's that?"

"That I'd be happy when I got there." David served. The ball hit the corner perfectly. Marcus didn't even try. "I saw Sarah at a gala last week. She asked about you. Asked if we were still friends."

"We are friends." It came out more defensive than he intended.

"Are we?" David walked to the net. "Because I can't remember the last time you told me anything real. Every week, same small talk. Same deflections. You know everything about my portfolio and nothing about my life."

Marcus stood at the baseline, gripping his racket until his knuckles whitened. The court felt suddenly enormous, a glass pyramid where they performed the rituals of friendship without its substance. They'd spent fifteen years climbing separate ladders in the same building, waving at each other across the atrium, never stopping to notice how far apart they'd grown.

"I got divorced," Marcus said.

David's racket slipped from his hand. It hit the floor with a hollow thud.

"What? When?"

"Three weeks ago. She said I'd become a stranger she used to know. Funny how that happens."

David didn't speak for a long moment. Then he walked to the sideline and pressed a button. The court lights dimmed.

"Game's over," he said. "Let's get a drink. Not at the club. Somewhere real." He paused. "I've been seeing a therapist. Did I ever tell you that? No, of course I didn't."

Marcus smiled, feeling something shift in his chest, something that had been calcifying for years.

"Pick you up at seven?"

"Seven," David said. "And Marc? Bring the old you. I've missed him."