The Last Game

The ball hit the padel court with a hollow thud, echoing in the empty space. Marcus stood there, iphone glowing in his hand like some electronic prayer wheel, scrolling through emails at 11 PM on a Tuesday.

"You going to serve?" I asked.

He didn't look up. "Just one more thing. This merger—"

"Fuck the merger, Marcus. Come on."

I'd known him fifteen years. We'd met in college, back when his hair was dark and he laughed with his whole body. Now, at thirty-seven, his temples had gone silver, his shoulders curved forward like someone expecting a blow. He'd become something else—some hollowed-out version of himself, moving through life on automatic pilot. A corporate zombie in designer clothing.

"Remember," I said, "when we used to play for actual money? When you gave a shit about winning?"

He finally pocketed the phone. "People change, Elena."

"You haven't changed. You've been digested."

Something flickered across his face—anger, maybe, or recognition. He served then, hard and wild. The ball sailed long, bouncing off the back wall.

We played in silence for twenty minutes. The rally would build, he'd start to engage, his old self surfacing through the muscle memory of competition—and then his phone would buzz, and he'd check it, and he'd be gone again.

"Sarah left," he said suddenly, between points.

The words hung in the cold air. "When?"

"Last week. She said she couldn't compete with whatever this is." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the phone, at the life he'd built. "Said I was already gone."

I walked to the net. "Marcus. Look at me."

He did.

"Your hair is falling out. You haven't slept in months. You're thirty-seven and you look fifty. And you're still checking that phone like something in there is going to save you."

"I have responsibilities—"

"You have a life. Whether you want it or not."

He stared at me. For a moment, I thought he'd argue. Instead, his phone buzzed again, and he reached for it automatically, then stopped. His hand hovered there, trembling slightly.

Then he let it drop.

"Play to eleven?" he asked.

"Make it twenty-one," I said. "And put that thing in your bag."

He did. We played until our shirts were soaked, until the old Marcus came back stroke by stroke, until the zombie finally began to remember how to be alive.