The Last Padel Match

I grip the padel racket, sweat making my palms slick against the handle. Across the net, Richard serves with that easy confidence that comes from being a vice president at twenty years my senior. We're both here at the club at 7 PM, but the similarities end there.

I should be at home with Emma, I think, returning his serve. The glass wall reflects the orange sunset behind us, a bleeding sky that matches the tie Richard wore to the board meeting where they announced the restructuring. That meeting where they showed us the new organizational chart—a pyramid with my name in a box that had just been pushed two levels down.

"You're distracted," Richard says, smashing the ball into the corner. I lunge for it, my racket connecting with the glass wall first. Clang.

"Personal stuff," I lie. Richard doesn't know about Emma's ultimatum, doesn't know I missed our anniversary dinner because Warren called me into his office to explain why I wasn't partner material.

Richard walks to the net, his face softening. "I heard about your conversation with Warren."

My stomach drops. "What about it?"

"He told me you turned down the Zurich transfer." He studies me. "That's the second time you've refused to climb."

"The pyramid gets steeper every year," I say, finally. "The air gets thinner."

Richard's smile is almost fatherly. "Forty-three isn't too old to start over. But it's too old to pretend you want something you don't."

He points his racket toward the clubhouse. "Emma called. She's waiting by your car."

I walk off the court, leaving my padel racket by the net. Behind me, Richard's silhouette against the orange glass looks less like a corporate shark and more like a man who once stood exactly where I stand now, deciding whether the view from the top was worth the climb.