The Last Set

Marcus stood on the padel court, sweat stinging his eyes. At 47, his knees were reminding him of every poor decision he'd made since college. Across the net, his son David moved with that infuriating youth—fluid, relentless, barely breathing hard while Marcus felt like he was drowning.

"You're hesitating, Dad," David called out, bouncing the ball. "Like you did with the sale."

Marcus flinched. The cable company buyout. He'd held onto those shares for three extra months, convinced the **bull** market would roar forever. Instead, it had bucked, and with it went half the family's savings. The divorce papers had arrived six months later.

"Hit the damn ball," Marcus said.

They played in silence after that—the thwack of rackets, the squeak of rubber on artificial turf. Marcus's mind drifted to dinner last night. He'd made his signature creamed **spinach**, the recipe Sarah used to love. He'd eaten it alone, watching the cable news cycle through stories about recession and resilience, feeling like a joke without a punchline.

Game point. David smashed a forehand into the corner. Marcus lunged, his racket meeting the ball at the absolute edge of his reach. They both watched it arc toward the line.

It landed in.

"That's yours," David said, and there was something new in his voice. Not forgiveness exactly, but something more complicated. Respect, maybe. For showing up.

Marcus sagged against the net, heartbeat thundering in his ears. "Same time next week?"

David paused, then nodded slowly. "Bring your A game."

Walking to his car afterward, Marcus realized he was hungry. Really hungry, for the first time in months. He stopped at the grocery store and bought fresh spinach, a good steak, a bottle of wine. The cable bill sat on his counter, overdue. He'd pay it tomorrow. Tonight, he would cook.