The Wellness Retreat

The desert sun beat down on the padel court as Marcus adjusted his grip, sweat pooling in his palm. At 47, he'd learned that corporate retreats weren't about relaxation—they were about bloodsport in breathable fabrics.

"You're taking the vitamin supplements?" Chen called from across the net, returning the ball with practiced ease. He was thirty-two, drank green juice, and had just been named Marcus's direct report after the restructuring.

"Every morning," Marcus lied. The bottle sat unopened in his hotel room, a symbol of everything he'd become: someone who purchased wellness instead of practicing it.

The resort was Palm Springs, where nothing grew without intervention. Where employees were flown in to learn about "holistic productivity" while analyzing spreadsheets by the pool.

Marcus's wife had left him six months ago. Not for another man, but for the possibility of one. She'd wanted to try online dating. Experience the vitamin C boost of new chemistry, she'd joked. It hadn't been a joke.

"Marcus?"

He realized he was staring at nothing. At 47, he'd stopped being the person who could afford to zone out during a game of padel with the senior partners watching from the clubhouse.

"Sorry. Day job."

Chen smiled—tight, professional, utterly devoid of warmth. "The Thompson account waits for no one."

The ball came at him hard. Marcus swung, missed entirely. It bounced past him into the artificial turf.

"Happens," Chen said, already walking to the net. "Stress maybe. Have you tried magnesium?"

The real question hung in the desert air: When did you stop being a person who could miss a ball without it being a referendum on your entire life?

Marcus wiped his sweating palm on his shorts. "I'm good," he said. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how my direct report is destroying me at padel in front of the partners."

Chen's smile slipped. "I'm not trying to—"

"I know." Marcus picked up the ball. "That's the problem."