Page 30 of The Silver Fox Brother

I've been a member for six years. It's close to the Tribeca site, has excellent courts, and the locker rooms are never crowded at midday.

Victor drops me at the entrance at 11:52.

"I'll be nearby when you're ready, Mr. Sterling."

"Thanks. Probably an hour."

Inside, the front desk recognizes me immediately.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Sterling. Court three is reserved for you."

I head straight for the locker room, change into athletic shorts and a moisture-wicking shirt, lace up my court shoes. The familiar pre-game routine—stretching my shoulders, rolling my wrists, the mental shift from business mode to competition mode.

Fletcher's already on the court when I arrive, warming up with practice serves that hit the front wall with satisfying cracks. He's in his early forties, built like someone who played lacrosse in college and never quite let go of the athlete mentality. His wife Sarah is six months pregnant, which he mentions approximately every third conversation, usually with a mix of excitement and terror.

"There he is," Fletcher calls out, grinning.

"Thought maybe you'd chicken out."

"When have I ever chickened out?"

"There's a first time for everything." He tosses me the ball.

"You're serving first. Try not to embarrass yourself."

I catch it, test the weight.

"You're going to regret that confidence."

"We'll see."

The game starts fast. Fletcher's competitive, always has been, and he's good enough to make me work for it. We've been playing together since business school—Yale, nearly twenty years ago—and we know each other's patterns, strengths, weaknesses.

I serve hard, low, aiming for the corner. The ball ricochets off the front wall at an angle that forces Fletcher to scramble. He gets to it, returns it high. I'm already positioned, waiting, and I send it back with enough spin that it dies in the corner.

"One-zero," I say.

"Lucky shot."

"Skill."

We volley back and forth, the rhythm building—serve, return, the sharp crack of the ball against wall, the squeak of shoes on polished floor. Fletcher plays aggressive, trying to catch me off-guard with unexpected angles. I play calculated, waiting for him to overcommit before exploiting the opening.

At 10-8, my lead, Fletcher catches his breath between points. "You're playing angry today."

"I'm playing to win."

"Same thing with you."

He's not wrong. I play everything like it matters, because it does. Even a midday racquetball game against my business partner is an opportunity to prove something—to him, to myself, to the part of my brain that never stops calculating who's ahead and who's falling behind.

I win the first game 21-18. Close enough that Fletcher can't claim I wasn't trying, decisive enough that there's no question about who's better.

"Best of three?" he asks, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt.

"Obviously."

We grab water, catch our breath for two minutes, and reset.The second game follows the same pattern—intense rallies, neither of us giving an inch, the score climbing in tandem until I pull ahead at 15-13 and don't let him close the gap.