Page 21 of The Write Midlife

Sandra made a small sound—surprise or amusement, Nate couldn't tell. His father's expression didn't change, but his grip on the ball tightened slightly.

"And if I win?"

"Then I'll bring in the ghostwriter myself. Hell, I'll even let you pick them."

A predatory smile crossed his father's face. "Bold gambit. Your mother said you'd fight for this one."

Of course she did. Nothing happened in the Carlisle family without his mother knowing about it first.

"Shall we?" Nate gestured to the court.

The game started brutally fast. His father had always been a tactical player, wearing down opponents with precise shots and calculated patience. But Nate had twenty years of pent-up rebellion and three inches of height advantage on him.

"Melody Archer's numbers are soft," his father said, returning Nate's serve with a vicious backhand. "Down twelve percent from projections."

Nate cut off his shot with a decisive volley. "Maybe because we're measuring the wrong metrics. Her reader engagement is off the charts."

"Engagement doesn't pay the bills." His father charged the net, but Nate was ready.

"No? Tell that to the publishers who passed on Fifty Shades of Grey.” Nate smashed the ball past him, taking the first game. "When's the last time you actually read one of our books, Dad? Or are you too busy counting profit margins?"

Sandra scribbled something in her ever-present notebook. More ammunition for the next board meeting, no doubt.

The first set moved like a chess match, each point carrying the weight of years of father-son dynamics. Around them, other club members pretended not to watch—the Carlisle family drama was better than their usual morning entertainment.

"Your grandfather built this company on commercial fiction," his father panted, missing a return. "Mass market paperbacks that paid for your prep school education."

"Grandfather also took chances." Nate served an ace, his height advantage proving decisive. "Remember when you wanted to pass on Harry Potter? Said children's fantasy was dead?"

That drew blood. His father returned Nate's next serve with unnecessary force, sending it long. "Ancient history."

"Like your publishing model?"

The first set went to Nate, 6-4. As they changed sides, he caught snippets of conversation from the growing crowd.

"Just like the Sullivan merger fight..."

"Remember when young Nate was in college..."

"Liam's losing his grip..."

His father heard them too. His next serve nearly took Nate's head off.

"You're letting personal feelings cloud your judgment," his father said during a rally. "This Archer woman?—"

"Has more talent in her little finger than half our romance department." Nate returned with a crosscourt winner. "But you'd know that if you'd actually read her work."

"I read the sales reports. That's all I need to know."

The second set turned brutal. Every shot carried decades of history—missed Little League games, disappointed looks, conditional approval always just out of reach. His father fought like a cornered lion, his experience making up for Nate's physical advantages.

Sandra’s phone buzzed—probably the office wondering where everyone was. She silenced it without looking. Nothing could make her miss this match.

"You're just like your mother," his father growled, finally taking the second set 7-5. "Always fighting for the underdogs."

"Someone has to." Nate toweled off, noting his father's slightly labored breathing. "Otherwise we'd still be publishing nothing but safe, soulless drivel."

"Watch yourself, son." His father's voice carried that warning tone Nate remembered from childhood. "You're not too old to be taught respect."