Bloodsports

I was born on third base, but even my old man never pretended I hit a triple. He just wanted me to run the bases—smiling for the cameras, shaking hands, closing deals—like it was supposed to mean something.

Dad’s money built my playground. Mom’s lawyers cleaned up after me. Every fuck-up gift-wrapped with a bow and a hush clause.

Now I wear tailored suits that don’t wrinkle, talk in numbers I don’t understand, and drive a car someone else chose for me. I’m the golden boy everyone sees, but inside? I’m a fuck-up. A rich, broken fuck-up who can’t figure out how to make Dad look at me like I’m worth a damn.

People say I look like a movie villain. They mean it as an insult. I take it as a compliment. Villains at least know what they’re after.

I work at a boutique finance firm—fancy words for the same old con game. I push buttons, watch numbers rise and fall like a roller coaster I can’t get off. I trade like a man who’s never been hit—because I haven’t been. Not really.

Mornings are golf. Afternoons are “strategy.” Nights are steak, coke, and women who laugh too loud at jokes I didn’t mean to be funny. It’s all a performance. A slick, gleaming act for the boardroom and the bar. I play it so well, sometimes I almost believe it myself.

But she—she’s different.

First time I saw her was at the driving range—some company outing to “build team morale,” which meant an excuse to show off. She showed up twenty minutes late—no apology, no explanation.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t say hi. No small talk, no fake sportsmanship. Just that white skirt, that sleeveless top, those sunglasses. She stepped up to the tee like she’d done it a thousand times.

Then she swung.

Effortless. Clean. Like the club was an extension of her. The ball sliced the sky like it was in love with her, then dropped thirty yards past mine without a sound.

She turned and looked right at me—dead in the face.

And smirked.

Just one corner of her mouth. Barely visible. Like she knew every crack in the armor I pretend to wear.

I asked who the hell she was.

Someone whispered, “partner’s daughter.”

Of course. Because of course it would be her.

Since then, I can’t stop thinking about her. Not the way you’d think—not soft-focus, candlelight, slow-motion bullshit. No. It’s personal. She’s better than me. At everything. Golf. Tennis. Trading. Even the way she stands.

And she knows it.

She doesn’t have to rub it in. A glance, a smirk, a quiet correction in front of the entire room. She beats me like it’s her birthright—and every time I see her do it, I feel that old hollow pit in my gut.

Dad’s voice, echoing: “You’ll never measure up.”

He was right.

And I hate her.

That’s what I tell myself. I want to hate her.

But every time she walks into the office with her dress hugging the muscle on her hips, my cock twitches like it knows something I don’t.

And that’s the part that really scares me.