Bull Market, Bleeding Heart

The roar of the crowd rose around him like a tide, but Marcus felt strangely distant, as if watching the **baseball** game from underwater. He'd fled here directly from the office, where his bullish tactics had finally eviscerated the last remaining competitor—along with, apparently, his marriage. Sarah's text still burned on his phone: *You're not a businessman, Marc. You're just a predator with a nice suit.*

He'd thought aggression was the point. The market rewarded sharks. The bullpen of his firm was a pit of testosterone and leverage, where men crushed each other for percentages. He'd been the biggest **bull** of them all, charging forward with relentless force, eyes locked on the next quarterly kill. Sarah had watched him hollow himself out year after year, had tried to pull him back, had finally stopped trying.

The hat in his hands felt impossibly small—a Blue Jays cap their son had left behind during his last weekend visit, six months ago. Tommy had chosen his mother's house in the divorce, had chosen distance. Marcus brought the cap to his face, inhaling faint traces of boy-sweat and summer air, and felt something crack open in his chest.

The vendor nearby shouted about cold beer. Couples shared cotton candy. Fathers pointed out players to wide-eyed sons. Marcus sat surrounded by families, alone with everything he'd won and everything he'd lost.

His phone buzzed—an email from his boss praising this quarter's numbers. Another victory. The bull had conquered another market.

Marcus stood, the boy's cap still clutched in his hand, and walked toward the exit while the game still roared behind him. Some things, he finally understood, couldn't be acquired. Some innings, once played, couldn't be replayed.

Outside, the city waited—bright, ruthless, and utterly empty without them.