Dog Eat Bull World

Marcus's golden retriever, Buster, stared at him with those judgmental eyes that seemed to say, "Bro, really?" as Marcus forced down another neon-orange gummy **vitamin** from the bottle his teammate had sworn would make him "ripped by Friday." The label promised "explosive energy" and "maximum gains," but mostly it tasted like artificial passion fruit and desperation.

At 16, Marcus was tired of feeling like the smallest guy on the wrestling team, especially when Dylan's crew roamed the halls like they owned the place. Dylan had spread some **bull** about Marcus crying after practice last week—total lies, but the damage was done. Now Marcus found himself grinding his teeth every time Dylan walked by, shoulders back, chest puffed out like he was still the king of middle school.

"You good, man?" his best friend Ty asked, finding Marcus behind the gym during lunch, aggressively petting Buster through the fence where his dog waited patiently for his daily walk.

"Just tired of the performance, you know?" Marcus admitted, finally. "The vitamins, the fake confidence, acting like I don't care what people think. It's exhausting."

Ty nodded slowly. "Funny how we work so hard to impress people who won't matter in two years."

The wrestling meet that afternoon was brutal. Marcus got pinned in thirty seconds flat—by Dylan, of course. But something shifted as he walked home, Buster trotting happily beside him. The dog didn't care whether Marcus won or lost, didn't know about the vitamins or the rumors or the pathetic attempt to reinvent himself. Buster just knew Marcus as the person who fed him and walked him and sometimes let him sleep on the bed despite his mom's strict no-dogs policy.

That night, Marcus threw the rest of the vitamin bottle in the trash. Let Dylan think whatever he wanted. Some bullshit just wasn't worth his energy anymore.