Bro-Forma Statements: Tristan (Ch. 01)

I work at a finance firm. When I'm not writing stories or hitting the gym, my brain's buried in numbers. Honestly, those are the three things that make up most of my life right now: gym, writing, and spreadsheets. Yeah, I know. Weird mix. But it is what it is.

Work's been chill lately, though. And some of these guys I work with? Let's just say they're the reason this story exists.

I've been with this finance firm for a few years now. Let's call it Whitestone Ridge Capital. That's not the real name, obviously. I'm not trying to get sued. But if you're wondering whether these stories are real, the short answer's no.

The story is fictional. But the guys I describe? Every single one of them is absolutely freaking real.

I'm talking about the finance bros I work with. Guys who wear quarter-zips over thick chests, talk about leg day between meetings, always adjusting their dress pants because they're that tight across the ass. Guys who bench 275 and still whisper "pause" when they bump fists too long. Guys who walk around like they've never had a gay thought in their life, until you catch them looking just a little too long.

I don't know what it is about this industry. Maybe it's the pressure. Maybe it's the hours. Maybe it's the way our group chat goes from market memes to gym selfies in 0.2 seconds. But after a while, things start to blur.

Like the time a guy in my team sent me a TikTok of a ripped dude getting oiled up, and followed it with "recreate this vid Dan".

Like the time someone asked me, dead serious, what kind of porn I watch.

Like the time I was at the urinal next to another VP and he moaned... moaned... when he shook off.

It's easy to laugh that stuff off. We all do. I've said "bro chill" more times than I can count. I've said "no homo" and not meant it...

So yeah. I've decided to tell my stories in a portfolio of my bros.. Every bro I've worked with, every hot, straight-passing, locker-room-towel-snapping son of a bitch, gets their own little story (perhaps 2-3 chapters). A few might pop up again later. You'll even get some crossover episodes, when two of us are feeling bold. Or drunk. Or... whatever.

And hey... I don't know how many of you are from finance, but if I drop a term you don't get? Just ask. Seriously. I love talking numbers. You can bend me over a desk and ask about EBITDA. I'll explain it without hesitation.

Anyway. The first story I'm going to share?

It's about Tristan.

He's a second-year analyst. Ex-rugby player. Stupid thick legs. Never shuts up. Always flexing his quads when I'm nearby. Once smacked my ass in the locker room and laughed like it was nothing. So I pushed him up against a locker. He didn't stop me.

You'll read about him in detail in the first story below..

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So, let's talk about Tristan.

Second-year analyst. Ex-rugby player. Dumb as hell but built like a Greek statue someone gave a protein sponsorship. Always smiling, always talking, always flexing his quads like it was part of the dress code. When he walks past your desk, you hear the thighs. Dress pants tight as fuck. Always adjusting the waistband or rolling up his sleeves like he's in a Gillette ad. You know the type.

He joined Whitestone Ridge Capital last year. First week he asked if I could recommend a good gym nearby. I told him about the one I go to. Next day? We're gym buddies. Like that. No warning. Just boom... every evening, he's waiting by the elevator in a tank top and joggers, smirking like we've been doing this for years.

He was cocky from day one. Too comfortable too fast. Started calling me "old man" after I told him I'd been here longer. He's twenty-two. I'm not even 24 yet. But sure. Call me a relic, Tristan. That didn't stop him from asking me to spot his incline bench every single time. Or making stupid comments like "Dude if I get any thicker, I'm gonna need new pants. Wanna help me stretch these out?" while flexing his glutes like that's a normal thing to say at 7 PM.

It wasn't just gym talk. At the office, he'd drop the usual shit. Homophobic jokes wrapped in bro code. Every straight dude here does it. You know the drill. You get told "Suck my dick, bro" at least once a day, casually, in meetings. And yeah, I've replied with "Gladly, Bryce, but only if you suck mine first." Gotta keep it balanced. Keep the game going. That's the thing... this whole job is theater. You play along or you don't get invited back on stage.

Anyway. Back to Tristan. You'll meet Bryce later.

So yeah, whatever jokes Tristan made, I brushed it off. Most of the time. Because he's hot. Judge me all you want, I'm extra nice to hot men. Hot men make my dick hard. Doesn't mean I'm not a nice person. I hold the door. I ask about people's weekends. But you look like that in my office? You get a few passes.

We got into a rhythm. Gym after work. Sometimes brunch on weekends. A few times he came over to pregame before team events. Always casual. Always straight-coded. Until it wasn't.

There was one night, we'd just wrapped a late trading review. Worked till almost eight. We were both fried. Decided to hit the gym before heading home. Leg day. He was feeling himself, squatting heavy, grunting loud. At one point, he was spotting me, hands on my waist, and slapped my ass when I finished the last set.

"You like that, old man?"

I looked at him. He was grinning. Just stupid and golden and sweat-slicked. I rolled my eyes, said nothing. But yeah, I let it slide. Again.

After the session, we headed to the locker room. Pretty normal routine. We've changed next to each other enough times that it wasn't a thing. All the guys at our firm have seen each other's asses by now. Some of us even our cocks. It's not subtle when you're showering in open stalls or stripping next to someone mid-conversation about hedge ratios. It's locker room shit. You look and pretend you didn't.

That night, though, Tristan was taking his sweet time. I'd stripped down to my underwear, still damp with sweat, and was digging in my bag for fresh socks. He was behind me, changing, and then he said it, real low, real casual.

"Not bad for an old man," he said. "Still got an ass."

I froze. Turned around. He was in his briefs, hugging everything, and yeah, he was semi-hard. Not subtle. His cock was halfway up his thigh. He didn't even try to hide it. He just smirked and looked at me like I was the one being weird.

I walked over to him.

Still in my underwear. Still damp. Still half-hard from that workout and all the shit he'd been saying.

I pushed him back against the locker, one hand on his chest. The thud echoed. His eyes didn't change. Didn't flinch. Just smirked wider.

"You like that, old man?" he repeated.

I leaned in. Real close. Felt the heat off his skin. His breath was steady.

"You're gonna keep saying that till I shut you up?" I asked.

He grabbed me by the waistband of my underwear. Palmed my balls. Bold as fuck. Cocky smile on his face.

Then he laughed. "Why are you hard, Dan?" he said, like he was curious. Like this was a joke we were both in on. "This turning you on? Being so close to me?"

I didn't blink. Didn't step back.

"Maybe it is, Tristan," I said. "You gonna suck it? Or you a pussy?"

He licked his lips. I watched his jaw twitch.