Despite taking this more seriously than most Olympic athletes, we uncovered a tragic truth: Rhys is atrocious at mini golf. He overthinks. Argues with clown mouths. Tried to therapize a water hazard. We had to bench him for the greater good. But he’s still here. Still cheering. Still hot. Still tragically good at snacks.
So now it’s me, Benji, and Jett. The ultimate unholy trinity.
Jett’s terrifyingly good. I think the ball’s scared of him. He growls “get in the fucking hole,” and it just... obeys. Out of fear.Or arousal. Hard to say. There’s a reason I have friction burns from hole twelve.
I made us matching outfits. Black and pink, obviously. Our team name’s splashed across our chests in sequins and vengeance.
We considered a few options. But in the end, we went with Balls Deep, because it really is us. And also because it made the registration lady clutch her pearls and whisper a prayer.
And now? We’re in the finals.
Just us… and them. Hank, Chad, and Margo. The throuple of doom.
All charges have been dropped on both sides. None of us have laid a hand on them since Hank clocked me at the gym. Not even once. Not even accidentally.
Though if Jett’s grip on his club gets any tighter, we may have to sedate him and Benji looks ready to throw him in a volcano.
We’ve been good. But we didn’t come here to be good.
We came to win. This is war. And our balls are ready.
The finals are intense. Like, The Bachelor meets Gladiator meets Wipeout intense. Pirate-themed chaos all around us, foam cannon fire, screaming kids, an animatronic parrot that keeps calling me a harlot. He gets it.
We’re neck and neck with the enemy throuple, standing at hole sixteen: the Kraken. It’s got tentacles, sound effects, and a wet mist feature. Everyone’s damp. Jett’s shirt is clinging to his chest like a blessing. Benji’s is stretched taut over his shoulders, and I might combust. My team is made of real men and I will have carnal thoughts in this Chuck-E-Cheese-ass hellscape if I want to.
“Focus,” Jett grunts, lining up his shot with that full-body, wide-legged stance. He sinks a flawless shot straight into the Kraken’s gaping maw.
“You see that?” I whisper to Benji, vibrating. “He dommed the sea monster. He dommed it so hard.”
Benji grins and licks nacho cheese off his thumb. “Our man’s got control issues.”
“You can dom me next,” I whisper. “After we win.”
“Precious,” Benji says, setting up for his own shot. “After we win, I’m fucking you on the pirate ship.”
Then he drives the ball so hard it flies through the Kraken, ricochets off a fake coral reef, skips across the water feature like a vengeful fairy, and smacks Hank directly in the nuts.
He drops like a wet sock. I bite my knuckle to keep from moaning.
“Oh no,” Benji says, completely innocent. “What an accident. That was just… tragic.”
“Oops,” I purr.
Rhys, sitting dutifully on the sidelines like a supportive milf, lets out a very professional cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
We proceed to hole seventeen: The Plank.
There’s a tiny raised wooden board over a fake pond, and if your ball falls off, it resets.
Jett crosses it like a predator. His ball stays perfectly straight. It’s erotic.
Benji wobbles his a little, but it makes it across.
I cross by shuffling sideways because I’m in platforms and I have priorities. My ball gets on the plank, rolls gently to the end, pauses dramatically like it’s teasing me, and drops directly into the hole.
“Fuck yes,” I shriek, doing a slutty victory spin. “I am the ball whisperer.”
Margo, who is technically playing with the other team but has clearly given up, is sipping a margarita out of a coconut and watching me like I’m an exhibit.
