Ambrose arrived in Toronto with three things.
A ticket to Thursday’s World Cup match.
And a velvet case containing several diamonds that absolutely should not have been left anywhere near Wells.
Toronto was already vibrating with World Cup energy. The city was hosting FIFA World Cup matches through July 2, including a Thursday Round of 32 match at Toronto Stadium, the tournament name for BMO Field.
So naturally, Ambrose had come prepared.
He had hotel reservations.
He had match credentials.
He had security protocols.
He had, unfortunately, underestimated Wells.
The problem began in Ambrose’s suite at the hotel, where Wells had been invited for what Ambrose called “a brief tactical conversation” and Wells called “free snacks before we go out.”
The suite overlooked the city in late-afternoon gold. Traffic moved below. Flags hung from balconies. Somewhere nearby, fans were already chanting.
Ambrose stood by the window, polished and unreadable, checking something on his phone.
Wells stood by the side table, trying not to stare at the open velvet case.
Inside it sat a diamond the size of a very expensive mistake.
It was not clear, exactly. Not fully. Light moved inside it in strange little flashes: gold, white, black, then gold again. It looked like something that had been cut from lightning and bad decisions.
“Do not touch that,” Ambrose said without turning around.
Wells straightened immediately. “I wasn’t.”
Wells frowned. “Why does everyone say that to me?”
“Because you are predictable.”
“That is pattern recognition.”
Ambrose closed the velvet case with one smooth motion and turned back to his phone.
That should have been the end of it.
Ten minutes later, Wells left the suite with a protein bar, his sunglasses, and one of Ambrose’s hypno diamonds in one of the pockets of his shiny metallic gold compression shorts.
He did not consider it stealing.
It was more of a temporary tactical inspection.
He was halfway down the elevator when his phone rang.
Wells stared at the screen.
Then answered with maximum innocence.
Then Ambrose said, “Return it.”
Wells looked around the elevator as if someone else might be holding the diamond.
“The one currently in the right pocket of your shorts.”
The elevator descended in soft, judgmental silence.
“That is an aggressive guess,” Wells said.
“It is a trained diamond.”
Wells slowly looked down at his pocket.
Ambrose’s voice softened, which somehow made it worse.
“That particular diamond is not designed for unsupervised jocks.”
Wells scoffed. “I am very supervised.”
“Do not look directly at it.”
The elevator doors opened into the lobby.
The diamond gave one tiny flash through the fabric of his pocket.
And took the diamond out and held it in his hand. Mistake.
The world tilted half a degree.
His shoulders rolled back. His stance widened. His jaw set. Something loud and shameless clicked into place behind his eyes.
Ambrose heard the shift through the phone.
Wells looked at the phone, then at his reflection in the polished elevator door.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “Why did I say bruv?”
“Because you looked at the diamond.”
The diamond flashed again.
“Proper mint little rock though, innit?”
“Wells. Return to the suite.”
“You do not have errands.”
Wells looked at his reflection again.
The black athletic shirt suddenly felt wrong.
He wandered out of the hotel and into the warm Toronto street like a man on a mission he did not understand. Ten minutes later, he emerged from a Queen Street shop wearing a shiny gold track jacket unzipped over his chest, gold chain, oversized sunglasses, and the same metallic gold shorts sitting low with complete, unreasonable confidence.
His sneakers had somehow become flashier.
His walk had become louder.
His entire personality had gained bass.
Wells sent back a photo of himself flexing in a storefront window.
Ambrose did not reply for several seconds.
Ambrose:
That is not an upgrade. That is a symptom.
Wells looked at the diamond again.
He tilted his sunglasses down.
“Symptom? Nah, bruv. This is drip.”
A passing tourist looked over.
Wells gave him a nod like they were old rivals.
The tourist moved faster.
By the time Wells reached Yonge Street on his way to Church Street, the diamond had made things worse.
He had bought a second gold chain, at a trendy boutique shop on Yonge as he felt he needed more bling.
He had started calling his reflection “big man.”
He had described the CN Tower as “standing there like it thinks it’s hard.”
Wells:
Where you at, bruv?
Trey responded instantly.
Trey:
Who gave you chav mode?
Wells:
Born with it, mate.
Trey:
I am calling Coach.
Wells laughed, then looked at the diamond again.
He stopped outside a convenience store and bought a pair of gold-framed sunglasses even though he was already wearing sunglasses.
Layering, he decided, was a lifestyle.
Wells answered with full confidence.
“That is slightly more useful. Do you still have the diamond?”
“Can’t. It’s got presence.”
“It has an embedded suggestion matrix.”
Then, very calmly, he said, “Wells, listen carefully. The more you look at that diamond, the more it will reinforce the persona.”
Wells adjusted his chain. “Persona?”
A streetcar bell rang in the distance.
Wells looked at his reflection in the window beside him: gold track jacket, gold shorts, chains, sunglasses, sweat still shining across his chest, posture full of swagger and terrible choices.
Ambrose’s voice dropped. “Return the diamond before Thursday.”
Wells smirked. “Need it for the match.”
“You are not bringing a hypno diamond to a World Cup match.”
“It could turn an entire hospitality box into lads yelling ‘proper class’ at corner kicks.”
“Would improve the atmosphere.”
Ambrose smiled on the other end of the phone.
That was probably for the best.
“Look at the diamond again,” Ambrose said.
Wells narrowed his eyes. “That feels like a trap.”
“Same thing when you say it like that.”
But the diamond was already in his hand.
Gold flashed through white.
Black through something deeper.
His mouth opened slightly.
Ambrose’s voice slid through the phone, smooth as polished glass.
“Good. Full attention now.”
The city moved around him.
Ambrose continued. “The diamond is stylish.”
“Proper stylish,” Wells murmured.
“It belongs to Ambrose,” Ambrose repeated.
Wells swallowed. “Belongs to Ambrose.”
“And Wells is going to return it.”
Wells’s hand tightened around the diamond.
The chav in him objected.
Ambrose added, “But then the next time you see it, you will feel an overwhelming urge to buy a full gold tracksuit, call every man in Toronto ‘bruv,’ and challenge a streetcar to a footrace.”
Ambrose pinched the bridge of his nose.
Then Wells’s phone buzzed with another incoming call.
Ambrose heard the silence.
Coach’s voice came through like a whistle blast in human form.
“How does everyone know?”
“You look like a golden tracksuit robbed a gym.”
Wells looked at his reflection again.
“Can’t lie, Coach. It’s got drip.”
Then Coach said, “Return. The. Diamond.”
Enough for Wells to remember that Coach’s tone had consequences.
Ambrose was waiting in the hotel lobby when Wells returned twenty minutes later.
He did not look surprised.
Wells strode in wearing the gold track jacket, two chains, sunglasses, metallic gold shorts, and the expression of a man who had technically done something wrong but looked too good to apologize properly.
Ambrose held out one hand.
“Hypothetically,” Wells said, “what happens if I keep it?”
Ambrose tilted his head. “You will spend Thursday’s World Cup match shouting tactical advice in a chav accent while trying to sell counterfeit gold sunglasses to German fans.”
“The diamond is very thorough.”
Wells sighed dramatically and dropped the diamond into Ambrose’s palm.
The moment it left his hand, something loosened.
His brain, such as it was, came back online.
Wells looked down at himself.
He slowly removed one pair of sunglasses.
Then realized there was another pair underneath.
“Like I owe Queen Street an apology.”
Wells pointed at the diamond. “You did that on purpose.”
Wells winced. “I hate that you remembered that.”
Ambrose closed the velvet case and slipped it into his coat.
“The suggestion will fade.”
Ambrose started walking toward the elevator.
“How gradually, Ambrose?”
Ambrose pressed the elevator button.
Behind them, a group of visiting fans passed through the lobby, laughing and wrapped in national flags. One of them wore a gold chain over a soccer jersey.
His eyes narrowed in appreciation.
“Chain’s proper class,” he muttered.
Ambrose smiled without looking back.
“Return my property faster next time.”
The elevator doors opened.
Wells followed, still glittering, still ridiculous, still faintly chav-coded around the edges.
As the doors closed, Ambrose looked him up and down.
“For what it is worth,” he said, “you do wear the consequences well.”
Wells tried very hard not to smile.
Then adjusted his gold chain.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Still looked class though.”
The diamond stayed locked in its case.
Some lessons sparkle brighter than others. Return what is not yours, trust the brothers who know your tells, and let the Gold turn every mistake into style, swagger, and discipline. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @zanethehimbo (as Ambrose in this story).
