Trey was enjoying himself too much, which meant something was about to go wrong.
Church Street was alive around them.
The patio outside The Church Mouse was packed shoulder to shoulder with World Cup noise — flags overhead, pints sweating on black tables, plates of nachos and fries half-finished between elbows, and a match playing on the outdoor screen while the crowd groaned, cheered, argued, and sang at the same time.
Trey sat in the middle of it like the whole street had been arranged around him.
Gold jersey. Number 59. Gold sunglasses low on his nose. Blue streak in his hair catching the patio lights every time he turned his head.
Wells sat nearby in black and Canadian red, wearing that composed look that made even a crowded patio feel like a private lounge. Coach Stone was next to him in a red Canada training top, calm as ever, letting the noise move around him without changing his expression. Trey occupied the middle in gold, already acting like Church Street had been closed for his personal entrance.
Alton had both hands raised, laughing loud enough to cut through the whole patio. Gabe sat bare-armed and golden, looking like he had been carved for a trophy case. Beside him, Izzy sat without a shirt, all grin and confidence, one hand wrapped around his own pint like it was proof he belonged at the table and maybe owned half the street.
PDU-767 gleamed silently beside them in black armor, visor reflecting the string lights and beer glasses. PDU-090 sat at the edge of the group in polished black-and-gold obedience, alert, still, and watching everything.
Trey lifted his pint slightly, pleased with the formation.
“Look at this,” he said. “Toronto. World Cup. Church Street. Gold at the center. Honestly, the city should send me a thank-you card.”
Wells glanced at him. “For sitting at a table?”
“For elevating the table.”
Alton burst out laughing. “He’s impossible tonight.”
Coach Stone gave Trey one glance.
Trey pointed at him. “That’s called brand consistency, Coach.”
Gabe leaned back, amused. “Your brand is panic wrapped in gold foil.”
Trey placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Jealousy is ugly, Gabe. Luckily you’ve got the shoulders to survive it.”
PDU-767’s visor turned slightly toward Trey.
“Statement contains excessive self-regard.”
Trey grinned. “And yet the drone is listening.”
PDU-090’s head tilted with smooth precision.
“Observation: Trey requires audience confirmation every four point six minutes.”
Even Coach’s mouth moved like it wanted to become a smile and then remembered discipline.
Trey stared at PDU-090, offended.
“First of all, rude. Second of all, it’s called charisma management.”
The screen above the patio erupted with crowd noise as a chance on goal developed. Everyone turned for half a second, pints lifted, bodies leaning forward. The Church Mouse shook with shouting.
Trey turned too, but only halfway.
Because his phone vibrated.
Wells noticed first. “Trey?”
Trey pulled the phone from the table, still trying to look casual, still trying to pretend nothing in the world could interrupt his public performance.
The alert on the screen killed the act instantly.
Alton leaned in. “What is it?”
Trey stared at the screen.
Gabe’s grin faded. “Trey?”
Trey stood so fast his chair scraped backward across the patio.
Gabe frowned. “What case?”
Trey looked up, eyes suddenly sharp behind the gold lenses.
Everyone understood at once.
Wells exhaled. “The cleats.”
Coach Stone’s voice cut through the noise. “Trey.”
“Nope.” Trey grabbed his bag. “No speech. No lesson. No ‘control your response.’ Someone touched the relics.”
Alton called after him, “Do you want us to come?”
Trey was already pushing through the patio crowd.
“Stay here and look expensive!”
Then he broke into a sprint.
The crowd parted badly, then quickly, because Trey running in a gold jersey with panic in his shoulders looked less like a man in a hurry and more like a warning. He cut through tourists, flags, fans, street noise, laughter, and music. He nearly clipped a man in a Croatia jersey, spun around a family taking photos, and launched himself across the hotel entrance like the lobby was the final stretch of a relay.
The elevator took too long.
Trey slapped the button again.
“Come on. Come on. Come on.”
A woman beside him gave him a concerned look.
Trey did not look back. “Emergency.”
By the time he reached the twenty-third floor, his breath was controlled but his mind was not. He moved fast down the corridor, keycard already in hand, bag bouncing against his hip. The closer he got to the room, the louder his heartbeat became.
Trey pushed the door open.
The room was warm, quiet, and wrong.
The black-and-gold hard case sat on the bed.
Gold hardware glinting beneath the lamp.
And there, sitting beside the bed with impossible stillness, was SERVE-343.
Black rubber uniform. Silver detailing. Visor reflecting the hotel lights.
In its hands were Trey’s lucky cleats.
One cleat was pressed close to its visor.
The other rested across its lap like a stolen trophy.
343’s posture was reverent, almost ceremonial. Its head tilted slightly as if it were studying something sacred. A thin stream of drool had gathered at the edge of its mouthpiece and fallen onto the flooring.
Trey froze in the doorway.
Then his fear disappeared.
What replaced it was offense.
Deep, personal, dramatic offense.
“You absolute bargain-bin Batmobile,” Trey said.
343 did not look away from the cleat.
“Object contains heavy identity residue,” 343 stated. “Golden Army function. Trey imprint. Competitive pressure. Victory trace. Possession confirmed.”
Trey shut the door behind him.
“Possession confirmed?” He stepped forward slowly. “Mate, those are not community property. Those are not hotel slippers. Those are not a buffet item. Those are my lucky cleats.”
“You were smelling them.”
“Analysis method appropriate.”
“You are drooling on them.”
“System response exceeded predicted threshold.”
Then he gave a short, sharp chav laugh.
“Oh, that is tragic. Big scary SERVE unit broke into my room and got folded by a pair of cleats.”
343 finally turned its visor toward him.
“Trey’s scent profile is unusually dominant.”
Trey’s eyebrows rose above the sunglasses.
“Careful, drone. Keep talking like that and I’ll start charging admission.”
Trey walked to the lounge chair near the window and sat down with deliberate, theatrical control. The Toronto skyline burned blue and gold behind him. He leaned back, spreading himself like a king pretending he had not just sprinted through a hotel in panic.
“Since you’re already down there making a disgrace of yourself, come here.”
343 placed the cleats back into the case with sudden, careful precision.
The movement was immediate.
It crossed the room and knelt in front of Trey.
Trey’s current sneakers were gold, expensive, styled for the street rather than the field. 343 handled them with the same reverence it had given the cleats. One hand supported Trey’s ankle. The other loosened the laces carefully, almost delicately, as though damaging the shoe would be a violation of protocol.
Trey watched through his gold lenses.
“Look at you,” he said. “All that programming, all that slick rubber, and you’re still doing shoe service for the lad in gold.”
343 removed the first sneaker and held it in both hands.
The room went very still.
The drone’s shoulders locked.
A soft mechanical sound pulsed through its chest.
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me the warm-up act is already too much.”
343’s grip tightened around the sneaker.
“Signal concentration elevated.”
“Yeah?” Trey extended the other foot. “Try surviving the sequel.”
343 removed the second sneaker.
This time its response was stronger.
A visible tremor moved through its arms. The drool increased, slipping down in bright threads against the black rubber. Its visor flickered once, twice, then steadied with visible effort.
Trey gave a cruel little smile.
“Bless. The drone’s having a moment.”
343 placed both sneakers beside the chair, aligned perfectly heel to heel. Then it leaned closer, drawn by something deeper than curiosity, deeper than instruction. It lowered its visor toward Trey’s bare feet.
“Go on, then. Since you broke into my room like a bargain-bin burglar, finish the job.”
It began slowly, almost scientifically — scent first, then contact, testing, processing, recording. But the more it tried to analyze, the less controlled it became. Its breathing pattern shifted. Its hands closed around Trey’s ankles. It moved from one foot to the other with increasing urgency, the drone’s precision collapsing into overload.
Trey sat back in the lounge chair, one arm draped along the side.
“That’s it,” he said. “Learn something.”
“Input exceeds standard classification.”
Trey smirked. “Standard classification? That’s a posh way of saying you can’t handle me.”
343’s mouthpiece pressed closer. It licked once, then again, as if trying to verify the signal through direct contact.
The effect was immediate.
The room lights reflected across the visor in fractured gold.
A low warning tone sounded from somewhere inside the SERVE unit.
“Warning,” 343 said, voice flattening. “Sensory saturation. Motor control instability. Alignment disruption risk. Trey’s imprint exceeds—”
The visor flashed silver-white.
It froze in place for one impossible second, still kneeling at Trey’s feet.
Then it tipped sideways onto the carpet with a heavy rubberized thud.
Trey looked down at the fallen drone.
The cleat case sat open on the bed behind them, perfectly safe.
The skyline glittered beyond the glass.
Trey slowly lowered one foot to the carpet and nudged 343’s shoulder.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, gold chains shifting against the number 59 on his chest.
“State of you,” Trey said. “Broke into my room, violated the sacred cleats, talked all that SERVE nonsense…”
He slid his sunglasses down slightly and looked over the top of them.
“…and still couldn’t handle a proper Golden Army lad.”
Trey stood, walked to the bed, and closed the cleat case with careful hands. The latches clicked shut.
Only then did he look back at the drone on the floor.
He pulled out his phone and typed one message to Wells.
Cleats safe. Intruder down.
Also, tell Coach I remained completely calm.
A reply came almost instantly.
You sprinted through Toronto.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “But I looked expensive doing it.”
Featuring: @serve-343, @wells-gold58, @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-767, @polo-drone-075, @pdu-090, @isaac-gold-45
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125
