#alphatraining

The mat was warm and a little sticky under the lights—just enough grip to punish hesitation. The air shimmered with a cocktail of rubber, skin heat, singlet stretch and competitive testosterone. Wells bounced once on his heels, gold singlet catching every beam like liquid metal poured over muscle. His knee pads hugged his joints tight, thighs full and pumped inside the compression.

Coach circled him in the black rubber singlet, thicker, shinier, more authoritative. His boots made no sound; his knee pads brushed with a low rasp. Just beard, eyes, and that half-patient, half-amused smirk that always meant Wells was about to earn something the hard way.

“Rule one,” Coach murmured, voice low and close enough that Wells felt it along his traps. “Alphas don’t wait for permission.”

Wells shot forward. Good aggression, sloppy angle. Coach caught him by the singlet hips, rubber stretching against Wells' skin with a sharp squeak. In three seconds, Wells was flat, breath punched out, shoulders pressed to mat.

Coach stayed on him, weighty, not crushing. Dominance without panic. “Again,” he said, breath warm against Wells' ear. “With hunger this time. Not hope.”

They didn’t wrestle for score or time. They wrestled for hierarchy. For instruction. For the kind of control you felt in the lungs more than the pride. Every hold had intention; every reversal had commentary.

Wells surged harder. Coach let him get close once, close enough that Wells could taste the win, before he reversed with surgical calm, pinning Wells chest-to-chest. Sweat met sweat, singlet rubber squeaking under compression.

“You’re growing,” Coach said, hands firm on Wells’s traps. “Chest thicker. Legs responding. But size without discipline is just bulk. I build strength that obeys.”

Wells swallowed, hips still pinned. “I can handle it.”

Coach pressed down, just a little. Enough to make Wells choose between breathing or squirming. “Handling is passive. Owning is active. I’m interested in ownership.”

They drilled takedowns. Counters. Holds that required commitment and breath. Coach repositioned Wells by the straps of the gold singlet, tugging him exact, guiding angles with knee pad pressure. Wells followed cues—when to explode, when to melt, when to play dead so he could strike clean.

With each rep, Coach narrated the growth like a sculptor critiquing his own creation.

“Back’s thickening. Lat sweep improving. Quads have the density now. Next comes traps and glutes. Growth is obedience, Wells. You grow because I tell you to.”

Wells didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. His body responded too eagerly to correction.

Then it happened, Wells nearly got the pin. Coach didn’t panic; he exhaled once, shifted hips, and rolled them both. Wells tapped twice against Coach’s thigh out of instinct, and Coach released instantly—no shame, no comment, just a nod that said good reflex.

When the round finally ended, Wells was dripping, singlet clinging, breath harsh and hungry. Coach stripped off knee pads slowly, methodical, ritualistic. “Not bad,” he said. “Still raw.”

Wells smirked up at him. “Thought you liked raw.”

Coach didn’t bite. “I like potential. And potential only matters if someone trains it.”

Vent fans hummed. Showers hissed somewhere in the distance. Wells sat on the bench, straps peeled to his waist, torso pumped and red from contact. The scent of rubber, sweat, and heat still clung to him like a second skin.

Coach didn’t talk right away. Didn’t towel off right away. He let the silence soak into Wells' nerves like another form of pressure.

“You know what I like about you?” he finally asked, stepping in close, boots still unlaced. “You take correction like fuel.”

Wells lifted his chin. “Makes me better.”

Coach smirked. “Makes you mine to improve.”

He hooked a finger under Wells' jaw, barely a touch, just a cue. Enough to tell Wells exactly where to look.

“That growth you’re chasing?” Coach continued. “It’s not just mass. It’s discipline. It’s control. It’s knowing when to bite and when to tap.” A beat. “My control.”

Wells didn’t look away. Didn’t hide the grin that spread slow across his face. Hunger and ambition braided together.

Coach nodded once, satisfied. “Good. You’re learning.”

He leaned in, voice dropping into that quiet dominant register that made Wells sit straighter. “Keep wrestling for me. Keep growing for me. And when you finally get big enough to make me work, really work”

He paused, letting the implication coil around Wells' ribs, as he passed him a bottle of water.

“I’ll decide if you tap… or if I do.”

Wells shivered—half arousal, half competitive hunger. “Guess that means I’m not done.”

Coach turned toward the exit, rolling his shoulders, boots creaking. “Not even close. Hydrate, protein, and sleep. I want your legs and back fuller by next week.”

Wells blinked. “Yes, Coach.”

Coach paused in the doorway, profile sharp, voice smooth and smug.

“And Wells?”

“Yeah?”

“If you hesitate next time, I pin you fast. If you try to impress me…” His smile shifted darker, kinkier. “I make you earn the tap.”

Golden Army Indoor Facility. Noon. Intensity at full tilt.

The indoor turf vibrated with a tension that wasn’t just heat. Overhead lights beat down like suns, casting a molten glare across the golden surfaces. Every step echoed, every movement sharp. The match against Regency 11 approached and Coach wasn’t about to let them forget it.

He was already on the pitch.

Black jersey stretched tight across his torso, COACH emblazoned in gold across the chest. Black shorts with gold stripes clung to strong quads. Socks pulled high over shin pads, black with gold banding. A silver whistle hung like authority from his neck, unmoving. His black-and-white cleats bit into turf as he stood unmoved. His cap, worn backwards, made his face unreadable. Silent. Unshakable.

The doors opened.

Wells entered first, as expected. Sweat already beading along his brow. His metallic gold kit gleamed—jersey, shorts, socks, cleats all matching, seamless in shine. “WELLS 58” flickered under the lights as he jogged into formation. Cocky. Loose. Already pushing. Already performing.

Coach didn’t speak. Just watched.

Jabril followed—smaller steps, tighter control. Same gold gear, but it wore differently on him: like armor. Movements deliberate. No wasted motion. He didn’t even glance at Coach. But he knew. He knew the man in black was watching.

Then came Trey, all spring and attitude. Gold clung to his frame like it could barely contain the energy. His cleats bounced off the turf before he stopped, smirk cocked. Restless. Ready to impress—or disrupt.

Alton was grounded power—broad shoulders beneath shimmering gold, footsteps slow but final. He stood at the edge of formation like a cornerstone. He wasn’t trying to be noticed. He didn’t have to be.

Kasper arrived last, but his silence cut deeper than any entrance. Same kit, perfect fit. Controlled movements. His eyes scanned the setup with surgical detachment. Precision disguised as indifference.

Coach took one step forward.

Whistle.

"Line."

They fell into formation. Five in gold. One in black. The room shifted. The drill began.

"Touch and move."

Ball movement snapped into motion. Wells moved first—fast, sharp, slightly off rhythm. Jabril cleaned the pace with every contact. Trey overextended, immediately corrected by Coach’s voice: “Contain that fire.”

Alton’s passes thudded solid, firm, accurate. Kasper executed without comment, clean as a blade.

Coach circled them, cleats thudding softly. “Tempo.”

The ball spun through them, faster now. Wells gritted teeth. Trey grinned through sweat. Jabril narrowed focus. Alton held pace. Kasper? Still silent.

Coach moved with them. A shadow in black, threading through gold.

“Control.”

Wells stumbled, Coach was on him.

“Lower your hips. You’re not showing off. You’re building.”

A nod from Wells, eyes flickering down. Corrected.

“Again.”

The pattern repeated. Then intensified. Drill to sprint. Sprint to footwork. Footwork to recovery. Breaths quickened. Heat rose. Gold clung tighter.

Coach’s voice never rose. Never needed to. Every command hit like weight.

When the whistle finally blew again, they froze. Chests heaving. Jerseys soaked. Socks streaked with turf. The light glinted off every drenched thread of gold.

Coach stood still.

Wells, bent at the knees, looked up. Coach stepped forward. Just a step. No words. Only gaze.

He didn’t need to speak.

Wells straightened. No smirk now. Just focus.

One nod passed between them.

It wasn’t approval. It was pressure. And Wells was ready to carry it.

Coach’s eyes swept across the field one last time, at Jabril’s control, Trey’s energy, Alton’s weight, Kasper’s precision. Golden bodies glinting under the lights, gear clinging tight, every one of them impressive in form and function.

He didn’t say much. Just a quiet hum in the back of his throat as he turned toward Wells again.

“Strong squad,” he said low, voice coated in something dry and deliberate. “All of them look good out there. Damn good.”

Then, the pause.

“But you… there’s something else in you.”

He let it hang in the air, like heat, like pressure, like a test.

“Still figuring it out.”

And with that, Coach turned, put his arm over Wells' shoulder, leading him off the turf and leaving Wells there, golden, sweaty, and burning to know exactly what he meant.

Think you’ve got what it takes to train under Coach? Gear up, fall in line, and find out. Reach out to our recruiters: @polo-drone-125, @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94

The Golden Army gym breathed like a furnace, warm lights, iron clatter, chalk dust spiraling through the air. Wells walked in already in gold: wet-look compression shirt hugging his chest, matching shorts slicing clean across his quads, cap turned backwards, grin sharp and cocky.

Coach Titan didn’t need to turn to acknowledge him. Just stood at the power rack—black compression stretched glossy across his shoulders, hat backward, black-and-white trainers planted in that heavy, immovable stance that made the room feel smaller.

“Warm,” Coach said.

Wells didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. He wanted to move, wanted to flex, wanted to be seen. A few pulls, a few squats, a few rolls of his spine and he was breathing heat into the room.

Coach watched. Silent. Measuring. Not impressed, assessing.

“Rack,” Coach ordered.

Wells slid under the barbell and let the metal settle across him. Coach didn’t spot; he didn’t have to. Sometimes being watched was heavier than plates. Wells dropped into the first rep, compression gold shining under the lights.

“Chest up,” Coach said, voice low and precise.

Wells obeyed. Half for form. Half for the sound of it.

He pushed deeper into the set, thighs burning, sweat beading against metallic gold. Wells loved the burn. Loved being bigger than last week, harder than last month. Loved knowing Coach was the one making him chase it.

Coach finally moved, three steps, slow, controlled, circles tightening around Wells. Not touching. Not yet.

“Don’t rush it,” Coach murmured. “Control makes the muscle. Ego wastes it.”

Wells looked up through the strain, grin breaking through his teeth. “Hard not to flex when I know you’re watching.”

Coach tilted his head. “I’m not watching, Wells. I’m evaluating.”

Cable station. Coach pointed; Wells followed. He always did, even when he pretended to bargain. Single-arm row, gold fabric stretched tight across chest and ribs, forearm veins lit like wiring under skin.

“Hip open,” Coach said, two fingers landing at Wells’ side. Correction. Not a suggestion.

Wells inhaled through his nose, posture snapping into place. “Better?” he asked.

Coach didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Wells felt it.

Set after set, Wells’ breathing turned ragged, but his grin never left. Sweat traced down the curve of his pecs, caught in the gold compression. His cap slid lower; his ego stayed high.

Coach stepped close enough for Wells to feel the heat behind him, touching him on the shoulder. “Again.” One word. Heavy as iron.

Wells pulled. Harder. Slower. Deeper. Everything Coach wanted.

On the last rep, Wells staggered forward, chest heaving, gold fabric gone dark with sweat. Coach closed the distance, breath steady, eyes calm. Wells lifted his chin without being told.

Coach didn’t grab; he just stood there, black over gold, control over ambition, silence over struggle. Close enough to make Wells aware of every inch he still had to earn.

Coach finally spoke, voice low enough to sit between them:

“You’re big,” he said. “But we’re not done until you’re imposing.”

Wells’ smirk sharpened. “Then push me harder.”

Coach’s jaw ticked. Approval, barely. “I intend to.”

The gym was quiet in that saturated, post-training heat that left mirrors streaked and the air thick with iron. Wells stood on the mat barefoot, gold posing briefs catching every stray flicker of light. At twenty-seven he was built to be seen, wide, round delts, a deep chest, tight waist, abs locked into view, and quads that refused subtlety. Confidence clung to him the way sweat clung to skin.

“You’re practically glowing,” the coach said as he approached. His voice carried weight—the kind that came from forty years and a body that hadn’t given up a pound of mass. “Good. Makes my job easier.”

Wells smirked at his own reflection. “Thought you preferred me harder to manage.”

“Oh, I do,” the coach said, stepping around him slowly. “Difficult men are more entertaining. And more rewarding when they behave.”

The tape unrolled from the coach’s hand with a soft hiss.

“Posture,” he commanded.

Two fingers pressed into Wells’ sternum, firm and unhesitating, nudging him back into alignment. Wells adjusted, chest elevated, ribs open, shoulders spread. The gold briefs stretched slightly over thick glutes, and the coach’s gaze didn’t hide the fact that he noticed.

“That’s it,” the coach murmured. “Now you look like something worth measuring.”

He wrapped the tape around Wells’ chest, pulling snug. Wells inhaled, pecs lifting against the pressure. The coach checked the number twice.

“Bigger,” he said. “You’re becoming a full-time distraction.”

“From what?” Wells asked.

The coach smiled without looking up. “From whatever else men in this gym were pretending mattered.” He scribbled the number. “They stare every time you walk past. Half out of envy, half out of curiosity.”

Wells tilted his head. “Curious about what?”

“About how far you’ve gone,” the coach said. “And how far you’d let someone push you.”

He moved behind Wells, close enough that Wells could feel the body heat and density difference.

“Shoulders,” the coach said, adjusting Wells’ arms himself. “No flaring. Don’t show off yet—you’ll get your moment.”

Wells let him move him, but only just. “You assume I take orders.”

“You don’t take them,” the coach corrected, voice low. “You enjoy pretending you don’t.”

The tape stretched wide. The coach whistled quietly. “Look at that. All that width for free. Some men dedicate their lives to being half as interesting.”

“Interesting?” Wells repeated. “Didn’t know that was a metric.”

“I use my own metrics,” the coach said. “And by mine, you’re becoming dangerously attractive.”

Arms next.

“Flex.”

Wells snapped into it, bicep swelling under the lights. The coach took his time measuring, thumb adjusting the angle, knuckle brushing against the hardness of the muscle itself.

“God,” the coach said with a grin. “No wonder the locker room gets quiet when you show up. They don’t know whether to challenge you or stare.”

“Let them stare,” Wells said. “Everyone deserves a good view.”

The coach clicked his pen. “And you love providing one.”

“Why else would I train?” Wells shot back.

“For power,” the coach said, stepping in front of him now, close enough that Wells could see the flecks of blue in his eyes. “For dominance. For the thrill of being wanted and feared at the same time.”

Quads next. The coach crouched, one hand on Wells’ hip to steady him as he measured. His gaze slid up the line of Wells’ thigh, unbothered by subtlety.

“These,” he said, squeezing once, “are the reason I can’t keep other coaches away from my sessions. They want to know how you built them. I keep telling them it’s a combination of genetics and vanity.”

Wells grinned down at him. “You think I’m vain?”

“I think you’re a performer,” the coach said, standing smoothly. “And performers know exactly what they’re doing.”

He took the waist measurement last, tape tight against the narrowness of it. The contrast between mass and discipline was obscene in the best way.

“Perfect,” the coach murmured. “Tight where it counts. Loose nowhere.”

Wells raised a brow. “You talk like you’re flirting.”

“Oh, Wells,” the coach replied, finally looking up at him fully, “I stopped pretending this was just coaching three months ago.”

Wells didn’t break eye contact. “Then what is it?”

The coach capped his pen slowly, deliberately. “Motivation. And you respond to that better than most men I’ve trained.”

He handed Wells the clipboard—numbers, proof, validation, desire disguised as data.

“You’re not done,” the coach said. “You’re just becoming dangerous.”

Wells stood taller, golden and carved and fully aware of the attention. “And you like dangerous.”

“I crave it,” the coach said. “Now show me a pose—and don’t hold back this time.”

Measured. Desired. Displayed.

Golden. And fully aware of the effect.

Then Coach looked at Wells and says “You’re dangerous in gold, Wells… dangerous enough that I almost don’t want to share the view.”

The Golden Stadium sat empty, but it didn’t feel quiet. Floodlights bathed the pitch in warm gold, turning the grass into something theatrical, deliberate, like it was waiting to be used properly.

Wells stood near the touchline, rolling the ball beneath his foot. He was dressed head-to-toe in the Golden Army soccer practice kit: a tight, metallic gold jersey clinging to his chest and shoulders, matching shorts cut high and unapologetic, black socks pulled snug over powerful calves, gold cleats flashing every time he shifted his weight. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

“So,” Wells said, glancing toward the sideline, grin already loaded, “you bring me out here to admire the view, or you planning to make me work for your attention, Coach?”

Coach Blaze Titan stepped onto the pitch without answering.

His kit mirrored Wells’ in cut and intent but not in color. Black jersey, tight and unforgiving, the word COACH stamped across his chest in clean gold lettering. His shorts bore a golden spiral along one thigh, catching the light when he moved. He looked built for authority—calm, heavy, controlled.

“Attention?” Blaze said, nudging the ball into motion with his foot. “You already have too much of that.”

Wells laughed. “Funny. Most people complain I don’t give them enough.”

Blaze smirked and flicked the ball toward Wells. “One-touch. No flirting with the ball.”

Wells trapped it cleanly and sent it back. “I flirt with everything I’m good at.”

The drill started simple. Short passes. Tight spacing. Blaze increased the pace without warning, forcing Wells to adjust, breathe harder, think faster. Every correction came low and close.

“Open your hips.” “Earlier.” “Don’t rush, commit.”

Wells responded with speed and style, gold kit darkening with sweat, grin never fully leaving his face. When he slipped past Blaze with a sharp cut and burst of acceleration, he couldn’t resist glancing back.

“Still keeping up?” he teased.

Blaze didn’t rise to it. He just took the ball back and reset them, standing closer this time. “Again.”

The next exchange was rougher. Blaze angled him wide, closed space faster, body language reading Wells before Wells could decide. The flirt turned competitive. The competition turned electric.

Wells laughed under his breath. “You always this pushy, or am I special?”

“Depends,” Blaze replied calmly, “you always this mouthy, or you nervous?”

Wells grinned. “If I were nervous, I’d be slowing down.”

He exploded forward, feinted left, cut right and this time Blaze bit just enough. Wells slipped past, clean and fast, breaking free down the line before slowing to a jog.

“That’s two,” Wells said, hands on hips, chest heaving, eyes bright.

Blaze walked up to him slowly, appraising. “You’re fast,” he said. “But you win because you listen.”

“I multitask,” Wells shot back. “I listen and look good doing it.”

Blaze circled him once, deliberate, then stopped close enough that Wells could feel the heat. “Keep letting me push you like that and you’ll own Regency’s backline before they realize what hit them.”

Wells raised a brow. “You talk like you enjoy pushing me.”

“I enjoy results,” Blaze said. “And you’re very… responsive.”

Wells laughed, flicking the ball up and catching it again with ease. “Careful, Coach. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you want me exactly where you’ve got me.”

Blaze’s smile turned sharper. “If I wanted you somewhere specific, Wells, you’d already be there.”

They reset at the touchline, gold and black under the lights, sweat cooling, tension humming.

“One more?” Blaze asked.

Wells smirked, tapping the ball into place. “Coach, you keep asking for one more and people might start thinking you can’t get enough of me.”

Blaze met his gaze, amused and unbothered. “Trust me. When I’ve had enough… you’ll know.”

Wells chuckled, rolling the ball forward. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was gonna say.”

Blaze kicked off the drill.

And Wells chased him down the line, laughing, already hungry for more.

The Golden Chalice hummed with low music and warm light. Wells leaned against the bar, gold tank top clinging to his chest, sweat catching the glow. WELLS 58 sat in black across the front, bold and unmistakable. He laughed easily, loose from a couple of drinks, shoulders relaxed for once.

Then the room shifted.

Coach stood at the entrance.

Still. Black-clad. Watching.

Wells felt it before he fully registered it, the weight of that attention, familiar and grounding. He turned, grin faltering just a fraction as their eyes met across the room.

Coach moved closer, presence cutting through the noise. They ended up side by side at the bar, close enough that Wells could feel the heat from him.

“You’ve been training well,” Coach said quietly. Not praise. Assessment.

Wells straightened without thinking. “I’ve been doing what you told me.”

A pause. Then, “It shows.”

The words landed heavier than any compliment.

Coach’s hand came to rest on Wells’ shoulder, bare, deliberate, steady. Not a pull. Not a shove. Just enough to correct his posture. Wells felt his chest lift, spine align, breath slow.

He didn’t move away.

They left the pub together without discussing it. The alley behind the building was narrow, damp, lit by a single hazy streetlight. Mist hung low, the air quieter here.

They stopped a few feet apart.

Coach stood tall in black. Wells faced him in gold, chin lifted, heart beating harder than it ever did on the field.

No one spoke.

Coach stepped in first.

The kiss was controlled. Still. Brief, but charged. No hands wandering, no rush. Just contact, intentional and restrained, like a line crossed with full awareness.

Coach lingered for a minute, both of the, still hugging and holding each other.

Coach pulled back almost immediately.

“This is wrong,” he said, voice steady but tight. “I shouldn’t do this with someone I’m training.”

Wells stood there, stunned, breathing hard, gold fabric rising and falling against his chest. He didn’t argue. Didn’t apologize. Just absorbed the moment as it settled into him.

Behind him, Coach turned slightly away, already pulling himself back into control.

Coach stepped back in the alley, footsteps measured. He spoke, barely loud enough to carry, he spoke more to himself than to Wells.

“That kind of tension doesn’t come from nowhere.”

He didn’t look back.

Wells remained under the streetlight, alone now. The mist thickened. His breathing slowed. Whatever had shifted didn’t feel like loss, it felt like alignment.

Gold against the dark. Grounded. Changed. Wells was still in awe over the unexpected kiss and wondered what would happen at their next training session.

Coach’s silhouette faded deeper into the alley behind him.