#bredtofeast

Coach didn't just want Wells on the field; he wanted him at maximum capacity. He slammed a heavy tray of the Hive’s specialized gold-density bars and a massive shaker onto the table, leaning over the Leftback with a grin that was all teeth.

"Eat up, Gold," Coach growled, his hand gripping the back of Wells' neck, forcing him to look at the spread. "You’re bred to feast on everything I give you. That’s the only way you’re going to stay built to lead this squad. I want to see you finish every single bit of it."

Wells looked down at the "Feast like a Beast" slogan printed across his own massive chest, the golden fabric straining against his pecs. He didn't blink. He reached for the shaker, his eyes locking onto Coach’s.

"You know I’ve got the appetite for it, Coach," Wells said, his voice thick with confidence. "I’ll take every bit of mass you can shove into me. I’m not just leading the backline, I’m owning it. And I know you like it when I’m this thick."

Coach chuckled, his grip on Wells’ neck tightening for a second. "I like it when you’re too heavy to think for yourself, 58. Now open up. We’ve got a long night of 'conditioning' ahead, and I need you topped off."

Wells didn't need another command. He started the feast, knowing that the more he took in, the more Coach would expect him to put out.

Wells proving he’s bred for the feast. When Coach tells you to fill up, you don't stop until you're at the limit. More mass, less thought, total dominance. The Golden Army doesn't just play; it consumes.