#brotraining

The next morning, Wells and Alton shuffled into Coach Stone’s kitchen a little slower than usual.

Wells tried to play it cool.

Alton tried to sit down.

Neither attempt was convincing.

Coach stood at the stove in a black tank, smirking as he flipped eggs, ham, and toast onto three plates with the calm confidence of a man who knew exactly why his guests were standing instead of sitting.

“Breakfast,” Coach said. “My version of Denny’s.”

Wells raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

Coach turned, holding up the plate.

“Moons Over My Hammy.”

Alton groaned. Wells laughed so hard he had to brace himself against the counter, then immediately regretted the movement.

Coach just grinned.

“Careful, boys. After last night’s lesson, I know both of you are still a little tender about breakfast seating arrangements.”

Alton muttered something under his breath.

Coach pointed the spatula at him.

“Run your mouth again, Bro, and I might be making you both pancakes, tomorrow.”

Wells took his plate, still smiling.

Some mornings came with coffee. Some came with consequences.

This one came with eggs, ham, and two Bros who learned that Coach Stone always serves breakfast with a side of reminder.

Some Bros learn at the gym. Some learn at breakfast. The smart ones learn when Coach is holding the spatula. Step up, take the lesson, and join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Wells stood in the Golden Army Training Center lounge with a metallic gold yo-yo looped around one finger, grinning as PDU-767 watched from beside the black-and-gold sofa.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

The yo-yo spun, dropped, snapped back, and landed cleanly in Wells’ palm every time.

“Funny little thing,” Wells said, letting it fall again. “Goes down. Comes back up. Does exactly what it’s told.”

PDU-767 tilted its glossy helmet, tracking the motion with mechanical precision.

“Observation logged. Yo-yo demonstrates obedience through tension, release, and return.”

Wells smirked. “Exactly, drone bro.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the joke land.

“And honestly? Any good Bro should know when to go down, when to come back up, and when to wait for the next tug.”

PDU-767 paused.

“Secondary meaning detected.”

Wells laughed, snapping the yo-yo back into his palm.

“Good drone.”

Gold always comes back when called. Step into the Training Center, feel the pull, and let the Golden Army bring you into rhythm. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Friday morning at the Golden Army Training Center, Coach Stone took over the cafeteria kitchen with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how he liked his sausage.

Wells leaned against the counter, arms crossed, already smirking.

He knew.

Alton, Trey, and Gabe stood in a row wearing aprons, watching as Coach slapped a tray of seasoned meat onto the steel prep table.

“Listen up, Bros,” Coach said. “Sausage is all about control. You season it right, handle it firm, and never rush the stuffing.”

Alton coughed.

Trey looked at the ceiling.

Gabe suddenly became very interested in washing his hands.

Wells just grinned wider. “Coach does like his sausage properly stuffed.”

Coach pointed a warning finger at him. “And you would know.”

The kitchen went silent for half a second before Alton lost it.

Coach picked up the casing and held it between both hands. “Now, the mistake amateurs make is overfilling it. You pack too much in too fast, it bursts. You want steady pressure. Smooth rhythm. Let the meat settle where it belongs.”

“Is this still cooking?” Gabe asked.

“Mostly,” Wells said.

Coach ignored them and demonstrated with absolute seriousness, guiding the mixture through the grinder while the sausage filled neatly into shape.

“See that? Firm. Even. No weak spots.”

Trey nodded like he was attending a sacred lecture. “So Coach likes a thick sausage, but only if it can hold together under pressure.”

“Exactly,” Coach said, then paused. “Wait.”

Alton leaned toward Gabe. “I think we’re learning too much.”

By the time lunch service started, the cafeteria smelled incredible. Coach grilled the sausages until they were browned, juicy, and shining under the heat lamps. Then he split open the buns, gave each one a firm press, and started stuffing them properly.

“That’s the trick,” Coach said, sliding the first loaded bun toward Wells. “You don’t just toss sausage around. You open the bun, line it up right, and make sure the meat fits all the way in.”

Wells took one look at the plate and smirked. “Coach always was good at stuffing meat into buns.”

Alton nearly choked on his water. Trey turned red. Gabe stared at the ceiling like he was begging the Golden gods for strength.

Coach only smiled and wiped his hands with a towel.

“Remember, Bros. Sausage should be handled with respect.”

Wells took the first bite, closed his eyes, and nodded.

“Perfect as always, Coach.”

The lesson was complete.

Trey, and Gabe had learned three things that morning: Coach liked his sausage thick, hot, and properly stuffed.

Alton had already learned that lesson earlier in the week and was secretly wondering how Coach liked his pancakes? Large, think and stacked, he thought to himself.

And Wells already knew oh to well, exactly how Coach liked to serve it.

Some lessons are cooked slow. Some are served hot. Every Golden Bro learns when to stand straight, open up, and take what Coach serves. Join the Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Coach Stone does not usually repeat himself.

So when Wells got the message. Bring Alton. Bring the fraternity paddle. Be at my place tonight, he did not ask many questions.

Apparently, Alton’s little habit of running his mouth off to Coach was not fully corrected yet. There were still a few lessons left to review. A few points to drive home. A few reminders that some Bros learn best when they are placed in the proper position and given Coach’s full attention.

Wells just smiled, picked up the paddle, and told Alton to stretch first.

Because when Coach Stone says the evening is not over…

The smart Bro brings what he was told to bring.

Step into the brotherhood, learn when to speak, when to listen, and when Coach says class is still in session.

Join the Golden Army. Train hard. Stand proud. Take correction like a Bro. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Wells knows the gym builds the body, but recreational sports keep it alive.

A few rounds of beach volleyball at Sunnyside means sprinting through sand, jumping for every point, laughing with the bros, and getting a full-body workout without staring at a clock. Legs burn. Shoulders work. Core stays tight. Sweat shines. The game keeps moving, and so does the Gold.

Fitness does not always need four walls, heavy plates, or a perfect routine.

Sometimes it is just sun, sand, a ball, and a Bro willing to dive for it.

Wells always said he loved getting wet, getting caught in the rain.

Not the soft kind. Not the polite kind. The kind that comes down warm, heavy, and golden, soaking through every inch of him until his shirt clings, his hair drips, and that smug little Toronto grin spreads across his face like he knows exactly what he asked for.

Coach noticed it first.

Wells did not run from the storm. He stepped into it. Chest up. Smile wide. Eyes closed. Letting the gold pour over him until he looked less like a Bro caught in bad weather and more like a Bro being blessed by something filthy, sacred, and very, very Golden.

And Wells being Wells?

He did not keep it to himself.

He called the Bros closer.

“Come on,” he laughed, already dripping. “Don’t just stand there dry.”

One by one, they got wet with him. Shoulders shining. Shirts darkening. Golden water sliding down muscle, soaking fabric, turning the whole scene into something half ritual, half dare, a little dirty and completely Wells.

Some Bros like to stay clean, some like to get dirty.

Wells prefers them wet, laughing, dripping, and golden.