It was a crisp January afternoon in downtown Toronto. Snow crusted the curbs of Queen Street West, and the FIFA World Cup pop-up store pulsed with early anticipation. With the 2026 tournament just months away, Toronto, set to host several group-stage matches, was already buzzing with merch drops, sponsor booths, and flash fan events.

Inside, warmth clashed with cold as jackets came off and jerseys flew off racks. Between the aisles of national kits, one figure parted the crowd without trying.

Wells didn’t just walk in. He arrived.

Massive. Grinning. Alpha incarnate.

Snow still dusted the shoulders of his puffy gold winter jacket, zipped halfway to show off his tight black-and-gold Golden Army practice jersey, “Wells 58” stamped boldly across his chest. Dark blue jeans clung to his tree-trunk thighs, black winter boots crunching softly on the floor mats. A gold beanie hugged his thick hair, and steam visibly rose off him as the indoor heat hit his furnace of a body.

He strolled straight to the Canada jerseys and grabbed a red #9, inspecting it with a smirk. “Might as well buy it now, before they sell out” he muttered, holding it up to the mirror, admiring how it stretched across his bulk.

“Sell Out? How charming,” came a voice like silk pulled tight across steel. “Do let me know when fantasy becomes a registered FIFA bracket.”

Wells turned, grin already blooming. “Kensington.”

Oliver stood by the England display in a navy peacoat, wool scarf looped with surgeon-like precision. He held an England jersey like it was a passport to a finer world. The snowy wind hadn’t dared disturb his coiffed hair. Calm. Regal. Infuriating.

“Didn’t think I’d see royalty mixing with commoners at street-level pop-ups,” Wells teased, stepping closer, boots thudding.

Oliver’s smirk was barely visible. “One must occasionally descend from the ivory tower to remind the masses what taste looks like.”

Wells tilted his head, eyes raking Oliver’s outfit before tapping his own jersey. “Yeah? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, taste looks a lot like tight jeans and a legacy number.”

Oliver’s gaze lingered briefly on the “58” before flicking back up. “Legacy, perhaps. Subtlety? Not so much. You're dressed like a trophy case.”

“Damn right,” Wells laughed. “Gold jacket, gold beanie, golden gains, this is the trophy.”

Oliver raised the England jersey to the light, checking the embroidery. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. Pity it won’t help you when we meet on the pitch.”

Wells leaned in, still holding the Canada jersey. “Oh, we’re meeting. Center field on match day. You? Flat on your back. Ball in our net. Ref checking if you need therapy.”

Oliver stepped closer, their bodies nearly brushing. “You may win the room, Wells, but I win the match. Always have. Always will.”

Wells cracked his neck and grinned. “We’ll see about that, pretty boy. Just make sure that kit of your fits snug, gonna want something to cling to when I blow past you.”

The cashier cleared her throat nervously behind them.

They broke their stare, stepping forward simultaneously to ring up their jerseys.

As Oliver adjusted the crisp folds of his England kit on the counter, Wells slapped his Canada jersey down beside it.

“Hope you're getting that gift-wrapped,” he said. “’Cause after our match, you'll be mailing apologies from midfield.”

Oliver lifted a brow. “I'll be too busy signing post-match interviews and sipping imported champagne.”

Wells grabbed his bag, pulling his gold jacket tight. “Enjoy the bubbles. Just don’t choke on 'em when you're watching the replays of me scoring.”

With that, he turned, boots stomping into the snowy light.

Oliver watched him go.

He smiled.

Let the games begin.