#builtnotgiven

The Golden Army Indoor Facility always smelled the same, sweat, turf pellets, faint disinfectant. Familiar enough that my shoulders loosened the second I stepped inside. Still, my eyes went straight to the net.

Coach was already there.

Black kit. Gloves on. Hat backward. Standing dead center like he’d grown out of the goal line. He didn’t look at me right away. He never rushed that part.

I dropped my bag, knelt, and tightened my gold cleats. The turf was cool under my knee. When I looked up, Coach was watching now—calm, unreadable.

“Warm up,” he said. No extra words. No catch-up. Just work.

“Corners,” Coach called as he settled into position. “Regency pace.”

I took the ball, adjusted my stance, struck. Blocked.

The rebound rolled back out. Coach retrieved it himself, slower than necessary, eyes steady.

“Gold,” he said, dry, “the objective is to get it in the hole, not just make noise around it.”

Heat climbed my neck. I smirked and reset.

“Pick one,” he continued. “Commit. Don’t flirt with it.”

That landed.

I waited an extra half beat this time. Shot low, inside post. He got a boot to it, barely.

“Better,” he said. “Now do it on purpose.”

We ran it harder after that. Faster feeds. Fewer words. At one point he let a goal in, intentional. I felt the flash of satisfaction, then the correction came immediately.

“That’s what they’ll give you,” Coach said, rolling the ball back out. “Don’t mistake it for permission.”

By the time he checked the clock, my legs were buzzing the right way.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Good work, Gold.”

No praise beyond that. Didn’t need it.

We headed in without talking. Alignment didn’t need commentary.

Steam hung low in the locker room. I sat on the bench in white compression shorts, bare torso cooling down, breathing steady. My gold uniform lay folded beside me, damp and earned.

Coach crossed the room, gloves set neatly on the bench. Black spandex caught the light when he moved—contained, deliberate.

“You look steadier than you did before Toronto,” he said, catching my reflection in the mirror.

“Had time to think,” I replied.

Coach nodded once. “Good. Being back in your hometown didn’t soften you.”

Silence settled again, easy, familiar.

“I’ll be at the Golden Chalice later,” Coach said, like it was routine. “If your legs loosen up.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll swing by.”

He paused at the door. “Gym tomorrow. Morning.”

“Got it.”

Coach left first. I stayed a moment longer, letting the steam thin and the quiet hold.

No rush. No confusion.

Just alignment and something building under the routine.

The training room hummed softly as Wells lowered himself into the ice bath, the shock pulling a sharp breath from his chest. The metallic gold Speedo clung tight against his hips, water beading off his skin as he gripped the edge of the tub.

“Unbelievable,” Wells muttered, teeth clenched, eyes flicking up. “You really wake up and choose violence, huh?”

Coach Blaze Titan stood directly in front of him, completely unbothered. He wore a black Speedo, cut clean and tight. Arms folded, posture steady, he looked carved out of control.

“Cold doesn’t hurt you,” Blaze said calmly. “Losing focus does.”

Wells huffed a laugh. “Easy to say when you’re not freezing everything important.”

Blaze stepped closer, stepping into the ice bath for a few minutes, just inside Wells’ space. “Breathe,” he said, voice low and even. “Slow it down. In. Out.”

Wells tried to roll his eyes, but the cold forced him to listen. His shoulders dropped. His breathing steadied.

“Regency panics when they’re uncomfortable,” Blaze continued. “They rush. They lash out. They lose their shape.”

Wells exhaled slowly, jaw unclenching. “And you want me calm.”

“I want you untouchable,” Blaze corrected, as he stepped back out of the ice bath and leaned in towards Wells.

Wells looked up at him, a familiar grin creeping back despite the ice. “You always know how to make suffering sound productive.”

Blaze smirked. “Good. Stay another thirty seconds.”

Wells leaned back, letting the water settle. “Coach,” he said lightly, “you keep pushing me like this and I might start thinking you enjoy watching me hold out.”

Blaze’s gaze lingered for just a beat longer than necessary. “I enjoy results.”

Wells chuckled, steady now. Focused. Ready.

The rugby pitch was empty, but it wasn’t quiet.

Morning mist clung low to the grass, curling around Wells’ calves as he jogged out onto the field in full Golden Army practice kit. Gold jersey with black accents stretched tight across his chest. Tight-fitting gold rugby shorts that didn’t shift when he moved. Black socks banded with gold stripes, gold cleats biting into damp turf.

No name. No number. Just work.

Coach waited at the halfway line.

Black Golden Army rugby jersey, COACH stamped in gold across chest and back. Black socks. Black cleats. Skin-tight black rubber rugby shorts that didn’t wrinkle when he moved. A whistle hung loose against his sternum. No hat. No softness.

Wells cut across the field and slowed ten meters short, restless, cocky, ready. He bounced once on his toes, then squared up.

“Line,” Coach said.

Wells stepped onto the paint, gold against white against green. Coach paced a slow circle around him, cleats pressing into the turf with deliberate weight.

“You’re training,” Coach said. “Not performing.”

Wells didn’t drop the grin. “Still planning to watch, though.”

Coach stopped. “I watch to correct.”

The whistle cracked.

Wells tore down the pitch. Thirty meters. Stop. Turn. Go again. The gold kit clung tighter with every sprint, breath sharpening, heat blooming beneath compression.

“Again,” Coach called.

Then again. And again.

By the fourth sprint Wells’ lungs burned and mist curled around his knees. Coach raised the whistle, longer this time, and stepped directly into Wells’ path.

Not blocking. Claiming space.

“Posture,” Coach said, lifting two fingers toward Wells’ chest. “You’re leaning. That’s not dominance—that’s impatience.”

Wells straightened immediately.

Coach nodded once. “Good. Hold it.”

Contact drills came next.

Coach raised the pad, stance wide and immovable, rubber shorts gleaming under cold daylight. Wells hit hard, thud, cleats tearing at wet grass.

“Lower,” Coach ordered.

Wells hit again, deeper. Legs screaming. Sweat darkening the gold jersey, rolling down his spine.

“Again.”

Impact. “Again.” Harder.

By the fifth rep Wells bent slightly, hands braced above his knees, breath dragging in and out, grin still refusing to quit.

Coach let the whistle swing slowly on its cord.

“Sooner or later,” Coach said, “you’re going to be at the bottom of a ruck with a bunch of big, burly men stacked on top of you. If you want to play this game, you’d better learn how to stay solid and keep your shape.”

Wells wiped his jaw with his forearm, grin sharpening. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m used to holding my ground when things get heavy.”

Coach tilted his head just enough to acknowledge the nerve.

“I’ve seen you hold shape when it’s easy, Wells,” he said. “We’ll see how clever you are when the pack decides you’re the problem.”

A pause, thin, charged, deliberate.

Then the faintest hint of a smirk. Gone as soon as it appeared.

Coach pointed toward the far try line. “Carry.”

Wells took the ball and ran, not fast, not flashy. Clean. Controlled. Shoulders stacked. Hips aligned. Gold cutting through mist like it belonged there.

He crossed the line upright and turned, posture unbroken, chest heaving, eyes locked on Coach. No celebration. No ask.

One short whistle.

Approval. Minimal. Earned.

Coach walked forward across paint and turf. As he passed behind Wells, he delivered a firm, grounding pat to the rear, half acknowledgment, half reminder.

“Shower,” Coach said, voice low and final. “Don’t drag.”

Wells nodded once and jogged toward the tunnel, gold kit clinging to him like a challenge he’d barely met.

Coach stayed at midfield, black rooted, unchanged, as gold disappeared off the pitch.

Training ended the way it always did.

No praise. No applause. Just orders.

And Wells already hungry for the next one.

No excuses. No shortcuts. Just showing up and putting in the work.

Three bodies. One rhythm. Steel, sweat, and discipline under low lights.

Hit the gym, bros. Work out! 💛

Strength is earned. Brotherhood is chosen. Choose to contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-125