#chalicepub

The squats are making my leg muscles burn; my rock-hard glutes flex with every ascent. One, two, three... then I stop counting, I just go until failure. The numbers don't matter, the reps don't matter—only the fire in my muscles and the sweat that dictates the pace. The earbuds playing the Gold Bros Hits isolate me from the rest of the world, turning the fatigue into pure rhythm.

“Workout done, bros.” 🤳💪 Click.

It’s the classic jock-style selfie: muscles still pumped from the effort, Golden Army tank top soaked in sweat, a smirk from someone who knows they’ve given it their all. The fans on social media will go crazy, but behind that filter lies the raw reality of weeks spent pushing past the limit. The match against the CFGs is looming, but right now, the exhaustion is just background noise. I feel strong. I feel full.

Then, the chaos of the gym slips away.

I step into the shower and the world shifts. The aggressive neon lights of the weight room give way to a soft, almost muffled glow. The hot water hits my tense shoulders and I feel the stress melting, sliding down. My mind slows down. The thoughts that were racing between tactical plays and maxed-out weights slowly fade as the steam fills my nostrils.

Inhale. Exhale. Again.

“Relax, let go, feel the connection with your mind. Leave out everything superficial. Inhale calm exhale distractions.” It’s not just a thought. It’s a mantra. A program activated deep within. Xavier the jock, Xavier the jokester, doesn't exist in this moment: there is only a perfect machine, an absolute synchronicity between the body and the mind that now governs it with absolute peace. Time loses its meaning. There is only the heartbeat slowing down under the scorching jet.

I walk out of the locker room with a towel wrapped around my waist, my muscles still defined by the heat. I can feel the guys' eyes on me: a mix of admiration and that usual curiosity. They know I’m prone to joking around, that I’m the one who breaks the tension, but no one ever really knows what’s going on in my head when the silence falls.

Bzz-bzz. My phone vibrates in my bag

ALTON: “Hey bro, stop screwing around and meet us at the Chalice pub. Hurry up or Daniel’s gonna finish all the beer. Move it!”

🍔 AT THE CHALICE 🍔 A few minutes later, I cross the threshold of the Chalice. Alton, Wells, and Daniel are already there, their golden jerseys a bright spot in the noisiest corner of the place. “Hey bros, over here!” Wells calls out with an exaggerated wave.

I sit down to find an altar of calories waiting for me. “We ordered you the usual, 'total destruction' version: double Cheeseburger with crispy bacon, caramelized onions, peppers, guac... double side of fries, and a pint,” Daniel announces, clutching his glass jealously, “or at least, what’s left of it after I took a few sips!”

“Guys, you have no idea how much I needed this!”

I pick it up. It’s heavy, greasy, glorious. I take a huge bite, no regrets. It’s an explosion of flavors that brings every single one of my cells back down to earth. “Mmmmm... Oh god, this is so good!” I mumble with my mouth full, completely ignoring any sense of etiquette.

“Hey bro, take it easy! You look like you haven't eaten in a week,” Wells laughs, looking at me in disbelief.

“Heh heh, leave him be, the bro is in bulk,” Alton interjects with a satisfied grin, reaching out to tap my bicep with an approving pat. “He’s gotta get his strength up for the match, we need this mass on the field!”

“At this rate, I won’t be running, I’ll be rolling straight into the CFG defenders,” I say between bites, sparking a roar of laughter.

“Bro, enjoy it,” Wells adds, leaning back. “You'll have plenty of time tomorrow during the dawn practice to feel guilty.”

I raise my pint, looking at my friends, my teammates, my chosen family. “No bro. There’s no pleasure that could make me feel guilty if it means being here talking trash with my bros.”

Daniel squints at me, impressed. “Where’s all this sudden wisdom coming from, Xav?”

I take one last, massive bite of the burger and wink. “Must be the sugar, bro! Definitely the sugar”

The grind is tough, the burgers are huge, the brotherhood is forever.

contact our recruiters: @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

"Hey, see you later, I'm heading to practice!" Xavier yells as he grabs his football bag and heads for the door.

"Okay Master, have a good workout!" Izzy and Isidor call out in unison from the couch.

"What do you want for dinner?" Izzy shouts, trying to compete with the volume of the TV.

Xavier pauses on the threshold, giving them a 'duh' look. "It's Saturday!" he replies simply. BANG. The door slams shut.

Izzy turns his head toward Isidor with a completely blank stare. "Any idea what that’s supposed to mean?"

Isidor sighs, adjusting his glasses without taking his eyes off his tablet. "Obviously, genius. It’s Saturday. You know the Master wants pizza on Saturdays. It’s a universal constant, right up there with the speed of light."

"Oh, right!" Izzy has a sudden realization. "The flour is in the top cabinet!"

Isidor finally looks up, confused. "And why are you telling me?"

"Because you're the chef tonight," Izzy retorts with a cheeky grin.

"Me? Izzy, I don't even know how to turn on the oven without calculating the fire risk!" Isidor exclaims, alarmed. "And you’re usually the one who handles the hands-on stuff!"

"You might be smart, Isidor, but you're forgetting I have a broken leg," Izzy says, emphatically pointing to the cast locking his limb. "How am I supposed to stand in front of the stove?"

Isidor crosses his arms. "You broke your leg lapdancing on a lamp post while drunk and now it's my problem?!"

Izzy pouts, playing the victim perfectly. "Fine, whatever. I guess the Master will come home tired, starving, and won't have his Saturday night pizza..." he says sarcastically, letting the words hang in the silence of the room.

Isidor grinds his teeth, torn. He knows he can't let Xavier down. "Fine! But let it be known I’m only doing this for him!"

AT THE TRAINING FIELD

While the culinary drama begins at home, Xavier is pouring his soul onto the turf. For a defender, training isn't just about brute force; it’s a violent dance of coordination and reflexes.

The coach screams and Xavier snaps into a backpedal, his feet moving like high-speed pistons, keeping his center of gravity low and eyes locked on an imaginary receiver. "Eyes on the hips, Xavier! Don't get faked out!"

Xavier changes direction in a heartbeat, cleats screeching against the ground. Then comes the impact: he launches himself at the tackling sled, the massive steel frame simulating the offensive line. The hit is dull and powerful. He drives with his legs, arms wrapping around the padding in a perfect technical wrap, driving his weight forward until the structure gives way and slides across the grass. It’s an endless cycle of sprints, explosions of power, and absolute focus. He’s in the zone. The big game is coming, and every fiber of his body must obey his will.

IN THE KITCHEN

Izzy, hobbling on his crutches, watches amused as Isidor enters full "lab-panic" mode. The kitchen looks like a war zone: Isidor is covered in flour, with a white smudge even on the tip of his nose.

"How hard can it be?" Isidor mutters to himself, wielding a rolling pin like it’s a slide rule. "If you can do it, I can do it. Besides, cooking is just chemistry... and pizza is basically math. Proportions, measurements, volumes..."

Izzy bursts out laughing. "What? That’s a good one! I’ve never heard 'Pizza' and 'Math' in the same sentence in my life."

Isidor spins around, offended, waving a spoon dripping with tomato sauce. "You’ve never heard of math, period!"

"OK, OK! Good luck then... you’re gonna need it," Izzy concludes with a sarcastic smirk, dragging himself back to the living room while Isidor begins frantically calculating the radius of the dough.

AT DINNER

"I'm back, guys! Man, what a day!"

The door swings open and Xavier walks in, smelling of sweat and adrenaline. He’s exhausted, but his eyes are bright. "The match is right around the corner, I’m so hyped. I can’t wait to get out there."

"Welcome back, Master," Izzy calls from the couch.

"Hey, Champ!" Xavier ruffles his hair as he passes by. "How’s the leg?"

"Still hurts, but it’s getting there. At least I had top-tier entertainment watching the mad scientist in the kitchen today."

They sit down at the table. Xavier is starving, but he stops when Isidor emerges from the kitchen with a tray, a look of triumph mixed with exhaustion on his face. In the center of the tray, it’s not a classic round pizza, but a geometrically perfect composition in the shape of $\pi$ (Pi).

"Master, it’s Saturday," Isidor starts proudly, "and it also happens to be March 14th. Pi Day. So, I made you my special... Pi-zza!"

Xavier stares at the golden crust, the melted cheese perfectly following the curves of the mathematical constant. "Wow, Isidor... this is incredible! Did you even do a stuffed crust?"

"I calculated that the mozzarella density needed to be proportional to the crust's structural integrity," Isidor replies, adjusting his glasses with pride. He shoots a smug side-eye at Izzy that clearly says 'Told you I could do it.'

Izzy throws his hands up in defeat, pulling a slice from the "leg" of the Pi. "Okay, okay, I'll give it to you. You did good, Isidor. You’re definitely a pro at math... and at the oven."

Xavier takes a massive bite, closing his eyes. "Mmh... guys, this is the best play we’ve ever run in this house."

Izzy and isidor are @isaac-gold-45 Come for the touchdowns, stay for the Pi-zza. Join the Golden Team and find your bros