#cometodaddy

The Golden Chalice pub was quiet that afternoon. The air was thick with the scent of dark stout and hard work. We were in one of the private, wood-paneled back booths, tucked away from the main bar.

Coach was still breathing hard from the midday session, his massive frame dominating the space. He was in tight, faded blue jeans and black and white trainers, his black Coach baseball cap on backwards. His skin was glistening through the tight silver spandex t-shirt he was wearing. My gaze dropped to the bold black block letters printed across his chest: "COME TO DADDY!"

I was leaning back against the leather bench, already calibrated. I was in my own tight faded jeans and matching trainers, a skin-tight Gold Foil Spandex long-sleeved shirt clinging to my lats. The number "58" was emblazoned in black on the gold. My own gold baseball cap was on backwards, a mirror image of the man across from me.

I checked the weight of my Black Tungsten Chain against my neck, a constant reminder of the Beast who had just run me into the ground.

"You're making a spectacle of me with that shirt, Coach," I teased, reaching for my pint of stout.

Coach didn't smile. He just raised his glass, the dark liquid reflecting the dim pub lights. He looked me square in the eye through his backward cap. "I don't need a shirt to tell me where the line is drawn, Wells. It's written on your core."

We drank in silence for a long moment, the familiarity of the routine a comfort. The Leeds contract was still on his desk, but right here, in this booth, we were still the Standard.

I set my pint down and reached into my pocket. I set the small, heavy velvet box on the polished wood table. It made a sharp, definitive snick as it landed.

Coach’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes dropped to the box. "What’s this, Wells? Another trophy you didn't earn?"

"This is the trophy I chose to earn," I rasped, my voice steady. "Open it."

He reached out, his massive, calloused fingers flipping the latch. The interior of the box caught the dim amber light, reflecting a brilliant, metallic glow. Resting on the black silk was a Heavy Solid Gold Whistle, its gold chain rattling against the wood.

It was a masterpiece of industrial "Bling." On one side, a bold 58 was etched deep into the metal. On the other, a delicate but sharp Maple Leaf, a reminder of home, and the athlete who had become his greatest project.

Coach picked it up, the weight of the gold obvious. He ran his thumb over the engraving, tracing the "58" like he was committing the number to memory.

"It’s for the command, Coach," I said softly. "Whether you’re on the turf in the Golden City, doing training sessions, or flying over the pond to Leeds… the whistle that leads the pack might as well have my mark on it."

Coach didn't say a word. He didn't thank me. He didn't argue. He just slowly draped the gold chain over his neck. The heavy gold whistle settled right over his heart, a brilliant, defiant spark of gold resting against the silver spandex of his chest, just below the "Daddy" command.

He looked at me, his hand gripping the back of my neck in that familiar, proprietary hold, and pulled me in until our foreheads pressed together. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of sweat and stout filling my lungs.

"You’re a high-maintenance asset, Wells," he murmured, his breath hot against my face.

"Only because you trained me that way, Daddy," I whispered back, testing the command.

He didn't pull away. He just tightened his grip on my neck, the cold black tungsten of my chain clashing with the hot silver of his chest.