#controlledfire

Coach wasn’t expecting anything when he spun the combination and pulled his locker open. Practice had run long. The facility was settling into its after-hours quiet, that familiar calm that came once discipline had been applied and released.

Then he saw them.

A dozen red roses, deep and precise, placed inside the locker with unmistakable intention. Not shoved. Not hidden. Stems aligned, blooms facing outward, as if they’d been waiting for the door to open.

Coach froze for a beat.

Roses didn’t belong here. Not in a space built for routine, sweat, and sharp edges. And yet the contrast made them impossible to ignore. His first instinct wasn’t surprise, it was recognition.

He reached in, fingers brushing the wrap. Beneath the ribbon, exactly where he knew it would be, was a card.

Plain. Heavy. No decoration.

He exhaled once and opened it.

For Coach, Some flames are meant to be revisited. Slow. Steady. Exactly where you left your mark. Thought you might enjoy another reminder that I remember how to hold still. —Gold

Coach’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

Gold.

Not Wells. Not a name for public use. The one Coach had given him, privately, deliberately. Seeing it there shifted something low in his chest. The message didn’t shout. It didn’t ask. It simply existed—confident in being understood.

The memory came back without effort.

Candlelight. Measured patience. Heat applied with purpose, not urgency.

It wasn’t about spectacle. It never had been. It was about control, consent, and the quiet intensity of staying exactly where instructed. The roses carried the same language. Red instead of gold, but no less disciplined. A reminder wrapped in restraint.

Coach glanced down the locker row. Empty. Silent.

Good.

He lifted the roses out, cradling them with care. Their scent cut cleanly through the lingering smell of disinfectant and effort, grounding him in the present while tugging insistently at the past. This wasn’t indulgence. This was Wells choosing to leave something behind, a mark that asked to be noticed, not answered immediately.

The card stayed in his hand as he closed the locker. He read it again, slower. How to hold still.

A corner of his mouth twitched.

Later, in his office, he set the roses in an old glass pitcher by the window. The fading light caught the petals, deepening their color until they almost glowed against the concrete and steel around them.

He slid the card beneath the glass, weighted and protected.

No reply yet. That wasn’t how they worked. Wells knew that. Gold always did.

When Coach locked up for the night, he paused by the flowers once more. His thumb brushed the edge of the card, the warmth of memory resurfacing, not rushing, not fading.

The message had been delivered.

And Coach would decide when and how to answer it.