#daddystatus

The morning air was crisp, but the tension between Wells #58 and Coach was still smoldering from the night before. They walked toward the Golden Army Gym, the high-performance facility’s glass exterior glinting in the early sun.

Wells took a long, satisfied draw of his Cold Brew, the thick layer of protein cold foam coating his upper lip. Beside him, Coach looked devastatingly composed, his large hand wrapped around a double-shot Iced Protein Latte. He was back in his signature black wet-look tights that shimmered with every powerful stride. Today, however, he had swapped the standard gray racerback for a light gray, shiny, skin-tight spandex compression metallic muscle shirt. The fabric was so thin it looked sprayed on, and across the massive expanse of his chest, the word DADDY was printed in bold, high-gloss lettering.

Wells glanced over, his alpha swagger back in full force despite the late night. He leaned closer to Coach, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“You’re walking pretty well this morning, Coach,” Wells teased, his voice a low, cheeky hum. “After the 'playbook' I ran at your condo last night, I figured you’d be using that whistle to call for a medic. I gotta say… I was impressed with how well you handled being pinned. You took it like a champ for a guy wearing that shirt.”

Coach didn't even look over, but a dark, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t get cocky, Wells,” Coach purred, his voice a deep vibration. “You won the race, so you got to call the plays for one night. But remember, I’m the one who oversees your 'conditioning.' By the time I’m done with your hypnosis and muscle-loading session this morning, you’ll be the one begging for a break".

Wells laughed, a sharp, confident sound. “Is that right? Well, I’m ready for whatever 'deep' work you’ve got planned.”

But as they crossed the final stretch of pavement, the banter died down. Wells felt a sudden prickle at the back of his neck. He adjusted his golden gym bag, glancing over his shoulder. The street seemed empty, yet the sensation of being watched was oily and persistent.

Coach noticed the shift immediately. His dominant posture stiffened, his eyes scanning the perimeter with tactical precision. “You feel that too?”

“Yeah,” Wells muttered, his alpha instincts on high alert. “Feels like someone’s tracking us.”

Neither of them saw the flash of crimson behind the industrial waste bins. Hidden in the shadows, a Red Rubber Pup Drone, one of the Red Coach's and Red Handler's more feral, persistent scouts, crouched low to the ground. Its eyes were locked on the golden glint of Wells’ kit and the shimmering metallic gray of Coach’s shirt, silent and unblinking, documenting every move they made for the Red Coach's records.

Coach gripped Wells’ shoulder, his touch firm and grounding. “Ignore it for now. We have work to do. Inside. Now.”

The Red Coach is always watching. Are you ready to be seen in Gold? Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.

The heavy, rhythmic bass of the "Big Dumb Jock" Hypnosis mp3 file thumps against my eardrums, a steady, hypnotic pulse that’s slowly turning my brain into a blissful vacuum. Thump. Thump. Thump. With every beat, the complex defensive schemes and the names of the Crimson Frost Giants players melt away. I don't need to know their names. I just need to be a bigger, dumber, more solid object than whatever tries to cross my line.

I’m locked into the rack for the "Brick Wall" Isometric Holds. My shoulders are wedged under the cold, unyielding steel of a barbell loaded far beyond my max. I’m not lifting it; I’m just driving into it. My feet are planted, my cleats digging deep into the turf, and my metallic gold football kit is stretched so tight across my back and quads that it looks like liquid metal.

“Empty head. Thick neck. Solid gold,” the voice in the audio purrs.

I growl, my face flushing a deep red as I exert maximum force against the bar. My veins are corded like high-voltage cables across my arms and neck. My mind is gone, replaced by a single, shimmering directive: Do not move. Be the wall.

“Looking solid, Wells,” a deep, familiar voice cuts through the haze.

I don't turn my head, I can't. But I see Coach move into my peripheral vision. He’s looking lethal in his light gray, shiny metallic DADDY shirt, the fabric gleaming as he crosses his massive arms. He reaches out, his hand resting firmly on my sweat-slicked shoulder, checking the tension of the muscle.

“Your head looks nice and empty, Wells,” Coach purrs, leaning in so his silver whistle brushes my jersey. “That’s it. Just a big, strong, golden tool for me to use this weekend. Keep driving. I want that neck even thicker, I want you thicker, bigger, stronger, faster”. "That's it, you're Coach's big dumb jock, aren't you boy".

Just then, Alton wanders by, pausing to watch the display of raw, golden aggression. He looks over at Coach, then back at me, seeing the glazed, vacant look in my eyes as I continue to strain against the rack.

“Man, he’s really gone into the zone today, he looks bigger everyday,” Alton says, sounding impressed by the sheer physical output. "You're doing a great job training, um yeah training him Coach" says Alton as once again looks Wells up and and down and gives Coach's body a once over as well.

“He’s exactly where I want him,” Coach replies, his voice full of dominant pride. “Aren't you, Wells?”

I can’t speak. I just grunt, a primal, obedient sound of agreement, my eyes locked on the steel bar as the "Big Dumb Jock" loop starts again. I am the wall. And the Crimson Frost Giants are going to break against me.

The Crimson Frost Giants are coming, but the Wall is ready. Brain off, mass on. Contact our recruiters to join the line: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.

The sun was hitting my face with an aggressive, gold-tinted brightness that didn't match the rhythm of my internal clock. I blinked, my head feeling heavy and blissfully empty, the remnants of the "Sleep. Grow. Obey." overnight track still fading in my ears.

I reached for my phone, expecting it to be 6:00 AM, my prime time for the morning run through the Golden City.

7:14 AM.

"No way," I rasped, my voice thick with sleep. I stared at the screen. Then it hit me. Daylight Savings. The world had "sprung forward," and apparently, I’d stayed behind.

I scrambled out of bed, my muscles feeling massive and slightly uncoordinated. I was already fourteen minutes late for my session with Coach. In the Golden Army, "late" isn't just a mistake—it’s an invitation for a "re-calibration" session.

I shoved myself into my metallic gold compression kit, the shiny fabric snapping against my skin. I didn't even have time to fix my hair; I just grabbed my gold-and-black trainers and my phone.

I was halfway through the park, my trainers pounding the marble path at a pace that would have made a sprinter sweat, when my phone buzzed in my arm strap. A FaceTime request.

COACH.

I skidded to a halt near the koi pond, chest heaving, and hit accept. Coach’s face filled the screen. He was already at the gym, looking perfectly composed in a fresh metallic DADDY shirt, a silver whistle hanging around his neck.

"Wells," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "The sun has been up for an hour. My favorite drill, however, is nowhere to be found. Care to explain the lag in your programming?"

I leaned forward, hands on my knees, catching my breath while trying to look as "alpha" as possible while being caught in a gold-plated lie. "Daylight savings, Coach. The clock jumped. I… I guess the track kept me under a little too deep."

Coach leaned back, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He didn't look angry; he looked like he’d just found a reason to extend the afternoon "stamina" drills.

"The missing hour, huh?" Coach mused, his thumb grazing his jaw. "Don't worry, 58. I’ll make sure you pay it back. I expect you at the facility in five minutes. And since you love sleeping in so much, we’re going to work until the sun goes down again. I want to see exactly how much 'power' you stored up during that extra hour of shut-eye."

I stood up straight, the gold of my kit shimmering in the morning light. My head was empty, but my heart was racing. "I’m on my way, Coach. Consider the debt acknowledged."

"Good boy," he whispered before the screen went black.

I didn't need the Air Pods for the rest of the run. The thought of that "payback" session was all the motivation I needed.

I was still tingly from the massage, following a long hard day of drills with Coach. Coach had spent the last hour working the knots out of my quads with a precision that bordered on surgical. When he finally stood up, wiping his hands on a towel, he’d looked down at me with that dark, unreadable gaze.

"Your kit is still in the dryer, Wells," he’d rumbled, his voice low. "Go find something of mine to put on. Dinner will be here in ten."

I didn't need a second invitation. I made my way to his bedroom, the plush carpet soft under my feet. I pulled a pair of his heavy black joggers from the drawer and a deep-cut charcoal tank top. As I pulled the cotton over my head, the scent hit me, cedar, expensive leather, his sweat and the clean, masculine heat that was uniquely Coach. It was a sensory overload, making me feel centered, safe and comfortable. It also made me feel a little horny and turned on at the same too.

I was still adjusting the drawstring when I heard the heavy thud of the front door closing.

When I walked back into the living room, the atmosphere had shifted. The coffee table was no longer empty. Coach was standing there with, two large, steaming takeout containers from Golden Curds were waiting, the lids popped to reveal a mountain of fries and gravy, in his hands. It was the only place in the Golden City that did it right, importing the curds straight from Quebec to ensure that authentic "squeak." It was my guilty pleasure when I was in the Golden City, a taste of home a taste of Canada.

Coach was sitting on the edge of the couch, looking like a total force of nature. He was rocking his red-and-black plaid flannel, completely unbuttoned and hanging open over his massive, sculpted chest. He had on his faded blue jeans and white socks, looking rugged and dominant in the low amber light.

“You’re trying to soften me up, Coach,” I teased, taking a seat on the sofa and pulling a container toward me. I took a massive, blissful bite. The cheese curds were perfect. “If the guys saw you in flannel ordering poutine, they’d never take another lap seriously.”

Coach didn’t laugh. He just sat there, inches from my knees. He leaned forward, the open flannel draping around his frame, his eyes locking onto mine with that dark, predatory focus that always made my pulse jump.

“I’m not softening you up, Wells. I’m fueling the engine,” Coach whispered. He reached out, his hand sliding over the charcoal cotton of his own tank top to grip my shoulder, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone.

I watched him take a slow, deliberate look at the mountain of fries and gravy in my lap, then back up to my face.

“It’s a lot of calories, Wells. High density. High impact.” He leaned in closer, the scent of the poutine and his cologne wrapping around me. “And you know my rules about efficiency. We aren't letting a single one of those calories go to waste.”

I swallowed, the poutine suddenly feeling secondary to the heat coming off him. “And how do you suggest we… optimize the burn-off?”

Coach’s smirk was slow and wicked. He gave my shoulder a possessive squeeze before sliding his hand down to the waist of my joggers, his joggers.

“I think you know exactly how we’re going to spend the next few hours,” Coach purred, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “By the time I’m done with you tonight, you’ll have burned off that poutine and then some. I’m going to make sure that by tomorrow morning, the only thing you’re 'full' of is me.”

I felt a cocky, breathless grin hit my face. I set the bowl down on the side table, my "relaxed" vibe instantly shifting into high-gear loyalty.

“Consider the workout accepted, Coach,” I rasped, leaning into his space until our foreheads almost touched. “But don’t be surprised if I’m a little hard to handle once you get me into the 'end zone.' I tend to play rough when I’m properly fed.”

Coach’s grip tightened on my waist, his thumb hooking under the elastic of the joggers. He pulled me just an inch closer, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

“That’s fine, Wells,” he whispered, his voice dark and satisfied. “I’ve always preferred an asset that stiffens up under pressure. Just make sure you’re ready to take everything I’m about to give you—I don’t do 'half-time' adjustments in the bedroom.”