#elitefootwork

The Golden Stadium sat empty, but it didn’t feel quiet. Floodlights bathed the pitch in warm gold, turning the grass into something theatrical, deliberate, like it was waiting to be used properly.

Wells stood near the touchline, rolling the ball beneath his foot. He was dressed head-to-toe in the Golden Army soccer practice kit: a tight, metallic gold jersey clinging to his chest and shoulders, matching shorts cut high and unapologetic, black socks pulled snug over powerful calves, gold cleats flashing every time he shifted his weight. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

“So,” Wells said, glancing toward the sideline, grin already loaded, “you bring me out here to admire the view, or you planning to make me work for your attention, Coach?”

Coach Blaze Titan stepped onto the pitch without answering.

His kit mirrored Wells’ in cut and intent but not in color. Black jersey, tight and unforgiving, the word COACH stamped across his chest in clean gold lettering. His shorts bore a golden spiral along one thigh, catching the light when he moved. He looked built for authority—calm, heavy, controlled.

“Attention?” Blaze said, nudging the ball into motion with his foot. “You already have too much of that.”

Wells laughed. “Funny. Most people complain I don’t give them enough.”

Blaze smirked and flicked the ball toward Wells. “One-touch. No flirting with the ball.”

Wells trapped it cleanly and sent it back. “I flirt with everything I’m good at.”

The drill started simple. Short passes. Tight spacing. Blaze increased the pace without warning, forcing Wells to adjust, breathe harder, think faster. Every correction came low and close.

“Open your hips.” “Earlier.” “Don’t rush, commit.”

Wells responded with speed and style, gold kit darkening with sweat, grin never fully leaving his face. When he slipped past Blaze with a sharp cut and burst of acceleration, he couldn’t resist glancing back.

“Still keeping up?” he teased.

Blaze didn’t rise to it. He just took the ball back and reset them, standing closer this time. “Again.”

The next exchange was rougher. Blaze angled him wide, closed space faster, body language reading Wells before Wells could decide. The flirt turned competitive. The competition turned electric.

Wells laughed under his breath. “You always this pushy, or am I special?”

“Depends,” Blaze replied calmly, “you always this mouthy, or you nervous?”

Wells grinned. “If I were nervous, I’d be slowing down.”

He exploded forward, feinted left, cut right and this time Blaze bit just enough. Wells slipped past, clean and fast, breaking free down the line before slowing to a jog.

“That’s two,” Wells said, hands on hips, chest heaving, eyes bright.

Blaze walked up to him slowly, appraising. “You’re fast,” he said. “But you win because you listen.”

“I multitask,” Wells shot back. “I listen and look good doing it.”

Blaze circled him once, deliberate, then stopped close enough that Wells could feel the heat. “Keep letting me push you like that and you’ll own Regency’s backline before they realize what hit them.”

Wells raised a brow. “You talk like you enjoy pushing me.”

“I enjoy results,” Blaze said. “And you’re very… responsive.”

Wells laughed, flicking the ball up and catching it again with ease. “Careful, Coach. Keep talking like that and I’ll start thinking you want me exactly where you’ve got me.”

Blaze’s smile turned sharper. “If I wanted you somewhere specific, Wells, you’d already be there.”

They reset at the touchline, gold and black under the lights, sweat cooling, tension humming.

“One more?” Blaze asked.

Wells smirked, tapping the ball into place. “Coach, you keep asking for one more and people might start thinking you can’t get enough of me.”

Blaze met his gaze, amused and unbothered. “Trust me. When I’ve had enough… you’ll know.”

Wells chuckled, rolling the ball forward. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was gonna say.”

Blaze kicked off the drill.

And Wells chased him down the line, laughing, already hungry for more.