#gajocks

“Again.”

Wells groaned, pacing in tight gold spandex, sweat streaking down his tank stamped WELLS 58. His thighs pulsed with power, but his smirk had faded.

“C’mon, Coach, you tryna kill me before Regency shows up?”

Blaze Titan folded his arms, singlet glistening under the training lights. That spiral on his chest looked like it moved the longer you stared. His cap sat low, gold COACH logo gleaming, backward and dangerous.

“No, Wells,” he said, voice slow, smooth, hypnotic, “I’m trying to unlock the Alpha I know you are.”

Wells flashed a grin, cocky but frayed. “You gonna shout at me more, or kiss me into compliance?”

Blaze stepped forward, just close enough to darken the space between them. “Neither.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small golden metronome—etched with the Army emblem. “You ever sprint under trance?”

Wells tilted his head. “Hypno-drills? Thought that was Polo Drone territory.”

Blaze clicked the metronome. Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Only if they can’t handle it awake,” he whispered. “But for you, golden boy… it’s a shortcut. Let me in, and I’ll make those legs fly.”

Wells bit his lip, already leaning toward the rhythm.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “let’s get weird.”

Coach's voice dropped deeper. “Focus on the sound. Just the sound. Your breathing slows. Legs relax. Arms loose. Mind soft.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Wells blinked slowly, lips parting. His shoulders dropped.

“You’re not tired,” Blaze purred. “That’s just weakness pretending to be truth. Burn it out. Every cell listens to me now. Every muscle obeys.”

Wells nodded, dazed. “Every… muscle…”

“Good jock,” Blaze smirked. “Now wake. And run.”

Wells jolted upright, grin exploding. “Let’s make ‘em cry at Regency.”

The track shimmered under afternoon sun. Wells was a blur, tights streaking gold, tank clinging to soaked skin. Each stride hit perfect. Smooth. Explosive. Mind clean, instincts burning.

Blaze stood at the finish line, stopwatch in hand, gaze locked.

“Faster,” he shouted. “Again!”

Wells ran. Again.

Each round sharpened him. Reprogrammed him. His sprint wasn’t just speed—it was submission to a voice that rewired his limits.

By the sixth rep, Wells collapsed into the turf, grinning like a lunatic.

“Coach,” he panted, “you got more of that freaky brain magic?”

Blaze chuckled, kneeling beside him. “Only if you keep calling me daddy during cooldown.”

Wells smirked, blowing a breath across his knuckles. “Deal. But next time, you’re running with me.”

Blaze grinned wide. “Baby, I am your pace.”