#goldenvsregency

2025 had come and gone. Quietly. Relentlessly. Now, 2026 stood open—unwritten.

Nate sat on a weathered bench overlooking the city’s edge, where concrete softened into the sky. Above him, the sunset unfolded in slow layers—burnt orange sinking into deep red, purples stretching thin as the last light faded. The cold wind carried the promise of change, brushing against his golden jacket as he stared ahead, lost somewhere between memory and anticipation.

In his hands rested an envelope.

It was heavier than it should have been.

Cream-colored, thick paper. International postage stamped cleanly in the corner. The return address read United Kingdom, written in a careful, deliberate hand. Nate had turned it over more than once before opening it, as if the weight of the words inside might change depending on how long he waited.

Footsteps approached behind him.

Another figure entered the frame of the moment, the black of his jacket absorbing what little light remained. Silver lettering caught briefly in the sunset glow: SERVE-897. Nate didn’t look up right away. He didn’t need to.

The contrast was familiar—black against gold, silver against shadow. On Nate’s chest, black lettering marked PDU-166. Above them both, the sun danced one final time, catching in Nate’s vivid rainbow hair and in the red, blue, and silvery white strands of the man now standing beside him.

“Hey, Nate.”

Nate finally looked up. “Hey, Teddy.” A pause. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Theodore said quietly, glancing down toward the bench. “Seat taken?”

“No,” Nate replied, shifting to the side. “All yours.”

Teddy sat, exhaling slowly as he did. For a moment, neither spoke. The city hummed in the distance. The year turned, unnoticed by most.

Teddy’s eyes drifted to the envelope in Nate’s hands. “That new?”

Nate nodded. “Came this morning. International.”

“From where?”

“Britain.”

That got Teddy’s attention. He leaned back slightly, eyebrows lifting, examining the carefully placed barcoded stamps of the Late Queen and current King. “Family?”

Nate nodded, then carefully slid a finger under the envelope’s seal. “Cousin,” he said.

He unfolded the letter, the paper crisp despite the journey. Teddy watched silently as Nate read, his expression tightening—not with worry, but with recognition.

“Regency Eleven,” Teddy muttered suddenly, pulling out his phone. “That’d explain it.”

Nate looked over. “Explain what?”

Teddy scrolled, then turned the screen slightly. “They just issued a public challenge. Friendly match. Gold versus Regency Eleven.”

Nate blinked once. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Teddy smirked faintly. “They’re calling it a ‘family rivalry with international flair.’ Whoever wrote the press release knew exactly what they were doing.”

Nate let out a quiet breath, glancing back down at the letter. The words made more sense now—formal but warm, competitive without being cruel. Pride threaded through every line.

At the bottom, the signature was simple:

– Yours Truly, JRCM

Nate stared at the initials.

“Still not signing their full name?” Teddy asked.

“Guess not,” Nate replied. “But James isn’t as clever as he thinks he is.”

Teddy nodded. “Classic.”

The sky darkened another shade. The sun slipped below the horizon, leaving only its echo behind. Nate folded the letter carefully and slid it back into the envelope, as if sealing a decision he hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

“Are you thinking of accepting?” Teddy asked.

Nate didn’t answer right away. He watched the last light fade, feeling the weight of history pressing gently against his chest—not as a burden, but as an invitation.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think I am.”

Teddy didn’t hesitate. He stood, turned fully toward Nate, and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.

“Good,” he said. “Because whatever happens—on the field, off it—I’ve got your back.”

Nate looked up, surprised, then smiled—small, genuine.

“All the way?” he asked.

“All the way,” Teddy confirmed.

They sat together again, side by side, as the first stars emerged overhead. Two brothers. Two paths. One family, stretched across borders and years.

And somewhere across the ocean, a cousin waited.

“Game on, James Rose Conway Madison, Game on.”

2026 had begun.

Thanks to my Brother @serve-897

January 16th, 2026 Crewe, UK – 4:00 PM GMT

Despite the cold, James stood in the middle of the field he’d practiced on since he was a teenager. The grass was stiff with frost, crunching faintly beneath his boots as he rolled his shoulders and stared toward the grey, low-hanging sky. His breath came out in slow white clouds, steady, controlled. The kind of breathing you only learned after years of discipline.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

“About time he rang,” James muttered with a smirk before answering. “Hey, Nathaniel.”

There was a pause on the other end. Just long enough to be deliberate.

“First off, it’s Nate. Secondly, bold choice for your parents slapping the name of our U.S. President on you. Thirdly,” Nate said, voice sharp with energy, “game on, James Rose Conway Madison. Game. On.”

James laughed, low and satisfied. “Still pissed I’m named after someone from your country, I hear?”

“A country you used to own 243 years ago,” Nate shot back instantly, “unlike the 250 we’re celebrating in July. But I digress. How’ve you been?”

James could hear it beneath the jokes. Nate was fired up. The Regency vs. Gold Challenge had been looming for weeks now, and Nate took it personally. He always did. James adjusted his stance, toeing the frozen turf, already knowing exactly how to keep the pressure on.

“Fine,” James said casually. “Just practicing here in Crewe. You and lil’ Teddy?”

There it was. The trap.

Nate exhaled through his nose. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Do I?” James replied innocently, spinning the phone in his palm.

“Well, we’re fine,” Nate said, tone tightening just a fraction. “And Teddy goes by SERVE-897 now. But yeah. We’re still brothers.”

James hummed. “Funny. Last I checked, numbers don’t share blood.”

Silence. Then a low chuckle. “Careful,” Nate warned. “You’re poking the bear.”

“Just observing,” James said. “Seems like the Regency’s getting… organized. Structured. Efficient. Almost like you’re preparing for something big.”

“We are,” Nate replied. No joke now. No deflection. “And don’t think for a second Gold’s ready for what’s coming.”

James looked out across the empty field, imagining it filled. Banners. Noise. Eyes watching his every move. “That so?”

“January’s just the warm-up,” Nate continued. “By summer, lines get drawn. People choose sides. And when they do…” He paused. “History remembers who stood where.”

James smiled, slow and sharp. “You Americans love your history speeches.”

“And you Brits love pretending you don’t care until it’s too late.”

That one landed. James adjusted his gloves, flexing his fingers against the cold. “You calling me out, Nate?”

“I’m calling you informed,” Nate said. “Regency doesn’t lose. Not this time.”

“Bold claim,” James replied. “Gold’s never been about losing.”

A beat passed. Wind rushed through the bare trees lining the pitch.

“Teddy’s watching you, by the way,” Nate added. “Still studies your footage. Says you move different now.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“Like someone who’s already decided how this ends.”

James looked down at the frost beneath his boots, then back up toward the horizon. “Maybe I have.”

Nate sighed, a familiar sound. “You always did like playing the long game.”

“Someone taught me,” James said. “Funny thing is, he used to call himself my friend.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“January 16th,” Nate said quietly. “Crewe. You’re marking the day?”

“Every day’s a marker,” James replied. “This one just happens to matter.”

Nate laughed once, sharp and genuine. “Alright, James Rose Conway Madison. I’ll see you when the field isn’t empty anymore.”

“Looking forward to it,” James said.

The line went dead.

James lowered the phone and stood there for a moment longer, the cold finally seeping in. Then he turned, jogged back toward the center of the pitch, and began running drills again. Faster this time. Harder.

The game was on.