#goldjock

“Your brain is too loud today, 58. Shut it down.”

Coach’s voice was a low rumble, cutting straight through the heavy bass pumping over the gym's speakers. He was standing right over the bench. His mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could feel the weight of his gaze pinning me to the vinyl.

I had 495 pounds loaded on the bar, and my mind was drifting, thinking about the upcoming schedule, the contract talks, the noise of the city outside.

“I’m locked in, Coach,” I grunted, my grip tightening on the knurled steel.

“You’re lying,” Coach replied smoothly.

He stepped up to the head of the bench, leaning down until his chest was inches from my face. He reached out, his massive, calloused hand gripping the back of my neck, his thumb pressing firmly into the base of my skull. It was that proprietary, heavy hold that always made the rest of the world vanish.

“I can see it in your eyes. You’re thinking. Stop.”

He was right.

The biggest mistake an asset can make is trying to be a philosopher under the iron.

Blank minds build better bodies.

“Let the screen go dark, Wells,” Coach murmured, his voice dropping into that strict, hypnotic tone that dictated my entire layout. “No schedule. No doubts. Just the weight and my whistle. Turn the signal off.”

With his hand heavy on my neck, the static finally cut out.

The room blurred.

The thoughts evaporated.

A total system blackout.

I wasn’t Wells the man with a story anymore. I was just 220 pounds of gold-clad hydraulic force, waiting for a command.

“Now,” Coach barked, releasing his grip. “Take it.”

The bar came off the pegs. Without the noise in my head, the iron didn’t feel heavy—it just felt like an assignment.

Down to the chest.

Explosion to the ceiling.

One.

Two.

Three.

My lats flared like steel wings against the bench, my quads anchoring me to the earth. Coach stood over me, tracking every micro-movement, his presence the only anchor I needed in the vacuum.

When the final rep slammed into the racks, my chest was heaving, my muscles completely engorged with blood. The jock fog was thick, a beautiful, empty euphoria washing over me. I looked up, dazed, sweat dripping from my jawline.

Coach looked down at me, a rare, dark smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and tapped my chest.

“See?” Coach said, his tone thick with proprietary pride. “The pump thrives in the silence. Good boy.”

Coach’s hand stayed there a second longer than it needed to, heavy against my chest, feeling the thunder under the muscle. His smirk deepened.

“Still loud anywhere else?” he asked.

My throat went dry. The gym noise seemed to drop out again, leaving only my breathing, his whistle, and the heat rolling off both of us.

I shook my head.

Coach leaned closer, voice low enough that only I could hear it.

“Good. Then keep it that way. Silent up top. Strong everywhere else.”

He tapped two fingers against my chest, slow and deliberate, then stepped back toward the next rack.

“Hydrate, 58,” he said, looking me over like he was already planning the next set. “You’re going to need stamina for the cooldown.”

I sat up slowly, still floating in the jock fog, watching him walk away.

The signal stayed dead.

But the system was definitely still running hot.