#goldmatchprep

—MORNING HEAT— Yo. Ain’t even sun-up yet and we steamin’ like a damn sauna, innit. Gold skin out. Cleats on. Beats bumpin’ in my head, no headphones needed—just vibe.

Jackson’s first to lose the tee, flings it at Franco like, “Rise n’ flex, bro!” Franco deadpans, “Ten burpees.” Jackson just laughs, “Worth it, bro. Worth every rep.”

I’m already bouncein’ the ball off my chest, knee, shoulder—loose, glidin’. It’s not training. It’s like... flow. Muscle memory with basslines.

Xavier’s towel-whippin’ the air. “Yo Max, your chain’s glowin’ again or is that just ego lightin’ up?” I smirk. “Nah bro, that’s internal radiance, like. Gold don’t need batteries.”

Vernon rolls in late, goalie pads half-on, lookin’ like he dressed in a tornado. “Hey... uh... brought this herbal mist thingy for like, goal clarity?” Bro silence. Then Jackson: “Mist for what?” We all crack up. But I dap Vernon up after. “Keep it weird, bro. Gold notices.”

Franco don’t laugh. Just runs suicides bein’ all intense and focused. Xavier chucks a cone at him. “Yo lighten up, bro.” Franco: “Smilin’s wasted motion.”, before breakin a soft smile. Classic.

—NILS DROP— Mid-grind, break hits. We pantin’, stretchin’, shinin’ with heat. Nils appears. No talk. No footsteps. Just presence. He hands us our bottles like some silent hydration monk.

Mine? Ice cold. Feels like... charged. First sip and my brain clears. Like—focus, clarity, tunnel lock.

I blink. “Bro. Did you tweak this?” He nods once. Like he’s sayin’ “obviously” without words. Then vanishes into the mist like a damn myth, already busy cleanin sum mess.

Xavier whispers, “He’s like hydration ASMR.” We all nod.

—TAMMY GRIND— Everyone peels off. I stick with Tammy.

Tammy’s got the heart, yeah? But brain in the way. Overthinkin’. Hesitatin’. Tryna solve shit mid-pass like he’s in mathletes, not midfield.

“Again,” I bark. He fumbles. “Again.” Still stiff.

I get in close. Tower a lil’. Let him feel it. “You wanna run this game, Tammy?” He nods like, “Hell yeah.”

“Then stop thinkin’. This ain’t chess. This is waves, bro. You don’t solve waves. You ride ‘em.”

He breathes. Hits it clean. Pure instinct. I clap his back. “That’s it. Gold don’t calculate. Gold reacts.”

—KIO ENCOUNTER—

Later, field’s empty, just me and the echo of cleats on turf. I’m chillin’ near the benches, unlacing boots, breath finally steady...

That’s when I clock him.

Still figure, back by the far fence—cyan trim, sharp profile. Dude’s not just watchin’. He’s measuring.

Silent. Focused. Like a drone with a soul.

I slide off the bench and ghost up behind.

“Yo.” He turns, smooth like clockwork. Pale eyes meet mine.

No blink. No surprise.

“Kio Vant,” he says—clean, crisp, like the name explains everything.

“Flux Crew,” I smirk. “Doin’ recon?”

He nods. “Observing rhythm variance. High-pulse spacing. Emotional excess.” I laugh. “Bro, you makin’ us sound like jazz gone wrong.”

Then I get a better look. Dude’s like... fresh serious. That tight-focus jaw, those chill vibes with zero front. All neat and wired. But the way he stands? Earnest. Like he believes in his sync life.

Kinda cute, not gonna lie.

“You reckon your neon glitch squad’s gonna out-tempo us?” “I think we’re already ahead,” he goes. Calm. Not cocky.

I grin wider. “Aight, how ‘bout a bet then?”

He tilts his head. “Terms?”

“If we win,” I say, steppin’ closer, voice low, “you join one of our drills. Gold core. No observer mode. We break your rhythm—and maybe your outfit.” He lifts a brow. “And if we win?”

I lean in. “You name it. But no ghostin’, Waterboy. You feel what’s comin’, innit?”

He blinks once. Heel taps. Walks off.

But I saw it. That flicker in his eyes.

Curiosity.

Desire.

Drip recognition.

And next time? He ain’t leavin’ untouched.

___ Featuring - Jackson #15 @basit015 - Franco #94 @franco-gold94 - Xavier #39 @polo-drone-039 - Vernon #31 @vernon-gold-31 - Nils, Waterboy 01 @nils-gold-34 - Tamerlan 'Tammy' #73 @polo-drone-073 ___ Think you’ve clocked our rhythm, boy? Step onto our turf—get humbled, get jocked, get golded.

Pitch was mine this morning.

No shouts. No drills. Just heat off my chest and the burn in my quads.

Sun barely up, but I’d already done circuits the lads would moan about. Sweat clingin’ golden to my skin, kit rolled to my waist. Felt the pulse under it all—my drive, my fire… his essence.

Sayyid Ezan’s mark still thrummed in me. Golden. Deep. It didn’t scream—it commanded. Every push-up, every sprint, every flex of this jock shell was for him. I train for the match. But I rise for the Master.

And still… Still I thought about that boy.

Kio.

Neon crew cutie with sharp lines and serious eyes. Moved like math. Spoke like silence. Precise, pristine, out of place on any real field.

Can’t lie. I wanna knock that rhythm out of his step. See his careful little breath catch. See him flinch when I body past him. See him break form—because of me.

Eyes flared gold just thinkin’ it. Didn’t choose to. Just happened. Crave makes code spark.

Shower hit hard. Steam swirled. Muscles sang.

But the fire didn’t cool. Even after the sweat rinsed off, even after the gold kit was folded neatly—

—I still burned.

So I reached for the one thing that always grounds me.

The polo.

Black, snug, marked. Standard issue. Drone division. Hive protocol.

I slipped it on.

Collar high. Chain tattoo gleaming through.

Mind quieted.

Emotion halted.

Designation aligned: PDU-070

Now it’s just function.

Analyze. Optimize. Dominate.

The unit moved to the edge of the Glowring complex. Casual. Controlled. Unseen.

Target: Kio Vant Status: Recon. Observational. Soft interface only.

Result: Subject located. Admiring Vexon’s burst footage on holo-reel. Eyes wide. Pulse elevated. Interpretation: Emotional bond to team’s striker. Predictable.

Intent: Shut that down. Smother Vexon’s tempo. Neutralize the signal before it spikes. Prove that raw heat always outburns rhythm.

This drone blocks attackers. It erases threats. It wins.

Neon thinks sync will save them.

But sync cracks under Gold Heat.

________