After-Hours Recovery
Varsity Stadium was quieter after the charity match.
Not silent.
Never silent.
There were still volunteers packing up donation tables, kids chasing each other near the lower rows, parents calling names, coolers being shut, banners being folded, and the distant echo of someone laughing too loudly in the corridor.
But the roar was gone.
The match was over.
The Gold had won.
Barely.
And Trey was pretending he was fine.
He was bad at it.
Wells noticed first.
Of course Wells noticed first.
Trey had managed to keep the smile on his face through the post-match handshakes, through the charity photos, through three different kids asking him to sign their programs, and through Alton yelling from somewhere near midfield that Trey had “served wounded golden hero realness.”
But once they were back inside the Varsity Stadium locker room, the mask slipped.
Trey sat down hard on the bench, jaw tight, one hand braced against his inner thigh while the other reached toward his calf.
Wells turned immediately.
Coach Stone, who had been pulling his jersey over his head, stopped halfway through the motion.
The room changed.
“What happened?” Coach asked.
Trey looked up too quickly. “Nothing.”
Coach lowered the jersey from his hands.
He was shirtless now, sweat still shining across his chest and shoulders, black cap turned backward, whistle resting against his sternum. The charity match had left him marked by effort: damp hairline, flushed skin, gold shorts clinging at the waistband, soccer cleats untied but still on.
He did not look angry.
That was worse.
“Trey.”
Trey exhaled through his nose. “I got clipped.”
Wells crossed the room, already stripping off his own jersey. He pulled it over his head and dropped it beside his bag, leaving himself shirtless too, chest rising and falling from the late-game sprint that had nearly turned the match. His black “58” jersey landed in a damp gold-and-black heap on the bench.
“Final five minutes?” Wells asked.
Trey looked away.
Coach’s eyes narrowed. “The trip near the touchline.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You grabbed your leg when you went down,” Wells said.
“I was being expressive.”
“You were limping.”
“I was adding drama to the win.”
Coach stepped closer. “Stand.”
Trey gave him a look. “Coach, we just won. Can we not do the interrogation portion of the evening?”
“Stand.”
That voice left no room for argument.
Trey stood.
Too fast.
His left calf seized immediately.
His hand shot to the back of his leg, and his face twisted before he could hide it.
Wells caught his arm.
The silence afterward was sharp.
Coach pointed to the bench. “Sit back down.”
Trey sat.
This time, he did not argue.
Outside the locker room, Varsity Stadium continued to empty. Inside, the air was thick with heat, sweat, and the metallic smell of summer effort. Three gold jerseys lay discarded. Three pairs of gold shorts still caught the fluorescent light. Three bodies carried the match differently.
Wells carried it in his breathing.
Coach carried it in his posture.
Trey carried it in his clenched jaw, his cramped calves, and the careful way he refused to move his left leg too far outward.
Coach noticed all of it.
Of course he did.
“Where?” Coach asked.
Trey hesitated.
Wells folded his arms. “Trey.”
Trey looked between them, then sighed. “Calves are cramping. Both of them. Left is worse.”
Coach nodded once. “And?”
Trey stared at him. “And what?”
Coach’s eyes did not move.
Trey’s mouth tightened.
Wells’s expression softened. “Bro.”
Trey looked down. “Groin. Left side. Strained it when I got tripped.”
There it was.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just real.
Coach exhaled once through his nose. “You kept playing on a groin strain and calf cramps.”
Trey shrugged weakly. “There were five minutes left.”
Wells shut his eyes for half a second.
Coach knelt in front of him.
Trey blinked. “Oh. We’re doing this now?”
Coach looked up. “You were tripped in the final five minutes of a charity match while kids were watching. You kept playing on a compromised leg because you wanted to prove you could finish.”
Trey swallowed.
Wells leaned against the locker beside them, arms folded, sweat running down the center of his chest. “That sounds like him.”
“Betrayal,” Trey muttered.
“That sounds like you too.”
Coach held out one hand. “Left leg.”
Trey hesitated.
Coach did not move.
Trey lifted his leg carefully and set his heel against the bench edge between them.
Coach’s hands closed around Trey’s calf with professional care.
Not gentle exactly.
Precise.
Trey’s breath hitched anyway.
Wells noticed.
Coach noticed too.
Of course he did.
“Cramp?” Coach asked.
Trey cleared his throat. “Define cramp.”
Coach pressed two fingers along the knot in the muscle.
Trey gripped the bench. “That.”
Coach nodded. “Dehydration. Overuse. Compensation from the strain.”
“Sounds hot when you say it clinically,” Trey muttered.
Wells coughed into his hand.
Coach looked up.
The look.
Instant silence.
Coach returned to Trey’s calf. “Pain level.”
“Manageable.”
“Useful answer.”
Trey exhaled. “Six when it grabs. Three when you stop doing that thing with your thumb.”
Coach’s thumb pressed again.
Trey’s entire sentence vanished into a sharp inhale.
“That thing?” Coach asked.
Wells looked away, grinning.
Trey stared at Coach. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am identifying the cramp.”
“You identified it. It lives there. Congratulations.”
Coach’s expression did not change. “Hydration and stretching after. No sprinting.”
Trey opened his mouth.
Coach raised one finger.
Trey closed it.
Wells crouched beside Trey’s other side. “What about the groin?”
Trey looked at him. “Can we say that quieter?”
Wells smiled. “You were the one making jokes about firm pressure before the match.”
“That was before my body created evidence.”
Coach released the calf and shifted slightly. “Groin strain means no aggressive stretching. No testing it to see if it still hurts. No sudden lateral movement. No showing off.”
Trey blinked. “That sounds like most of my personality.”
“Yes,” Coach said.
Wells laughed.
Coach glanced at Wells. “Support the hip. Carefully.”
Wells’s grin softened into focus. “Got it.”
Trey looked between them. “Sorry, is this a team activity now?”
Wells placed one steadying hand near Trey’s hip, careful and controlled, keeping the leg supported without forcing it outward. “You heard Coach earlier. Repetition until you stop rushing.”
Trey stared at him.
Coach began working the calf again, slow pressure along the locked muscle. “Wells.”
“Yeah?”
“Less commentary. More support.”
Wells’s grin widened. “Acknowledged.”
Trey’s eyes snapped to him. “Do not start using Coach voice at me while your hand is there.”
Wells kept his hand steady. “Then stop giving us reasons.”
Trey leaned back against the lockers, breathing out slowly.
Sweat cooled on his bare chest. His blond hair, blue streak darkened by sweat, stuck slightly to his forehead. His gold shorts were dusty from the pitch, one side marked where he had gone down. His socks were uneven, soccer cleats loosened, one shin guard already pulled free and lying beside him.
He looked less like the loudest man in the room now.
More like the one who had spent the whole match trying not to show where it hurt.
Coach’s hands worked the calf until the muscle began to release. Wells kept Trey stable, one hand grounding him, the other ready in case the cramp hit again.
Trey let his head fall back against the locker.
For a moment, he said nothing.
That was how Wells knew it actually hurt.
Coach glanced up. “Status.”
Trey’s eyes stayed closed. “Still alive.”
“Useful status.”
Trey exhaled. “Calf’s easing. Groin still tight. Not sharp unless I move wrong.”
“Good,” Coach said. “Then do not move wrong.”
Trey opened one eye. “Brilliant coaching.”
“Effective coaching.”
Wells softened his grip. “You should’ve come off.”
Trey looked at him. “There were five minutes left.”
“There were kids watching,” Wells said. “They don’t need to see you pretend pain isn’t real. They need to see you trust your team.”
That landed.
Coach nodded once without stopping. “A strong player finishes when he can. A smarter player knows when finishing risks tomorrow.”
Trey looked down at him. “So now the lesson is restraint?”
“The lesson was always restraint,” Coach said.
Wells smirked. “You just keep needing practical demonstrations.”
Trey gave him a tired look. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m supporting your recovery.”
“You’re grinning.”
“I contain multitudes.”
Coach’s thumb found another tight spot in the calf.
Trey’s entire body tensed.
Wells immediately steadied him. “Breathe.”
Trey breathed in through his nose.
Held it.
Let it out.
Coach nodded. “Again.”
Trey did it again.
The cramp released another fraction.
Wells looked down at him, softer now. “There you go.”
Trey swallowed.
“Do not say it like that,” Trey muttered.
Wells blinked. “Like what?”
“Like you are proud of me for breathing.”
“I am proud of you for breathing.”
“That is worse.”
Coach did not look up. “He needs encouragement.”
Trey stared at the ceiling. “I am trapped between a motivational poster and a very judgmental sports therapist.”
Wells grinned. “Golden Army has range.”
The locker room hummed around them.
Fluorescent lights.
Water dripping somewhere near the showers.
A distant cheer outside as the last of the crowd filtered through the stadium exits.
Varsity Stadium after victory.
Gold after impact.
Brotherhood after the whistle.
Coach moved to the other calf and worked it before it could lock up fully. Trey protested once, weakly, then stopped when Wells gave him a look that was almost as effective as Coach’s.
Almost.
“Both calves?” Wells asked.
“Both calves,” Coach said. “Left worse because he compensated after the trip.”
Trey muttered, “This is a very judgmental massage.”
“This is not a massage,” Coach said.
Wells grinned. “Recovery.”
Trey looked between them. “You two keep saying that like it makes this less loaded.”
Coach paused.
Slowly looked up.
Trey immediately pointed at himself. “Injured. Vulnerable. Should not be intimidated.”
Coach held the stare.
Trey lowered his hand.
“Still effective,” Wells said.
Coach returned to the calf. “Stop talking. Breathe.”
Trey obeyed.
Not because he had no comeback.
He had several.
But Coach’s hands were steady, Wells’s support was grounding, and the ache in his legs was beginning to unwind in slow, stubborn layers. Each pass of Coach’s thumbs released something tight. Each quiet correction reminded his body it did not have to guard itself anymore.
Trey breathed in.
Held it.
Let it out.
Coach noticed the change immediately. “Better.”
It was not a question.
Trey nodded. “Better.”
Wells eased his hand back but stayed close. “Groin?”
Trey shifted carefully, testing only enough to answer. “Still tight. Less angry.”
Coach stood and reached for a towel. “Good. No deep stretching tonight. Hydrate. Ice later. Light movement only. You do not test it.”
Trey gave him a look. “You know me too well.”
“Yes.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It was not received as one.”
Wells picked up Trey’s discarded shin guard and tossed it into his bag. “You’re welcome.”
Trey looked at him. “Coach did most of it.”
Wells pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “I supported your hip with devotion.”
“Never say that again.”
Coach snapped the towel once against Wells’s side.
Wells laughed and stepped back.
Coach pointed toward the water bottles. “Both of you hydrate.”
“Yes, Coach,” Wells said.
Trey echoed, quieter. “Yes, Coach.”
Coach glanced at him.
“Also,” Trey added, “thanks.”
Coach paused.
Then nodded.
A small thing.
Enough.
Wells smiled and reached for his water bottle.
Trey sat back slowly, no longer pretending. His calves throbbed, his groin still pulled tight when he shifted wrong, but it felt manageable now. More than that, it felt seen. Not weakness. Not failure. Just something the team had handled together.
Coach took a drink, then looked at Trey over the bottle.
“And next time you get clipped in the final five minutes?”
Trey sighed. “I tell you.”
“Before you compensate.”
“Yes.”
“Before you keep sprinting on a groin strain.”
Trey winced. “Yes.”
“Before both calves cramp because you decided pain was a motivational strategy.”
“Yes.”
“Before Wells has to pretend he is not worried.”
Wells looked offended. “I do not pretend that badly.”
Trey’s mouth twitched. “You kind of do.”
Coach capped the bottle. “Good. Progress.”
Trey leaned back, sweat drying on his skin, gold shorts catching the locker room light, one leg stretched carefully in front of him.
Then, because he was Trey, he could not leave it alone.
“So,” he said carefully, “was that the after-hours drill?”
Wells froze with the water bottle halfway to his mouth.
Coach looked at Trey.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
Trey immediately looked like a man who regretted nothing and everything at the same time.
Coach stepped closer, towel over one shoulder, whistle resting against his chest.
“No,” Coach said.
Trey’s eyebrows rose.
Coach leaned just enough to lower his voice.
“That was recovery.”
Wells looked down, already smiling.
Coach’s eyes stayed on Trey.
“After-hours drills start when you can stand without cramping.”
Trey stared at him.
Wells laughed softly. “There it is.”
Coach turned toward the showers like the conversation was finished.
“Hydrate,” he said. “Stretch what I tell you to stretch. Ice what I tell you to ice.”
Then he glanced back, expression flat, voice calm enough to be lethal.
“And if you are very good, Trey, Wells and I may eventually clear you for controlled contact.”
Trey’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Wells nearly choked on his water.
Coach’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Do not rush the recovery,” he added. “Nobody enjoys a sloppy finish.”
Trey stared at him.
Wells covered his face with one hand.
Coach walked toward the showers like he had said nothing remarkable at all.
Trey watched him go, then looked at Wells.
Wells was still grinning.
Trey exhaled, shook his head, and reached for his water bottle.
Outside, Varsity Stadium emptied into the Toronto night.
Inside, the Gold stayed a little longer.
Not for the crowd.
Not for the cameras.
For recovery.
For discipline.
For the kind of brotherhood that knew when to push, when to hold, when to stop, and when to make absolutely sure Trey never forgot the lesson.
Control before contact.
Focus before force.
Team before ego.
And after the match, if Coach decided he was ready, drills.
Victory does not end at the whistle. It continues in recovery, discipline, trust, and the brothers who keep you standing when the match is done. Train hard, heal smart, and carry the Gold together. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @hero21us
Featuring: @hero21us
