#matready

The year’s not over. So neither is Wells.

No crowd. No coach. Just the slap of his feet on the mat and the hiss of breath in a room thick with steam and silence. New wrestling shoes—black with gold trim—fresh from the box, stiff like they don’t know who they belong to yet.

That changes fast.

Sprawls. Rolls. Takedowns into the mat like he’s grinding the year into submission. By the time he’s done, the shoes are drenched and broken in, just like they should be.

New year coming. Wells already pinned it.

“You gotta break ‘em in if you want ‘em to handle the pressure I bring.”