Leg Day’s Got Nothing On Me
Wells didn’t come to pull punches today. Didn’t come to dance around the mat either.
He came to kick.
Shin guards tight. Gloves on. Gold spats riding high and flexed just right. Every strike echoed like a warning, clean, brutal, sharp. Not sloppy. Not showy. Just solid. Impact with purpose.
He knew they were watching. The bros. The trainers. A few new recruits leaning on the rail like they were catching their breath just from watching him move.
Roundhouse. Snap. Jab. Reset.
The way his hips rotated, the way his thighs drove up from the mat—every motion had a rhythm. Repetition with heat. Force with flow. The kind of form you don’t fake. The kind of control that gets noticed.
One of the rookies made the mistake of saying he “looked good when he hit things.”
Wells just smirked and fired off another kick, close enough to rattle the pads and knock the breath out of the room.
“Funny,” he said between rounds. “Most people can’t take one from me.”
A beat.
“Though some beg to try.”
He didn’t say more. Just unwrapped his gloves. Sweat running down his chest. Muscles twitching under gold.
Some bros train to keep up.
Wells trains so no one can.
Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125”
