#pickaholecommit

The Golden Army Indoor Facility always smelled the same, sweat, turf pellets, faint disinfectant. Familiar enough that my shoulders loosened the second I stepped inside. Still, my eyes went straight to the net.

Coach was already there.

Black kit. Gloves on. Hat backward. Standing dead center like he’d grown out of the goal line. He didn’t look at me right away. He never rushed that part.

I dropped my bag, knelt, and tightened my gold cleats. The turf was cool under my knee. When I looked up, Coach was watching now—calm, unreadable.

“Warm up,” he said. No extra words. No catch-up. Just work.

“Corners,” Coach called as he settled into position. “Regency pace.”

I took the ball, adjusted my stance, struck. Blocked.

The rebound rolled back out. Coach retrieved it himself, slower than necessary, eyes steady.

“Gold,” he said, dry, “the objective is to get it in the hole, not just make noise around it.”

Heat climbed my neck. I smirked and reset.

“Pick one,” he continued. “Commit. Don’t flirt with it.”

That landed.

I waited an extra half beat this time. Shot low, inside post. He got a boot to it, barely.

“Better,” he said. “Now do it on purpose.”

We ran it harder after that. Faster feeds. Fewer words. At one point he let a goal in, intentional. I felt the flash of satisfaction, then the correction came immediately.

“That’s what they’ll give you,” Coach said, rolling the ball back out. “Don’t mistake it for permission.”

By the time he checked the clock, my legs were buzzing the right way.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Good work, Gold.”

No praise beyond that. Didn’t need it.

We headed in without talking. Alignment didn’t need commentary.

Steam hung low in the locker room. I sat on the bench in white compression shorts, bare torso cooling down, breathing steady. My gold uniform lay folded beside me, damp and earned.

Coach crossed the room, gloves set neatly on the bench. Black spandex caught the light when he moved—contained, deliberate.

“You look steadier than you did before Toronto,” he said, catching my reflection in the mirror.

“Had time to think,” I replied.

Coach nodded once. “Good. Being back in your hometown didn’t soften you.”

Silence settled again, easy, familiar.

“I’ll be at the Golden Chalice later,” Coach said, like it was routine. “If your legs loosen up.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll swing by.”

He paused at the door. “Gym tomorrow. Morning.”

“Got it.”

Coach left first. I stayed a moment longer, letting the steam thin and the quiet hold.

No rush. No confusion.

Just alignment and something building under the routine.