#poutinepower

The door at Arrivées slides open and winter breath fogs like a whistle. I step out in a gold puffer, earbuds steady, duffel on shoulder, and a human thunderclap jumps from behind a pillar with a giant sign: SURPRISE! It’s Wells #58, grinning like a golden raccoon. Baggage guys pause mid-throw, smiling like they just joined my fan club. I smirk back. Montréal already obeys.

We hit Jean-Talon. Blue train sighs, doors closing. Wells sprints. I wedge them with a forearm, easy. Commuters stare. Scarves pick up a gold thread like the city’s sewing itself into team colors. Poster behind us quietly updates: GO GOLD. Wells breathes hard; I grin like I planned the whole timetable.

Hunger strikes and steam leads us to a tiny casse-croûte. Neon says POUTINE / SMOKED MEAT. The tray they hand me could train legs. Cheese curds stretch; Wells laughs so hard he fogs the glass. The cook blinks, his cap now has laurel embroidery. “House special?” he asks. “Golden,” I say, and demolish the mountain like it’s a fourth quarter.

Dusk rolls over Old Montréal. Cobblestones, warm café light, string bulbs zigzagging the street. I loop Wells’s scarf in my fist and tow him like a leash, playful drill. He mock protests, #58 printed proud across his chest. A guitarist strums; his open case fills with little foil gold coins, clink by clink. People gather and chant “ALLEZ OR!” because of course they do. The city likes to win.

From the Mount Royal lookout the skyline glows like a trophy. Wind bites; I hoist Wells for a piggyback set. We both laugh, the kind that makes your ribs feel like drums. The breath from my mouth hangs in the air, shaping what looks suspiciously like a laurel before the breeze carries it toward the lights. I tell him that’s a good omen. He tells me to stop pretending it’s not on purpose.

Night pulls us to Parc La Fontaine for “conditioning.” Fresh powder. Twinkle lights. I call cadence. Wells pitches. I return, and a snowman detonates into glittering flakes. Nearby guys cheer “EZAN!” and form a sprint line just to earn a high-five. Wells wheezes, laughing; I tell him he needed the cardio anyway.

At St-Viateur the oven yawns orange. It’s 2 a.m., perfect raiding hour. We throw on aprons over our gold tees, sleeves up, veins out. Fresh sesame rings roll off the board like medals. We rope a string around each other’s necks and pose, championship ceremony, bakery edition. The bags stamp themselves GOLD CERTIFIED because nobody argues with the heat.

Back at the hotel balcony, frost on the railing and heart-shaped city bokeh below, I curl a suitcase for the de-pump. Wells films, nearly drops his phone, laughing. My breath sketches a laurel in the cold that lingers longer than it should. “Signature,” I tell him. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, smiling like he means “king.”

Sun edges pink over Café Olimpique. Espresso hisses. Wells shoves a latte into my hand: EZAN—KING scribbled on the cup. We tap rims. The foam flips into a tiny laurel while the barista’s pin catches the light and turns gold. Montréal signs the final form with a wink.

The surprise trip ends the way good drills do, sweat, food, laughter, and a city that learned a new chant without realizing it. Wells bumps my shoulder and calls it the best ambush he’s ever planned. I tell him he’s a good boy for #58. We both grin. Montréal grins back.

Featuring: @wells-gold58