Full Contact Hospitality
The rain started before kickoff.
Coach called it weather.
Wells called it dramatic lighting.
He stood at the sideline in full gold, helmet under one arm, mud already streaking the uniform, eye black sharp under the stadium lights. Across the field, the other team bounced in place, loud and confident and clearly unaware that Wells 58 had entered the chat.
Coach stepped beside him with the clipboard.
“Simple assignment,” Coach said.
Wells smiled. “Love those.”
“Run through the gap.”
“Through?”
“Through.”
Wells looked across the line.
The defense looked back.
Wells’ grin got worse.
“Hospitality it is.”
The whistle cut through the rain.
First play.
The ball snapped.
The line crashed.
Wells took the handoff and hit the gap like gold thunder.
One defender reached.
Bad idea.
A second defender committed.
Worse idea.
Wells lowered his shoulder, drove forward, and introduced both of them to the turf with enough enthusiasm that the crowd made a noise usually reserved for fireworks and poor decisions.
Coach did not smile.
Not officially.
But he did write something on the clipboard.
Probably “good.”
Probably “again.”
Definitely “Wells.”
By the fourth quarter, Wells was soaked, muddy, and still running like the field owed him money. Every hit made him sharper. Every tackle made him grin harder. The defense stopped talking trash and started making business decisions.
Then came the final drive.
Rain falling harder.
Lights blazing.
Crowd roaring.
Wells crouched at the line, eyes up, black gloves flexing against the wet turf.
The defender across from him leaned in.
“You tired yet?”
Wells smiled.
“Bro, I just warmed up.”
The snap came.
Impact hit.
Gold moved.
The field disappeared into rain, mud, bodies, and noise.
And then Wells broke through.
Ball tucked tight.
Legs driving.
Stadium losing its mind.
He crossed the line standing.
Barely.
But standing.
When the whistle blew, Wells dropped to one knee in the end zone, breathing hard, mud on his arms, rain running down his face, football held like proof.
Coach walked over.
Looked down at him.
“Still simple?”
Wells looked up, smirking through the rain.
“Run hard. Hit harder. Look good doing it.”
Coach finally smiled.
“Acceptable.”
Wells stood, handed him the ball, and glanced back at the defense still peeling itself off the field.
Golden Army football had rules.
Suit up.
Hit hard.
Join Gold.
Or learn why Wells calls full contact a welcome message.
Ready to suit up and take the hit? Join the Golden Army, step onto the gridiron with Wells 58, and learn why full contact is not punishment — it is the welcome message: Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
