The late afternoon sun was hanging low over the Golden City as the sun was setting, casting long, dramatic shadows across the practice turf. The heat was still radiating off the ground, but it was nothing compared to the friction between me and Coach.

I was locked into my stance, my gold football cleats dug deep into the turf. I was wearing my full gold compression kit, skin-tight tights and a matching spandex t-shirt that felt like a second skin. The words UNLEASH THE BEAST were printed across my chest in bold black letters, mirroring the BEAST branding running down my leg. I felt like a localized sun, reflecting every bit of light back at the man standing five yards in front of me.

Coach was the shadow to my light. He was decked out in "Wet Look" black compression tights that shimmered like oil, with BEAST emblazoned in gold down his thigh. His black compression shirt was stretched to the limit over his chest, the gold UNLEASH THE BEAST logo straining with every breath he took.

"Again, Wells!" Coach barked, his silver whistle glinting against the black spandex. "The Frost Giants aren't going to tip over just because you're pretty. I want to see you drive through the hips. I want to feel the impact in my teeth."

I didn't need a second command. I exploded forward, a golden blur of raw power. I hit him low, my shoulder burying into his midsection, my arms wrapping around those massive, rubbery thighs. We hit the turf with a heavy, rhythmic thud, the scent of grass and expensive black rubber filling my lungs.

Coach didn't even grunt. He just used his momentum to roll me over, pinning my shoulders to the turf with a predatory smirk.

"Better," he purred, his face inches from mine, the "Beast" branding on our chests practically touching. "But you're still hesitating at the point of contact. Are you afraid of breaking me, Wells? Or are you just enjoying the view from down there?"

"Maybe a bit of both, Coach," I rasped, my breath coming in heavy, jagged bursts. "Hard not to appreciate the 'Beast' when he’s breathing down your neck."

"Focus, Wells," Coach whispered, his hand gripping the back of my neck. "You don't appreciate the Giants. You dismantle them."

A low, slow whistle from the sidelines broke the tension. We both looked over to see Alton leaning against the equipment rack, looking lean and dangerous in his own training gear. He’d been watching us for a few minutes, a wicked, knowing grin on his face.

"Must be nice," Alton called out, his eyes traveling slowly over Coach’s black-clad physique and then over my gold-plated form. "I’ve seen a lot of drills, but I’ve never seen two 'Beasts' look quite so… compatible. If you two ever decide you need a third to help with the 'unleashing,' you know where to find me."

He pushed off the rack with a wink. "I’ll leave you to your 'tackling.' I’ve got some iron of my own to move."

Coach watched Alton walk away before turning his gaze back to me, his grip on my neck tightening just a fraction.

"You heard the man, 58," Coach murmured, pulling me back up to my feet. "People are starting to talk. Let’s give them something to really talk about. Take me down again. And this time, don't be gentle. I want to see exactly how much power you've been holding back."

I dug my gold cleats back into the turf, my mind a golden, focused blank. "Consider the Beast unleashed, Coach."

I didn't wait for the whistle. I surged forward with everything I had—220 pounds of gold-plated kinetic energy. This time, I didn't just hit; I drove. I caught him right under the center of gravity, my arms locking around his waist. The impact was visceral, a sharp crack of shoulder meeting rubberized chest.

Coach went airborne for a split second before we slammed into the turf.

Before he could roll, I used my weight to pin him. I straddled his hips, my gold-clad legs locking him down, my hands pinning his wrists to the grass. The "Unleash the Beast" on my chest was inches from his face, my sweat dripping onto the black "Wet Look" of his shirt.

Coach looked up at me, his chest heaving, his silver whistle crushed between us. He didn't look angry, he looked electrified. The predatory smirk was back, but this time, it was laced with a dark, satisfied approval.

"There he is," Coach whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration beneath me. "The Wall finally learned how to hunt. Nice form, 58. I think you're finally ready to show those Giants what a real beast looks like."

I grinned down at him, my alpha pride surging. "I think I like the view from up here even better, Coach."

The beast isn't born; he's built. Are you ready to be unleashed? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.