Wells thought he understood upper-body day.

Then Coach introduced him to the chair drill.

The visiting athlete rolled onto the court inside the Golden Army Training Center with calm confidence, gloves tight, shoulders relaxed, and the kind of focus that made Wells stop grinning before anyone said a word. The chair was low, fast, angled for sport, every line built for speed and control.

Wells looked at it.

Then at Coach.

Coach simply said, “Learn.”

So Wells learned.

Not perfectly. Not quickly. Not without nearly turning too hard and discovering that wheels did not care about ego.

The first sprint burned his shoulders.

The first turn humbled his core.

The first stop taught him that control was not optional.

By minute ten, Wells understood: this was not easier. This was different strength.

The athlete beside him moved like water over hardwood, sharp turns, clean pushes, perfect timing. Wells followed, sweating through his gold training shirt, arms pumping, jaw tight, pride quietly undergoing maintenance.

Coach watched from the sideline.

“Again,” he said.

Wells did not complain.

He pushed again.

Faster this time. Cleaner. Lower through the turn. Better hands on the rims. Less force, more precision.

The athlete nodded once.

That meant more than applause.

By the end, Wells was breathing hard, shoulders wrecked, palms sore, and smiling like someone had just handed him a new definition of power.

Strength was not always standing tall.

Sometimes strength was speed from a seated position.

Sometimes it was adaptation, balance, endurance, and refusing to let the world decide what movement was supposed to look like.

Wells looked across the court, nodded to his training partner, and tapped one hand against the wheel.

“Again?” he asked.

The athlete grinned.

Coach lifted the whistle.

And Wells pushed.