#treyroasts

Wells knew two things when he left the gym at Bloor-Yonge.

First: leg day had been brutal.

Second: he looked incredible.

Both facts were equally true.

His black athletic tank clung to his chest like it had signed a long-term commitment. His metallic gold shorts caught every flicker of fluorescent light. His calves were still pumped. His thighs felt like they had been personally redesigned by punishment. Sweat had dried, returned, dried again, and then surrendered completely to the humid June heat pressing down over Toronto.

He had considered showering.

Briefly.

Technically.

In the same way a person considers making one responsible choice before deciding destiny has other plans.

Queen Station was only a few stops away.

He could make it.

Probably.

Wells tapped his Presto card, moved with full post-workout confidence, and stepped onto the southbound Line 1 train.

The doors closed.

The train lurched forward.

And then Wells smelled it.

He froze.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

The scent moved through the car with silent, invisible confidence. It was not subtle. It had layers. Gym bag. Wet pavement. Hot sidewalk. Protein shake regret. A faint note of old soccer cleat. Something masculine. Something dangerous.

Wells narrowed his eyes.

Somewhere on this train, someone had committed a crime.

A humid, muscular, post-leg-day crime.

He glanced left.

A student with headphones stared at a laptop bag.

Possible, but unlikely.

He glanced right.

A man in a suit held a takeout container.

Suspicious, but the smell lacked garlic.

Near the doors, a cyclist leaned against the pole with one hand on his helmet.

Could be him.

Wells studied him carefully.

No.

Too obvious.

The real culprit would be hiding in plain sight.

The train rolled into Wellesley.

The doors opened.

A few passengers stepped in.

One stepped back out immediately.

Wells frowned.

Coward.

The doors closed again.

The smell remained.

Stronger now.

Almost personal.

Wells shifted his gym bag from one shoulder to the other and subtly checked under the seat across from him.

There it was.

A backpack.

Dark.

Damp-looking.

Unattended.

Wells’s eyes sharpened.

Evidence.

His phone buzzed.

Coach Stone: Shower before transit?

Wells stared at the message.

That was specific.

Too specific.

He typed back.

Wells: Why would you ask that?

The reply came almost immediately.

Coach Stone: Because it is June. Because you trained legs. Because you believe confidence is deodorant.

Wells blinked.

Rude.

Accurate, but rude.

The train pulled into College.

More passengers boarded.

The smell expanded, as if pleased to have an audience.

A woman near the pole wrinkled her nose.

A guy in a Blue Jays cap looked up slowly.

The cyclist moved down the car.

Wells watched him go.

Interesting.

The suspect was fleeing.

Then his phone buzzed again.

Trey: Bro.

Wells closed his eyes.

Nothing good ever started with Trey texting only “Bro.”

Wells: What?

Trey: Did you gas Line 1?

Wells looked up sharply, as if Trey might somehow be hiding behind an advertisement for summer festivals.

Wells: I am conducting an investigation.

Trey: Into yourself?

Wells did not answer.

The train moved again.

College to Dundas.

The smell followed.

Not drifted.

Followed.

Wells slowly looked down at himself.

Black tank.

Gold shorts.

Sweat-slick skin.

Gym bag pressed against his side.

His body still radiating heat like a public infrastructure issue.

No.

Impossible.

He was Wells.

He was gold.

He was disciplined.

He was...

His phone buzzed a third time.

Gabe: Hey, are you on Line 1 right now? Someone just posted in the group chat that there’s “a hot gym bro causing atmospheric disruption between Bloor and Queen.”

Wells went very still.

Wells: Define atmospheric disruption.

Gabe: Bro.

Wells: That is not a definition.

Gabe: It means shower.

Wells lowered the phone.

The truth arrived slowly.

Station by station.

Cruelly.

Wellesley had known.

College had suffered.

TMU station, formerly known as Dundas was about to bear witness.

The mystery was not the backpack.

It was not the cyclist.

It was not the takeout container.

The call was coming from inside the gold shorts.

The train pulled into TMU (Dundas).

The doors opened.

A teenager stepped in, paused, looked around, and whispered to his friend, “Yo, what is that?”

Wells considered leaving.

Immediately.

With dignity.

Maximum dignity.

Golden dignity.

But Queen was one stop away.

He had committed to the route.

A Golden Bro did not abandon the mission at Dundas.

Even when the mission had become surviving his own consequences.

So Wells stayed on.

The doors closed.

The train rolled south.

The smell came with him.

Of course it did.

His phone buzzed again.

Alton: Babe. Be honest. Did you season the subway?

Wells looked at the message.

Then looked straight ahead.

He would not be broken.

The train pulled into Queen.

The doors opened.

Wells stepped onto the platform with the controlled urgency of a man making a tactical withdrawal from a situation he had personally created.

The train doors closed behind him.

Line 1 continued southbound, carrying innocent passengers and the last traces of his shame.

Wells stood on the Queen platform, sweat cooling on his skin, gym bag hanging from his shoulder, gold shorts still shining under the lights.

He inhaled carefully.

The air was better.

Not perfect.

But better.

His phone buzzed one last time.

Coach Stone: Hydrate. Go home. Shower. Then apologize to Line 1.

Wells stared at the message.

Then typed back.

Wells: Yes, Coach.

A moment later:

Trey: Golden Army public service announcement: no shower, no subway.

Wells groaned.

But he was smiling by the time he climbed the stairs toward Queen Street.

Outside, Toronto hit him with hot June air, traffic noise, sidewalk heat, and the smell of summer garbage trying its best.

For once, Wells had no judgment.

He had learned something today.

Leg day required discipline.

Gold required confidence.

Toronto required transit etiquette.

And if a mysterious smell followed you all the way from Bloor-Yonge to Queen on a humid June afternoon?

Sometimes the mystery was you.

Confidence is golden, but discipline still showers before transit. Train hard, laugh harder, and let the brothers keep you humble from Bloor-Yonge to Queen. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Ambrose arrived in Toronto with three things.

A tailored black coat.

A ticket to Thursday’s World Cup match.

And a velvet case containing several diamonds that absolutely should not have been left anywhere near Wells.

Toronto was already vibrating with World Cup energy. The city was hosting FIFA World Cup matches through July 2, including a Thursday Round of 32 match at Toronto Stadium, the tournament name for BMO Field.

So naturally, Ambrose had come prepared.

He had hotel reservations.

He had match credentials.

He had dinner plans.

He had security protocols.

He had, unfortunately, underestimated Wells.

Only slightly.

The problem began in Ambrose’s suite at the hotel, where Wells had been invited for what Ambrose called “a brief tactical conversation” and Wells called “free snacks before we go out.”

The suite overlooked the city in late-afternoon gold. Traffic moved below. Flags hung from balconies. Somewhere nearby, fans were already chanting.

Ambrose stood by the window, polished and unreadable, checking something on his phone.

Wells stood by the side table, trying not to stare at the open velvet case.

Trying.

Failing.

Inside it sat a diamond the size of a very expensive mistake.

It was not clear, exactly. Not fully. Light moved inside it in strange little flashes: gold, white, black, then gold again. It looked like something that had been cut from lightning and bad decisions.

Wells leaned closer.

“Do not touch that,” Ambrose said without turning around.

Wells straightened immediately. “I wasn’t.”

“You were preparing to.”

Wells frowned. “Why does everyone say that to me?”

“Because you are predictable.”

“That is profiling.”

“That is pattern recognition.”

Ambrose closed the velvet case with one smooth motion and turned back to his phone.

That should have been the end of it.

It was not.

Ten minutes later, Wells left the suite with a protein bar, his sunglasses, and one of Ambrose’s hypno diamonds in one of the pockets of his shiny metallic gold compression shorts.

He did not consider it stealing.

Not exactly.

It was more of a temporary tactical inspection.

For safety.

For science.

For sparkle.

He was halfway down the elevator when his phone rang.

Ambrose.

Wells stared at the screen.

Then answered with maximum innocence.

“Hey, bro.”

There was a pause.

Then Ambrose said, “Return it.”

Wells looked around the elevator as if someone else might be holding the diamond.

“Return what?”

“The diamond.”

“What diamond?”

“The one currently in the right pocket of your shorts.”

Wells froze.

The elevator descended in soft, judgmental silence.

“That is an aggressive guess,” Wells said.

“It is a trained diamond.”

“It’s a rock.”

“It is responsive.”

“It sparkles.”

“It listens.”

Wells slowly looked down at his pocket.

Ambrose’s voice softened, which somehow made it worse.

“Wells.”

“Yeah?”

“That particular diamond is not designed for unsupervised jocks.”

Wells scoffed. “I am very supervised.”

“You stole it.”

“Borrowed.”

“Without asking.”

“Borrowed dynamically.”

“Wells.”

“What?”

“Do not look directly at it.”

The elevator doors opened into the lobby.

Wells stepped out.

The diamond gave one tiny flash through the fabric of his pocket.

He looked down.

And took the diamond out and held it in his hand. Mistake.

The world tilted half a degree.

Not much.

Just enough.

Wells blinked.

His shoulders rolled back. His stance widened. His jaw set. Something loud and shameless clicked into place behind his eyes.

Ambrose heard the shift through the phone.

“Oh no,” Ambrose said.

Wells grinned.

“Bruv.”

Ambrose closed his eyes.

Wells looked at the phone, then at his reflection in the polished elevator door.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “Why did I say bruv?”

“Because you looked at the diamond.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Wells patted the pocket.

The diamond flashed again.

His grin sharpened.

“Proper mint little rock though, innit?”

Ambrose sighed.

“Wells. Return to the suite.”

“Can’t, mate.”

“You can.”

“Negative. Got errands.”

“You do not have errands.”

“I have vibes.”

“You have conditioning.”

Wells looked at his reflection again.

The black athletic shirt suddenly felt wrong.

Too restrained.

Too clean.

Too lacking in attitude.

He wandered out of the hotel and into the warm Toronto street like a man on a mission he did not understand. Ten minutes later, he emerged from a Queen Street shop wearing a shiny gold track jacket unzipped over his chest, gold chain, oversized sunglasses, and the same metallic gold shorts sitting low with complete, unreasonable confidence.

His sneakers had somehow become flashier.

His walk had become louder.

His entire personality had gained bass.

His phone buzzed.

Ambrose: Where are you?

Wells sent back a photo of himself flexing in a storefront window.

Wells: Upgraded.

Ambrose did not reply for several seconds.

Then:

Ambrose: That is not an upgrade. That is a symptom.

Wells looked at the diamond again.

Another flash.

He tilted his sunglasses down.

“Symptom? Nah, bruv. This is drip.”

A passing tourist looked over.

Wells gave him a nod like they were old rivals.

The tourist moved faster.

By the time Wells reached Yonge Street on his way to Church Street, the diamond had made things worse.

Or better.

Depending who was asked.

He had bought a second gold chain, at a trendy boutique shop on Yonge as he felt he needed more bling.

He had started calling his reflection “big man.”

He had described the CN Tower as “standing there like it thinks it’s hard.”

He had texted Trey:

Wells: Where you at, bruv?

Trey responded instantly.

Trey: Absolutely not.

Wells: What?

Trey: Who gave you chav mode?

Wells: Born with it, mate.

Trey: I am calling Coach.

Wells laughed, then looked at the diamond again.

Flash.

He stopped outside a convenience store and bought a pair of gold-framed sunglasses even though he was already wearing sunglasses.

Layering, he decided, was a lifestyle.

Ambrose called again.

Wells answered with full confidence.

“Talk to me, boss man.”

“Where are you?”

“Toronto.”

“That is not useful.”

“Church Street.”

“That is slightly more useful. Do you still have the diamond?”

Wells patted his pocket.

“Course.”

“Stop touching it.”

“Can’t. It’s got presence.”

“It has programming.”

“It has drip.”

“It has an embedded suggestion matrix.”

“Same thing, innit?”

Ambrose went quiet.

Then, very calmly, he said, “Wells, listen carefully. The more you look at that diamond, the more it will reinforce the persona.”

Wells adjusted his chain. “Persona?”

“The chav.”

“I am not a chav.”

A streetcar bell rang in the distance.

Wells looked at his reflection in the window beside him: gold track jacket, gold shorts, chains, sunglasses, sweat still shining across his chest, posture full of swagger and terrible choices.

He paused.

Then nodded at himself.

“Actually, fair.”

Ambrose’s voice dropped. “Return the diamond before Thursday.”

Wells smirked. “Need it for the match.”

“You are not bringing a hypno diamond to a World Cup match.”

“Could be lucky.”

“It could turn an entire hospitality box into lads yelling ‘proper class’ at corner kicks.”

Wells considered this.

“Would improve the atmosphere.”

“Return it.”

“Make me.”

Ambrose smiled on the other end of the phone.

Wells did not see it.

That was probably for the best.

“Look at the diamond again,” Ambrose said.

Wells narrowed his eyes. “That feels like a trap.”

“It is instruction.”

“Same thing when you say it like that.”

“Look at it.”

Wells should not have.

Obviously.

But the diamond was already in his hand.

It caught the late sun.

Gold flashed through white.

White through black.

Black through something deeper.

Wells’s eyes unfocused.

His mouth opened slightly.

Ambrose’s voice slid through the phone, smooth as polished glass.

“Good. Full attention now.”

Wells stood very still.

The city moved around him.

Cars.

Fans.

Heat.

Noise.

All of it blurred.

Ambrose continued. “The diamond is stylish.”

“Proper stylish,” Wells murmured.

“It is valuable.”

“Yeah.”

“It belongs to Ambrose.”

Wells frowned faintly.

“It belongs to Ambrose,” Ambrose repeated.

Wells swallowed. “Belongs to Ambrose.”

“And Wells is going to return it.”

Wells’s hand tightened around the diamond.

The chav in him objected.

Loudly.

“Could keep it though.”

“You could.”

Wells grinned.

Ambrose added, “But then the next time you see it, you will feel an overwhelming urge to buy a full gold tracksuit, call every man in Toronto ‘bruv,’ and challenge a streetcar to a footrace.”

Wells blinked.

“That sounds…”

“Embarrassing?”

“Kind of sick.”

Ambrose pinched the bridge of his nose.

Then Wells’s phone buzzed with another incoming call.

Coach Stone.

Wells froze.

Ambrose heard the silence.

“Answer it.”

“I’m busy.”

“Answer Coach.”

Wells answered.

Coach’s voice came through like a whistle blast in human form.

“Return the diamond.”

Wells stared ahead.

“How does everyone know?”

“Trey sent photos.”

“Snitch.”

“Wells.”

“I look good though.”

“You look like a golden tracksuit robbed a gym.”

Wells looked at his reflection again.

The diamond flashed.

He smiled.

“Can’t lie, Coach. It’s got drip.”

There was silence.

Then Coach said, “Return. The. Diamond.”

The chav mode faltered.

Only slightly.

Enough for Wells to remember that Coach’s tone had consequences.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Ambrose was waiting in the hotel lobby when Wells returned twenty minutes later.

He did not look surprised.

He looked entertained.

That was worse.

Wells strode in wearing the gold track jacket, two chains, sunglasses, metallic gold shorts, and the expression of a man who had technically done something wrong but looked too good to apologize properly.

Ambrose held out one hand.

Wells looked at it.

Then at the diamond.

Then at Ambrose.

“Hypothetically,” Wells said, “what happens if I keep it?”

Ambrose tilted his head. “You will spend Thursday’s World Cup match shouting tactical advice in a chav accent while trying to sell counterfeit gold sunglasses to German fans.”

Wells paused.

“That is very specific.”

“The diamond is very thorough.”

Wells sighed dramatically and dropped the diamond into Ambrose’s palm.

The moment it left his hand, something loosened.

His posture softened.

His accent reset.

His brain, such as it was, came back online.

Mostly.

Wells looked down at himself.

Gold jacket.

Gold shorts.

Gold chains.

Sunglasses indoors.

He slowly removed one pair of sunglasses.

Then realized there was another pair underneath.

Ambrose smiled.

“How are you feeling?”

Wells stared at him.

“Like I owe Queen Street an apology.”

“Accurate.”

“And maybe a receipt.”

“Also accurate.”

Wells pointed at the diamond. “You did that on purpose.”

“You stole from me.”

“Borrowed.”

“Dynamically?”

Wells winced. “I hate that you remembered that.”

Ambrose closed the velvet case and slipped it into his coat.

“The suggestion will fade.”

Wells relaxed.

“Good.”

“Gradually.”

Wells stopped relaxing.

“How gradually?”

Ambrose started walking toward the elevator.

Wells followed.

“How gradually, Ambrose?”

Ambrose pressed the elevator button.

Behind them, a group of visiting fans passed through the lobby, laughing and wrapped in national flags. One of them wore a gold chain over a soccer jersey.

Wells glanced over.

His eyes narrowed in appreciation.

“Chain’s proper class,” he muttered.

Ambrose smiled without looking back.

“There it is.”

Wells closed his eyes.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Fix it.”

“Return my property faster next time.”

The elevator doors opened.

Ambrose stepped in.

Wells followed, still glittering, still ridiculous, still faintly chav-coded around the edges.

As the doors closed, Ambrose looked him up and down.

“For what it is worth,” he said, “you do wear the consequences well.”

Wells tried very hard not to smile.

Failed.

Then adjusted his gold chain.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Still looked class though.”

Ambrose laughed softly.

The diamond stayed locked in its case.

For now.

Some lessons sparkle brighter than others. Return what is not yours, trust the brothers who know your tells, and let the Gold turn every mistake into style, swagger, and discipline. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Featuring: @chavambrose.