#turninggold

Match

I thought it was fake. Everyone does when a verified face shows up at 1 a.m. I screenshot it, sent it to the group.

me: this has to be a bot jay: 100% catfish marc: ask him for a voice note lol

Before I could overthink it, a message came in.

Ezan: you nearby me: if this is actually you, say something only you would say Ezan: no Ezan: come or don’t

A pin dropped. Ten minutes away.

I went.

Door

He opened in a black tee and shorts. Damp hair. Towel around his neck. No jewelry, no team stuff. Just… him. Bigger in person. Calmer too.

“Shoes,” he said, and stepped back like he already knew I’d follow. The apartment smelled like clean laundry and something citrus. Music low. Lights low.

“You’re real,” I said, because my brain was empty.

He checked me once, head to toe, like he was confirming a delivery. “Water?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just handed me a cold bottle. He doesn’t fill silence. He lets it sit.

“You don’t talk much,” I tried.

“Don’t need to,” he said, like a fact. Then: “Come here.”

Pace

He kissed like he set the tempo and expected me to keep it. Not rough. Not sweet. Just exact. A hand at the back of my neck, a nod when he liked something, a tiny click of his tongue when he wanted slower. I stopped thinking about lines and just followed cues.

We didn’t say much. It didn’t feel cold; it felt… simple. When it started to tip from kissing to everything else, I’m not writing that part out. Fade the lights. You get it.

After

He stood, rolled his shoulder like he’d finished a set, and brought me another bottle. No cuddling. No debrief. He looped the towel back around his neck, leaned on the door.

“You can go,” he said. It wasn’t rude. It was final. Then: “Stay ready.”

I laughed because I didn’t know what to do with the adrenaline. “That your thing?”

“My rule,” he said.

Creep

Two days later, I noticed the small stuff. I woke up before my alarm. Drank water before coffee. Bought a black tee with a thin gold trim without realizing why. Stood straighter. People at work asked if I’d started training again. I hadn’t. I just… did more and talked less.

Then the text:

Ezan: come through

No time, no please. I went.

Round Two

Same door. Different incense. Same towel. He looked me over, quick, satisfied. “Good.”

I told him I had plans and forgot them on the way up the stairs. He didn’t ask about my day. He didn’t explain his. He kissed me like the first time, set the tempo, expected me to meet it. A thumb on my chin meant “here.” A palm on my chest meant “wait.” If I did too much, he laughed under his breath. “Easy.”

Fade again.

Water. Door. Nod. “Go.”

I should have been offended. I wasn’t. I felt clear. Like the part of my brain that usually spirals had been put in a drawer.

Cadence

It turned into a rhythm. He’d text two or three words. I’d go. He never promised anything. Never dressed it up. He was cocky in a way that looked lazy, like he didn’t have to try because the room would always tilt his way. Kinda toxic, if you want to call it that. Also honest. He didn’t say “maybe” when he meant “no.” He didn’t say “soon” when he meant “now.”

I asked once, halfway out the door, “Do you even date?”

He said, “Don’t have time.”

“Then what’s this?”

He held my eyes for a second. “Useful.”

It should have stung more than it did. Maybe because it was true. I wasn’t looking for flowers. I was looking for something to cut the noise. He cut it.

Other People

I started noticing the pattern on other guys. A barista with a new black-and-gold bracelet. A lifter at my gym with a laurel stitched on his shorts. No talk, just a quick nod like we all recognized the same quiet rule set: show up, do your part, leave better than you came in.

The Part That Hurts a Little

Sometimes on the train home I replay the first night and think, yeah, I’m one of many. He’s busy, he’s private, he doesn’t owe me softness. Sometimes that’s a clean feeling. Sometimes it pinches. Then I wake up early again, drink water again, finish my sets, clear my inbox, and the pinch fades.

Why I Keep Going

Because it’s simple. Because he doesn’t waste words. Because when he says “come,” I don’t have to negotiate with myself. Because I leave different, light, steady, a little gold at the edges.

I don’t think he sits around planning to “convert” anyone. He’s just… built like that. If he wants a thing, he gets it. Half the time I’m not sure he even wants; the room wants for him.

Now

Last night he texted:

Ezan: later? me: yeah

No heart, no “see you soon.” I showered, left the shoes by the door, and tried not to overthink what it makes me. Not a boyfriend. Not special. On call, maybe. I’m fine with that.

I keep the phone on loud. If he says “come,” I go. If he says “go,” I go. The in-between is mine, and honestly, it’s better now. Cleaner. Stronger.

Was it a scam? No. Just a match that rearranged the furniture in my head. Less romance. More focus. A little heartache, sometimes. A lot of heat.

I’m not in love. I’m not pretending to be. I’m ready.

Matched at 1 a.m., showed up anyway. No jersey, no small talk, just pace, cues, and a rule: “Stay ready.” Not a love story. A cadence. I leave clearer, stronger, a little more gold each time. Recruitment & info: @brodygold @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166