The local sports reporter found Trey beside the Tour de France team time trial course, gold sunglasses on, paper basket of fried chicken in hand, looking far too serious for a man eating lunch behind a barrier.
He lifted the microphone.
“Trey, Olympic medalist, Golden Army favorite, and apparently a cycling fan today. What makes the perfect fried chicken drumstick?”
Trey straightened like he had been waiting his entire life for this question.
“Well,” he said, holding one drumstick up to the sunlight, “first of all, you need strong legs.”
Behind him, Wells went completely still.
The reporter blinked. “For the chicken?”
“For the experience,” Trey said.
A team of riders came sweeping past in perfect formation, thighs driving, calves flashing, every pedal stroke sharp and synchronized.
Trey turned his head and watched them longer than any food critic needed to watch anything.
Then he looked back at the camera.
“You want power,” Trey continued. “Real power. Thick enough to handle pressure. Firm enough that you know it did the work.”
The reporter’s eyebrows rose.
“But it cannot just look good,” Trey said. “A beautiful leg with no flavor? Tragic. I need seasoning. I need heat. I need something that makes me lean in and say, yes, I want more of that.”
Alton made a strangled sound.
The reporter, now fully committed to the disaster, leaned closer. “And texture?”
“Crisp outside,” he said. “Tender inside.”
Wells rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“That is the dream. Golden on the surface, strong in the hand, juicy when it counts, and just messy enough that you stop pretending you are dignified.”
The reporter stared at him.
The cameraman slowly lowered the camera, then raised it again because journalism mattered.
A rider warming down near the team bus stepped off his bike, stretched one leg, and shook out his quad. Trey’s eyes drifted for half a second.
“I am discussing poultry.”
“You are threatening international relations.”
The reporter tried not to smile. “So, to be clear, you are still talking about fried chicken?”
Trey looked into the camera with absolute confidence.
“I am talking about excellence.”
Alton bent over laughing.
Another team roared past, eight riders cutting through the afternoon in a single line of speed and muscle. Trey watched the formation, then lifted the drumstick again.
“Look at that,” he said softly. “That is discipline. That is commitment. That is a whole row of perfectly trained legs, giving everything they have, just begging to be appreciated.”
Wells stepped in front of him.
The reporter pulled the microphone back but could not hide his grin. “Any final message for Fried Chicken Day?”
Trey leaned around Wells.
“Respect the drumstick,” he said. “Honor the legs. And never settle for dry.”
Alton collapsed against the barrier.
Wells took Trey by the shoulder and guided him away from the camera.
“Training at six,” Wells said.
Trey, still holding the drumstick, smiled. “Good. I’ll bring the appetite.”
The reporter turned the microphone back on.
Trey slowly faced the camera again, delighted.
“You heard the man,” he said. “Leg day.”
Featuring: @wells-gold58, @alton-gold77
Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
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