Gold on the Grill
Wells had learned one thing by the early 2000s: nothing brought Golden Bros together faster than the smell of summer, lake water, and meat hitting a hot grill.
The cottage sat tucked between pine trees and Southern Ontario lake country, all weathered wood, screen doors, old deck chairs, coolers on the porch, and sunlight flashing off the water. It was May long weekend energy turned all the way up. The unofficial start of summer. The official start of trouble.
Wells arrived first, of course.
Sleeveless plaid shirt open, jeans low on his hips, hair spiked just right, arms full of supplies. Buns in one hand. Cooler in the other. That easy, smug grin on his face like he already knew the weekend was going to become legendary.
By the time he reached the deck, the grill was waiting.
So were the Gold tanks.
So was the lake.
So was the whole damn weekend.
Before the bros arrived, Wells took exactly one moment for himself.
The sun was high. The deck was warm. The lake moved slow and bright below him. He stretched out in metallic gold swimwear, skin still wet from a quick dip, one arm behind his head, letting the heat settle over him.
There was no rush.
The cooler was stocked. The grill was ready. The music was already playing low from inside the cottage. Somewhere on the table, his old flip phone sat beside sunglasses, towels, and a half-finished drink.
Wells smiled.
The Golden Bros could show up whenever they wanted.
He was already ready.
By the time the food was nearly done, Wells had fully settled into host mode.
Not polite host mode.
Golden host mode.
The kind where he knew everyone was watching him work the grill. The kind where he leaned just a little too comfortably against the counter, smirked just a little too knowingly, and let the cottage heat do the rest.
The bros were already in gold tanks now, scattered across the deck with drinks in hand, pretending they were focused on the lake, the food, the music.
They were not.
Wells knew.
He let the silence stretch, then lifted the tongs and pointed toward the table.
“Plates out, bros. I’m not feeding you unless you earn it.”
The deck erupted again.
That was the thing about Wells.
He did not just host a BBQ.
He ran it.
Later, when the first round of food was gone and the sun started dropping lower, Wells disappeared down to the dock.
The air had cooled just enough. The wood still held the day’s warmth. The lake lapped quietly against the posts.
He stretched out on a towel, gold catching the last of the light, looking like every bad decision the weekend had promised.
Behind him, the cottage was loud with music and voices.
Ahead of him, the lake turned orange.
Wells closed his eyes for half a second and let himself enjoy it.
The 2000s had arrived properly now.
No Y2K crash. No end of the world. Just a cottage, a grill, a lake, and a growing brotherhood that knew exactly how to make summer feel golden.
Then came the noise.
Cars on gravel. Doors slamming. Bags hitting the ground. Bros laughing before they had even reached the porch.
Wells turned from the deck as the Golden Bros arrived in full force: gold tanks, gym bags, coolers, sunglasses, caps, and stupid grins. They looked like trouble dressed for summer.
He opened his arms wide.
“Welcome to cottage country, bros.”
One of them lifted a cooler. Another raised a red cup. Someone shouted something about getting golden before sunset.
Wells laughed, stepping aside to let them in.
The cottage was no longer quiet.
The weekend had officially begun.
The grill is hot. The lake is waiting. The bros are arriving. Join the Golden Army and make every summer golden. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
