Alpha Demo: Tire Test
Golden Army CrossFit Gym. Midday. Warm lights. Rubber floors still humming from the last session.
Wells walked in like the room had been waiting for him.
Black-and-white trainers squeaked once against the floor. Metallic gunmetal silver ¾ tights wrapped his legs tight, catching the light with every step. The loose gold muscle shirt shifted as he moved, “WELLS 58” stamped across his chest like a challenge. Backwards gunmetal cap low, brim shadowing a familiar smirk.
Conversations stalled. Golden Bros leaned back against racks. New recruits straightened up without realizing why.
Alpha presence does that.
The truck tire sat in the center of the gym—scarred, dusty, heavy enough to make excuses for weaker men.
Wells stopped beside it and stretched his arms out slow, deliberate. Shoulders rolled. Chest expanded. Fabric pulled tight.
He eyed the tire and grinned.
“Alright,” he said, loud enough for the room. “Match week’s coming up. That means legs, lungs, and zero mercy.”
Recruits lined the walls in gold kits—some whispering, some pretending not to stare. A few phones came out. Nobody told them to stop.
Wells dropped low, gripped the tire, and popped it up like a problem he was bored of.
The gold shirt rode up, abs snapping tight under the lights. His stance grounded, trainers gripping the floor. THUD. Flip one. THUD. Flip two. Confidence building alongside power.
Bros laughed. Recruits tried to hide awe. There’s no hiding awe.
“This is match prep,” Wells threw out between reps. “Legs for drive. Core for control. Power through contact.”
After seven clean flips, Wells stood tall over the defeated tire—breathing heavy, skin glowing, eyes sharp.
He wiped sweat from his neck with a towel and casually adjusted his waistband like the whole display had just been a warm-up. Recruits clapped late, off beat, unsure if they should clap harder. Bros grinned. They’d seen this show before.
“Tire today,” he said, “tackles feel softer next week.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Wells turned toward the recruits. One stepped forward. The rest hung back, which told Wells everything he needed to know.
He slung the towel over his shoulder and tilted his head, smirk sharpening under the brim of his cap.
“Five flips,” he said. “Clean. No bouncing. No crying.”
A beat.
“If you make it, I’ll remember your name.”
The room went quiet. Competitive quiet. Charged quiet.
Some lessons are taught. Some are earned.
Wells started for the showers, voice carrying just enough to hit every recruit in the chest.
“Strength’s cute,” he said. “But endurance wins games. Most guys burn out before the fun part even starts.”
A couple Bros choked on laughter. One recruit went red, the shade of bumper plates.
Wells shrugged. “Don’t worry. If you survive match week… maybe I’ll give you boys a harder workout.”
Then he disappeared through the doorway, cap still backwards, smirk still carved in place.
Please contact one of our recruiters @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125 @franco-gold94 or @polo-drone-166
