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Post-Practice Treatment
@romangolden68
Yeahhh roomie… today was mad, yeah? Legs gone, feet fully cooked after that session.
Gotta say tho… you got proper hands, bruv.
Way you working that tension out… yeah, that’s what I needed still.
Stay right there, don’t rush it… I’m tryna feel brand new by the end of this.
Might have to keep you around just for recovery days, not gonna lie.
@alton-gold77 @polo-drone-125
Top Dog Training
ells knew Coach Stone was serious the second the whistle did not blow.
That was the first warning.
Coach usually made an entrance with sound — a barked order, a whistle, the clap of his hands, something sharp enough to make every man in the gym stand taller and pull himself together.
But today, Coach Stone just stood in the doorway.
Silent.
Watching.
The gym lights gleamed off the black shine of what he was wearing: a tight, glossy black singlet that hugged every inch of his heavy, powerful frame, black wristbands, a backward black cap with COACH across the front in gold lettering, and black-and-white trainers planted solidly on the rubber floor.
He looked less like a fitness instructor and more like judgment in human form.
Wells stopped laughing immediately.
Alton did not.
“Bro, I’m just saying,” Alton said, leaning against the rack with far too much confidence, “if we were out dancing half the night, that absolutely counts as cardio.”
Wells closed his eyes.
He was dressed in shimmering metallic gold spandex compression shorts, a matching metallic gold spandex compression tank top, black-and-gold socks, and gold-and-black trainers. Sweat already made the gold shine even brighter. Beside him, Alton was dressed nearly the same way, the same metallic gold compression shorts, matching gold tank, black-and-gold socks, and gold-and-black trainers, but somehow on Alton the outfit looked more like a dare.
Wells muttered, “Alton.”
“What?” Alton smirked. “It’s true.”
Coach stepped fully into the room.
Every other conversation died.
Wells straightened at once.
Alton noticed that. He always noticed that.
Because whatever existed between Wells and Coach Stone, whatever quiet understanding, whatever tension, whatever unlabeled thing lived between them — it was always visible in little moments like this. Wells knew when to joke. He knew when to push. But more importantly, he knew when to listen.
Coach’s gaze moved from Wells to Alton.
“Dancing counts as cardio?” Coach asked.
Alton grinned wider. “That’s my professional opinion.”
Coach nodded once. “Good. Then your lungs are warmed up.”
Wells exhaled slowly. “You did this to yourself.”
Alton frowned. “Wait, what does that mean?”
Coach pointed to the center of the floor.
“Partner circuit. Now.”
The punishment started with medicine-ball squats.
Then deeper squats.
Then squat holds with chest passes.
Then walking lunges across the floor.
Then more.
Wells moved with disciplined precision, jaw tight, sweat running down his arms and over the gleaming gold of his tank top. Alton tried to keep his smirk for as long as possible, but the deeper Coach pushed them, the harder it became.
“This feels personal,” Alton muttered, catching the ball against his chest.
Coach paced slowly in front of them. “It is.”
Wells nearly laughed.
Alton shot him a glare. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying the part where I warned you.”
Coach heard that.
“Talking?” he asked calmly.
Alton straightened. “Just motivating my partner, Coach.”
Coach’s mouth twitched. “Then motivate him through twenty more.”
The circuit only got worse from there.
Pushups.
Plank holds.
Shoulder taps.
Bear crawls.
Partner resistance drills.
When Wells and Alton were ordered into shuttle sprints with the weighted sled, the metallic gold compression shorts flashed under the lights with every turn, every stride, every exhausted stop. Their socks were damp, their trainers squeaking slightly against the floor, and their matching gold tanks clung tighter and tighter as the sweat built.
Alton was still foolish enough to keep talking.
“Honestly,” he said between breaths, “I still think I look great doing this.”
Wells, hands on his knees, looked over at him. “That is not the point.”
Coach’s voice cut in.
“Drop.”
They both dropped into pushup position.
Alton groaned. “For confidence?”
“For attitude.”
Wells kept his eyes on the floor. That was safer.
But Alton, half gasping and still reckless, lifted his head and smirked toward Coach.
“So what, Coach? You punishing us because we skipped drills, or because Wells here didn’t tell you where we were?”
The gym went very quiet.
Wells froze.
Not for long. Just long enough.
Coach stepped closer.
Wells kept his eyes down.
Alton looked between them, suddenly realizing he had touched something real.
Coach’s voice dropped low.
“Wells knows when to listen.”
His gaze stayed locked on Alton.
“You’re about to learn.”
The next stretch of training was brutal.
Partner carries.
Wall sits.
Alternating burpees.
Weighted sled pushes.
Every time Alton talked back, Coach added something else.
Every time he got cocky, Coach made him prove how much energy he still had.
Wells said nothing. He just worked. Sweat ran down his chest and soaked the waistband of his metallic shorts. His gold tank was plastered to him, and eventually Coach ordered both of them to strip the tanks off and keep going.
That, somehow, made it worse.
Now Wells and Alton were shirtless, gleaming with sweat under the lights, still in their metallic gold compression shorts, black-and-gold socks, and gold-and-black trainers, with Coach Stone stalking around them in that glossy black singlet like he owned the air they were breathing.
By the end of it, Alton was bent over, hands on his thighs, chest heaving.
Wells stood beside him, breathing hard but upright.
Coach folded his arms.
“So,” he said. “Still think you’ve been training enough?”
Alton wiped his face with the back of his hand. “No, Coach.”
“Still think dancing until three in the morning fixes skipped workouts?”
“No, Coach.”
Coach tilted his head. “Still think you’re top dog?”
That got Wells’ attention.
Alton tried to smirk, but there was no strength behind it now. “Depends who’s asking.”
Wells muttered, “Oh my God.”
Coach’s expression did not change, but his eyes sharpened.
“Clean up the floor,” he said. “Return every piece of equipment. Wipe the benches. Then locker room.”
The public part was over.
Wells knew that immediately.
Alton, unfortunately, did not.
They put the gym back in order in tired silence. Medicine balls returned. Towels tossed in the bin. Benches wiped down. When the last sled plate was stacked away, Wells grabbed his discarded gold tank but did not put it back on. Neither did Alton.
They followed Coach out of the main gym and into the adjoining locker room.
The shift was immediate.
The bright noise of the gym faded behind them. The locker room was warm, quieter, lined with polished wooden lockers and long wooden benches. The air smelled faintly of soap, sweat, and steam from the showers beyond.
Wells dropped down onto a bench shirtless, still shining with sweat, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. Alton leaned against a row of lockers, equally stripped down, chest heaving, metallic gold shorts catching the warm light.
Coach stepped in last.
The locker room door shut behind him with a soft but very final click.
Alton looked up.
“Oh,” he said.
Wells gave a tired, knowing smile.
“Yeah,” he said. “That sound means we’re not done.”
Coach walked toward them slowly, the black singlet gleaming under the locker room lights, his cap still backward, wrists braced, expression unreadable.
“You spent a lot of time acting like top dog out there,” Coach said.
Alton lifted his chin. “Maybe I am.”
Wells laughed under his breath.
Coach looked at Alton for a long moment.
“Cute,” he said.
Alton blinked. “Cute?”
“Loud,” Coach said. “Confident. Pretty. Mouthy. But top dog?”
He shook his head once.
“Not here.”
Wells leaned back on his hands, watching.
Coach turned slightly, glancing at Wells.
“And Wells,” he said, “at least knows the difference between showing off and showing respect.”
Alton’s eyes flicked between them again.
There it was.
That current.
That quiet thing.
That unspoken understanding that made it very clear Wells had access to a side of Coach Stone other people only guessed at.
Coach stepped closer to Alton.
“In my gym,” he said, “you train when I say train.”
Another step.
“You stop when I say stop.”
Another.
“And if you want to keep acting like the biggest thing in the room…”
He let the sentence hang.
Alton swallowed.
Wells smiled, just a little.
Coach finished it softly.
“Then I’ll keep reminding you who’s actually in charge.”
Alton’s smirk came back, weaker now, but still there. “And what if I need the lesson repeated?”
Coach’s mouth curved.
“Oh, I think you do.”
Wells laughed openly at that.
Coach turned his head toward him. “You think this is funny?”
Wells, still shirtless on the bench in his gold compression shorts and black-and-gold socks, gave him that dangerous, teasing smile.
“A little.”
Coach held his gaze.
Then he said, “Good. You can help demonstrate.”
Alton stared at both of them.
“Oh,” he said slowly. “So that’s how this works.”
Wells stood, rolling his shoulders back. Shirtless, sweat-bright, and completely unbothered, he looked over at Alton with a smug little grin.
“You really do catch on late.”
Coach folded his arms across the glossy black front of his singlet.
“At my place,” he said, voice low and steady, “there are fewer spectators and more focus.”
Alton looked from Coach to Wells.
“Your place?” he repeated.
Wells’ expression went wicked.
Coach did not look away from Alton.
“If this attitude needs more work,” he said, “we can continue in private.”
Alton tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thinner than he wanted.
“And what exactly would continue?”
Coach stepped close enough that Alton had to straighten instinctively.
“The lesson,” Coach said.
Wells moved to stand beside Coach, not behind him, not beneath him, beside him. Familiar. Comfortable. Claimed, in the quiet way that mattered.
Coach noticed Alton noticing.
“At my place,” Coach said, “you wouldn’t be top dog there either.”
Alton’s expression shifted.
Not offended.
Interested.
Wells folded his arms. “Honestly, that part should not surprise you.”
Coach added, calm and absolute, “If you came along, you’d listen. You’d follow direction. And you’d stop acting like the one in charge.”
Alton raised an eyebrow, trying to reclaim a little swagger.
“And who would be?”
Coach glanced at Wells.
Wells smiled.
Coach looked back at Alton.
“We would.”
That landed exactly the way it was supposed to.
Alton let out a slow breath. “Wow.”
Wells grinned. “You asked.”
Coach pointed toward the showers. “Rinse off.”
Wells moved first, because Wells knew better.
Alton stayed where he was for half a second longer.
Coach caught him with one quiet look.
“One more thing,” Coach said.
Alton swallowed. “Yeah?”
Coach’s tone stayed measured.
“Leave the top-dog act in this locker room.”
Wells looked back over his shoulder, smiling like he already knew the answer.
Alton finally nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
Coach stepped aside to let him pass.
“Good boy.”
Wells laughed all the way toward the showers.
Alton stood frozen for one stunned second, then muttered, “I hate both of you.”
Coach’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile.
“No,” he said. “You’re learning.”
And with sore legs, a wrecked ego, and far too much to think about, Alton followed Wells and Coach deeper into the steam, knowing perfectly well that the workout had ended…
…but the lesson definitely had not.
Every bro thinks he’s top dog until Coach starts counting reps. Not every lesson ends on the gym floor. Step closer, train harder, and let the Gold Standard take over. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @alton-gold77
Inked Up, Still Golden
Oi… what you reckon then, yeah? Man said try a lil ink, now look at me… fully patterned up like a proper golden beast. 🇪🇨✨
Got the stag, the crosses, the numbers… all telling the story, bruv. Still Zandro, still number 1… just louder now.
Lowkey hits different seeing it on the skin tho… makes it feel real real.
You vibin’ with it or you think I went too hard, yeah?
@alton-gold77 @polo-drone-125 come rate this, fam
@chavambrose
More Pumps, Less Brain
Bruh… am I lookin’ smaller or what??
Nah nah… can’t be… must be lighting or some dumb thing.
Don’t matter tho—double pumps tonight, yeah?
Chest, arms, everything gettin’ blasted till it’s stupid big again.
Gotta stay massive… can’t be slippin’, nah.
You watching or you training with me, bro?
@alton-gold77 @polo-drone-125
Jaws in the Basement
The basement smelled like old carpet, wood paneling, cigarette smoke, and whatever cheap aftershave Alton had slapped on before coming over. The walls were all dark fake walnut, the kind that made every room feel warmer and smaller than it really was. A boxy television sat in the corner with rabbit ears twisted toward the ceiling, playing nothing but soft static because nobody had bothered to fix the channel. An orange shag rug covered most of the concrete floor, and a low coffee table sat in the middle of it, crowded with sweating bottles, a bowls of pretzels and nuts, and the newest obsession in the house.
The Game of Jaws.
Wells had brought it down from upstairs like it was treasure.
“Look at this thing,” he said, setting the pale plastic shark in the center of the table. “It’s you against the great white shark.”
Alton laughed from the plaid couch, one arm stretched along the back cushion, his shirt collar wide and open in that easy mid-seventies way. “Man, that shark looks like it’s seen better days already.”
“That’s because Alton keeps poking the teeth,” Wells said.
Trey, sitting cross-legged on the rug, lifted both hands in protest. “I haven’t even touched it yet. Don’t start blaming me before the shark’s even loaded.”
The three of them leaned in as Wells set the lower jaw, checked the rubber band, and placed the little blue pieces of junk into the shark’s mouth. Tires, anchors, barrels, boots, bones, odd little plastic bits that looked brighter than anything else in the room. The shark’s mouth gaped wide, frozen in a hungry grin beneath the buzzing basement light.
Outside, somewhere beyond the small rectangular basement windows, summer evening pressed against the glass. Inside, time felt locked in amber. The paneling, the shag rug, the hum of the TV, the clink of bottles, the smell of popcorn and malt. Three young men in a basement, laughing too loud, leaning too close to danger made out of plastic.
Wells took the gaff hook first.
“Watch and learn,” he said, lowering his voice like a captain at sea. “This is precision.”
He guided the hook toward a tiny blue tire. His hand was steady at first, then wavered as Trey began humming the Jaws theme under his breath.
“Dun-dun,” Trey muttered. “Dun-dun. Dun-dun dun-dun dun-dun—”
“Shut up,” Wells said, trying not to laugh.
The hook caught the tire. Wells lifted slowly. The shark held still.
The tire came free.
Wells raised it triumphantly. “One piece. Clean.”
Alton grabbed his drink and pointed the bottle at him. “Beginner’s luck.”
Trey leaned forward, the gold of his chain catching the lamplight. “My turn.”
He took the hook and crouched over the table. Trey always had a way of making anything look like a performance. Even fishing junk from a toy shark’s mouth became dramatic. He narrowed his eyes, rolled his shoulders, and aimed for the little barrel near the back.
“Careful,” Alton said. “Touch the teeth and you’re chum.”
Trey smirked. “I don’t lose to fish.”
“It’s a shark,” Wells said.
“It’s plastic.”
The hook slipped beneath the barrel. Trey lifted.
For one long second, nothing happened.
Then the jaws snapped shut with a hard clack.
Trey jerked back so fast he nearly spilled his drink. Alton exploded with laughter, slapping the rug. Wells leaned back, grinning wide as Trey stared at the shark like it had personally insulted him.
“Plastic, huh?” Wells said.
Trey pointed at the shark. “That thing cheated.”
“The shark obeys no man,” Alton said solemnly, already reaching for the hook. “Now let a professional handle it.”
He reset the mouth, loaded the pieces again, and took his turn. Alton’s style was different. He moved slowly, deliberately, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. The basement seemed to quiet around him. Even the television static sounded softer.
He hooked the boot.
Lifted.
Paused.
The shark’s mouth trembled, held open by the thin pull of the rubber band.
“Come on,” Wells whispered.
The boot popped free.
Alton leaned back, satisfied. “That’s how it’s done.”
They played round after round. The shark snapped at Wells. It snapped at Trey twice more. Alton got cocky and lost three pieces in one bite. Each clack of the jaws sent them laughing harder, the game becoming less about winning and more about daring each other closer to the teeth.
The drinks made the room warmer. The paneling seemed darker. The lamp above the table threw a golden circle over the shark, over their hands, over the little scattered pieces of junk they kept winning and losing. Somewhere between turns, Wells noticed how the light made everything look strange. The blue plastic pieces gleamed like artifacts. The shark’s open mouth looked deeper than it should have. The gaff hook felt heavier in his hand.
Trey noticed it too.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Trey said, quieter now. “Whole game’s about reaching into danger and pulling something out.”
Alton snorted. “Man, it’s about not getting bit.”
“No,” Wells said, staring at the shark. “Trey’s got a point. You reach in, you take the risk, and if you’re steady enough, you come away with something.”
Alton looked between them. “You two getting philosophical over a toy shark now?”
Trey smiled, but his eyes stayed on the game. “Maybe it’s not just junk in there.”
The basement hummed.
Wells reset the shark for the final round. All thirteen pieces went back inside the mouth. The jaws stretched wide, white teeth curved around the pile. The rubber band tightened beneath the plastic body. Everything waited.
“Winner takes all,” Wells said.
Alton nodded. “Fine.”
Trey leaned forward. “One at a time. No rushing.”
Wells went first. He drew out a barrel.
Alton took the anchor.
Trey removed the tire.
The shark stayed open.
Again and again, they took turns, suddenly serious. The jokes faded. The basement felt like a ship cabin under deep water, sealed away from the rest of the world. Their hands moved through yellow lamplight. Their reflections shimmered faintly in the empty bottles. The shark waited with its mouth open, patient and hungry.
Wells pulled another piece free.
Alton followed.
Trey’s hook dipped into the mouth, searching for one of the last pieces. His knuckles brushed the plastic teeth but did not press them. He held his breath. Wells and Alton watched.
The hook caught.
Trey lifted.
The piece came loose.
The jaws did not snap.
Trey placed the final bit of junk on the table.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Alton exhaled. “No bite.”
Wells grinned slowly. “We beat the shark.”
Trey sat back, the lamplight turning his face warm and golden. “Together.”
That word settled into the room more heavily than the laughter had. Together. It felt right in the paneled basement, surrounded by old carpet, cheap drinks, static, and the little plastic shark that had tested them all evening. The game had started as a joke, a movie tie-in, a silly thing Wells had dragged downstairs to pass the time. But now the table looked like a trophy display. Thirteen pieces of junk. Three empty bottles. One defeated shark.
Alton raised his drink. “To Wells, Trey, and Alton. Shark hunters.”
Wells lifted his bottle. “To steady hands.”
Trey clinked his against theirs. “To not letting go when the jaws get close.”
They drank.
The TV flickered. The basement light buzzed. The shark sat silent on the table, mouth still open, teeth exposed, beaten for now.
But before they packed it away, Wells picked up the gaff hook one last time and turned it between his fingers.
“Sunday prompt’s gonna love this,” he said.
Trey laughed. “Sharks, Jaws, and three guys in a basement?”
Alton leaned back against the couch, smiling. “Sounds like a classic.”
And in that warm, wood-paneled room, with the night pressing dark against the small windows, the three of them knew one thing for certain: the shark had snapped, the game had tried them, and they had come through it together. Solid. Laughing. Golden in the dim basement light.
The shark snapped, the basement roared, and the bros held the line together. One game, one table, one lesson: Gold wins when brothers move as one. Join the Golden Army. Play hard. Bond harder. Stay golden. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @alton-gold77 and @hero21us
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
One Stroke at a Time
Coach said the room needed “a little more Gold.”
So naturally, Wells showed up shirtless, smirking, and covered in enough metallic paint to make the whole Training Facility stop and stare.
The wall was supposed to be the focus.
It was not.
Roller in hand, boots planted, white shorts ruined beyond saving, Wells turned a simple maintenance job into a full Golden Army pin-up moment. Every streak of paint, every flex, every slow pass across the wall made one thing clear:
When Wells paints something gold, it stays gold.
Pick up the brush, bro. The Golden Army always has room for one more coat of Gold. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Locker Room Rules: Bros Before Towels
Training’s over. Shirts are off. And the steam in the Golden Army locker room? Not from the showers. That’s just Wells and Alton throwing heat.
Alton leans back on the bench, legs spread like he owns the airspace. Wells walks past, gold tights still clinging, hat backwards, grin loaded. “Little slow on those sprints today, bro,” Wells chirps, tossing his towel with sniper aim.
Alton catches it. “Little loud in those tights,” he fires back. “You training or advertising?”
Wells shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. Abs pop. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it. If you don’t… stretch until you look like you do.”
Alton laughs, toeing off his cleats. “Bold talk for someone who nearly slipped during thrusts.” Wells winks. “Slipped? Nah. I was sliding into dominance.”
They both crack up. One Bro flexes, the other fake-faints. Locker room rhythm, part roast, part ritual. Muscle, sweat, and banter, louder than the speaker system.
Alton checks his reflection. Adjusts his compression shorts. “We showerin’ or doing round two?” Wells grabs his water. “Let’s get clean. Then get filthy again later .”
Locker rooms aren't for changing — they're for choosing. Confidence. Brotherhood. Gold. Step in, contact out recruiters: @polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-166 @franco-gold94
Featuring: @alton-gold77
