The Choice at the Golden Chalice
By the time Wells reached the Golden Chalice that afternoon, the nerves from his morning run had not faded.
They had settled deeper.
The pub glowed with its usual warm gold light, all polished wood, low voices, and the familiar hum of brotherhood. Wells stepped inside still feeling the echo of Coach Stone’s message in his chest.
Important matter to discuss.
He spotted Coach at a corner table.
Coach Stone was already waiting, broad shoulders squared, hands wrapped around his own glass. Across from him sat another drink, untouched, amber liquid bubbling softly over ice.
Wells slowed when he saw it.
Rye and ginger.
The same drink Wells had ordered for Coach at Woody’s back in Toronto.
That memory hit him hard. The noise, the lights, the easy grin Coach had given him that night. The way something had shifted between them without either of them needing to say it out loud.
Coach looked up.
“Sit down, Wells.”
Wells obeyed, sliding into the chair across from him. His hand closed around the cold glass, but he did not drink yet.
“Coach,” Wells said, trying to keep his voice steady. “What’s going on?”
Coach Stone was quiet for a moment. His eyes stayed on Wells, serious, heavy with something deeper than strategy or training.
“I’m not taking the contract,” Coach said.
Wells blinked.
“The UK one?”
Coach nodded. “Yeah. That one.”
The words landed slowly. Wells had prepared himself for a goodbye, for some careful speech about opportunity and distance and staying strong. Instead, Coach was still there. Still across from him. Still looking at him like Wells was the whole reason the decision had changed.
“I thought you wanted it,” Wells said softly.
“I did,” Coach admitted. “For a while.”
He glanced down at his drink, then back up.
“But then at the match against the Crimson Frost Giants when Red-021 attacked me. And then I saw what happened to you. RED-007 going after you during your concert.” His jaw tightened. “That changed things.”
Wells felt his chest tense at the memory. The crowd. The music. The sudden violence. The red threat cutting through what should have been his moment.
Coach’s voice dropped lower.
“I kept telling myself this was just training. Just teamwork. Just looking after one of my players.” He shook his head. “But it’s not just that anymore.”
Wells forgot about the drink in his hand.
Coach leaned forward.
“You became important to me, Wells. More important than I expected. Somewhere along the way, you may be one of the team's alpha jocks, but you became my boy. My golden boy. My gold”
The words hit Wells harder than any tackle ever had.
Coach did not look away.
“And after seeing you attacked, after knowing how close things came, I realized I couldn’t just walk away. Not from the Army. Not from the team. Not from you.”
For a moment, the pub seemed to fade around them. Wells could hear the ice shift in his glass. He could hear his own breath. He could feel the gold in him rising warm and bright, not like command, but like belonging.
Coach continued, quieter now.
“I want to stay. And I want to ask the Golden Army if they’ll take me on as a coach. Officially. I’ve worked with you. I’ve worked with a lot of the players. They seem to like me. They like training with me. Maybe there’s a place for me here.”
Wells stared at him.
“You want me to ask?”
Coach nodded. “You know them better than I do. You know where to start.”
Wells stood before he could think better of it.
Coach barely had time to rise before Wells crossed the space between them and pulled him into a huge hug. Strong arms locked around Coach, tight and real, all the fear from the morning and all the relief from now crashing together at once.
Coach held him back just as firmly.
Wells pulled away only enough to look at him.
Then he kissed him.
Not long. Not for show. Just enough to say what his voice could not catch fast enough.
When Wells finally stepped back, his grin was bright, golden, and full of pride.
“I’ll see what I can do, Coach.”
Coach smiled then, the tension in him easing for the first time that afternoon.
Wells picked up the rye and ginger and raised it slightly.
“To staying,” he said.
Coach lifted his own glass.
“To my golden boy.”
And in the warm light of the Golden Chalice, Wells knew the morning message had not been the start of a goodbye.
It had been the beginning of something stronger.
Sometimes the Gold does not just call you to train. Sometimes it calls you to stay, to belong, and to protect what matters. Join the Golden Army and find the brotherhood worth choosing. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Mentions: RED-021 @hero21us and RED-007 @polo-drone-767
