Level 58
The practice field had been transformed overnight. In place of the usual yard lines, a massive, jagged obstacle course snaked across the turf, a "Tough Mudder" type designed by the Golden Armyās elite Polo Drone engineers. It featured towering walls, pits of thick synthetic sludge, and low-hanging electrified grids
I stood at the starting line, my metallic gold kit shimmering under the stadium lights. My gold-and-black trainers were already dug into the starting blocks.
"Wells!"
I looked toward the elevated observation deck. Coach was standing there, looking down at the course with a predatory grin. He was wearing blue compression tights and a red metallic spandex t-shirt with Final Boss printed on it, his silver whistle glinting.
"In honor of Mario Day day, Iāve set up a little 'platforming' for the team, to help everyone prep for the game against the Crimson Frost Giants" Coachās voice boomed over the PA system, dripping with a dark, competitive humor. "But before the rest of the team get a crack at it, I want Wells to set the record. I call this one Level 58. There are no extra lives here, just performance."
I gave him a sharp, cocky nod, my chest expanding as I took a deep, focused breath.
"The rest of the guys are watching from the locker room feed," Coach continued, his voice dropping into that low, private purr. "Don't just finish it, Wells. Dominate it. Show them what a real Golden jock looks like when heās playing for keeps."
The buzzer echoed through the stadiumāa sharp, digital ping that sounded exactly like a coin being collected.
I exploded forward.
The first obstacle was the "Warp Wall" a fifteen-foot vertical curve of polished steel. I hit it at a full sprint, my trainers gripping the surface as I hauled my 220-pound frame up and over in one fluid, muscular motion.
Next was the "Pipes" a series of narrow, rotating balance beams over a pit of freezing water. My "Big Dumb Jock" brain didn't overthink the physics. I just trusted the rhythm of the track. Step. Pivot. Drive. I cleared them with the grace of a machine.
The final stretch was a mud-crawl under a grid of live wires. I dropped into the sludge, the cool muck coating my gold kit, turning the shimmering fabric into something rugged and battle-worn. I clawed through the dirt, my quads burning, my eyes locked on the finish line where Coach was now waiting, having descended from the deck.
I burst through the final tape, sliding to a halt at Coachās feet, drenched in mud but radiating golden power.
Coach looked down at me, his gaze sweeping over my mud-streaked kit. He reached out, his heavy hand landing on my head, his fingers threading through my hair as he hauled me up to my feet. He swung his arm around me and pulled me in close.
"New high score, Wells," Coach whispered, his thumb grazing my mud-flecked jaw. "The team is going to be chasing your shadow all day. But since you finished so fastā¦" He leaned in, his silver whistle brushing my chest. "I think we have time for a Bonus Round back at the condo. Iāve got a few moreā¦ obstaclesā¦ for you to overcome."
I let out a breathless, alpha chuckle, my head empty of everything but the victory. "Lead the way, Coach. I'm ready to level up."
Every day is a game. Every drill is a level. Are you ready to play for the winning team? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-125
