The Case of the Missing Jockstrap
Wells knew the Golden Army locker room had rules.
Hydrate after training.
Wipe down the benches.
Do not leave cleats in the middle of the floor unless he wanted Coach Stone to appear behind him like a disappointed fitness demon.
Do not argue with the whistle.
Do not pretend leg day had gone “fine” when his calves were shaking like democracy under pressure.
And, most importantly, do not touch another bro’s gear without asking.
That rule was not written anywhere.
It did not need to be.
It was sacred.
So when Wells came back from the showers with a towel low around his waist, skin still hot from the water, hair damp, shoulders loose after a brutal training session, he expected to find the usual wreckage inside his locker.
Gold shorts.
Socks.
Compression shirt.
Training tape.
The faint heroic disaster of a man who had worked hard enough to leave evidence.
Instead, he froze.
His jockstrap was gone.
Wells stared into the locker.
Then down at the bench.
Then back into the locker.
Then under the towel pile.
Then inside one cleat, because apparently this was the point in the investigation where dignity became optional.
Nothing.
His black Under Armour jockstrap had disappeared.
Wells narrowed his eyes.
“No,” he said softly.
The locker room was nearly empty now. The rest of the team had cleared out after training, leaving only the low hum of ventilation, the distant hiss of the showers, and the smell of sweat, soap, rubber flooring, and warm metal lockers.
Wells checked his bag.
Nothing.
He checked the laundry cart.
Nothing.
He checked the bench again, slower this time, as if the jockstrap might have felt guilty and returned itself.
Still nothing.
Then he saw movement at the far end of the locker room.
Coach Stone.
Black COACH cap low.
Whistle against his chest.
Black athletic shirt tight across his shoulders.
Walking toward the side door.
Too quickly.
Coach never rushed. Coach moved with purpose. There was a difference. But right now, he had the stiff, controlled stride of a man leaving the scene of something he absolutely intended to call “equipment management.”
Wells watched him disappear through the door that led to his office.
The office door clicked almost shut.
Almost.
Wells looked back at his empty locker.
Then at the door.
Then at the towel around his waist.
He tightened it.
“This ends now.”
He crossed the locker room barefoot, towel secured, shoulders squared, still damp from the shower and still warm from training. Each step made the floor stick faintly beneath his feet. By the time he reached Coach’s office, his suspicion had settled into something sharper.
Something amused.
Something dangerous.
The office door was nearly closed.
From inside came the faint sound of a drawer sliding shut.
Then silence.
Wells knocked once.
“Coach?”
A pause.
Too long.
“Yes?”
Wells raised an eyebrow.
“Can I come in?”
Another pause.
“Why?”
Wells smiled despite himself.
That was not the answer of an innocent man.
He pushed the door open.
Coach Stone stood behind his desk, perfectly composed.
Too composed.
One hand rested against the desktop. The other hovered close to the top drawer.
The office was small, clean, controlled. Training schedules pinned to the wall. A whistle rack. Clipboards stacked square. A laundry basket tucked beside the filing cabinet, half-hidden behind a stack of cones.
And beneath the clean order of the room, something else.
A smell.
Familiar.
Post-training.
Warm.
Unmistakably his.
Wells stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Coach’s eyes followed the motion.
“Wells.”
“Coach.”
“You need something?”
“My jockstrap is missing.”
Coach’s face did not move.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Very.”
“Check your locker.”
“I did.”
“Check under the bench.”
“I did.”
“Check your bag.”
“I did.”
“Then file an equipment report.”
Wells took one slow step closer.
“Coach.”
“Yes?”
“Why does your office smell like leg day?”
Coach’s jaw tightened.
“Locker rooms have smells.”
“This is your office.”
“Adjacent environment.”
Wells looked at the drawer.
Coach did not move.
That was somehow worse.
Wells pointed.
“Open it.”
Coach lifted his chin.
“That sounded like an order.”
Wells folded his arms.
“That sounded like evidence.”
For one long second, neither of them moved.
The air between them tightened.
Then Coach sighed.
One slow, controlled, deeply annoyed sigh.
He opened the drawer.
Inside sat Wells’ missing jockstrap.
Black. Under Armour. Unwashed.
Folded badly enough to prove it had not been handled for laundry.
Wells stared at it.
Then at Coach.
Coach looked back with the calm authority of a man caught in possession of contraband who still believed the room belonged to him.
Wells slowly smiled.
Coach pointed at him.
“Do not.”
Wells smiled wider.
“Coach.”
“No.”
“Is that mine?”
“Yes.”
“In your drawer.”
“Yes.”
“After disappearing from my locker.”
Coach closed the drawer with one firm push.
“It was unsecured.”
“It was in my locker.”
“Unsecured.”
“The door was closed.”
“Clearly not enough.”
Wells took another step forward.
“You took my Under Armour jockstrap.”
Coach’s expression stayed flat.
“I secured equipment left in a compromised condition.”
Wells laughed once.
“A compromised condition.”
“Yes.”
“What condition was that?”
Coach’s eyes moved over him, quick but not quick enough.
Towel.
Chest.
Shoulders.
Thighs.
Back to his face.
“Distracting.”
Wells stopped smiling for half a second.
Then the smile came back slower.
“Distracting.”
Coach’s voice stayed even.
“After heavy training, certain items become a focus hazard.”
“A focus hazard.”
“Yes.”
Wells leaned one hand on the edge of the desk.
“For who?”
Coach said nothing.
That was answer enough.
The silence stretched. The faint hum of the building filled it. Somewhere outside the office, a locker door shut in the distance.
Wells looked at the drawer again.
Then back at Coach.
“You were inspecting it.”
“Correct.”
“With your nose?”
Coach’s jaw flexed.
“Wells.”
“That was not a denial.”
“It was an assessment.”
“Of structural integrity?”
Coach’s mouth twitched.
“Among other things.”
Wells breathed out slowly.
The towel suddenly felt very low.
The office suddenly felt very small.
He glanced toward the laundry basket beside the filing cabinet.
It was not empty.
Black waistbands.
Gold straps.
White fabric.
A few team numbers.
Wells stared.
Coach followed his gaze.
“Those are not relevant.”
Wells turned back to him.
“Coach.”
“No.”
“Is that a collection?”
“No.”
“Team laundry overflow?”
“Temporary storage.”
“Personal review?”
Coach’s eyes narrowed.
“Careful.”
Wells smiled.
“There it is.”
Coach stepped around the desk.
The room changed when he moved. It always did. Coach had that effect. He did not need to raise his voice. He did not need to crowd. He just entered the space fully, and the space adjusted.
He stopped in front of Wells.
Close.
Not touching.
Close enough that Wells could smell clean soap over the darker locker-room air.
Close enough that the whistle hanging from Coach’s neck caught the light between them.
Coach looked him up and down once.
Slowly this time.
No pretending.
“You had an excellent session today,” Coach said.
Wells held his gaze.
“Yeah?”
“Hard work. Heavy sweat. Proper effort.”
Coach’s eyes flicked toward the closed drawer.
“That kind of discipline leaves evidence.”
Wells swallowed.
“So this is performance analysis.”
“Exactly.”
“With optional theft.”
“Mandatory containment.”
“And delayed return?”
Coach’s expression did not change.
“Yes.”
Wells blinked.
“Yes?”
“You can retrieve it later.”
Wells’ mouth opened.
Then closed.
Coach’s voice lowered.
“When you come over for your nightly drill session.”
The words landed soft.
Then stayed there.
Wells looked at the drawer.
Then at Coach.
“My nightly drill session.”
“You remember those.”
Wells’ smile tilted, but his voice came out quieter than expected.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Coach stepped closer by half an inch.
“Then consider the item secured until then.”
Wells folded his arms, towel still clinging low around his hips, trying very hard to look offended and not interested.
“You are using my own jockstrap as leverage.”
Coach’s eyes stayed calm.
“I am using unsecured equipment to reinforce discipline.”
“That is not what this is.”
“No?”
“No.”
Coach tilted his head slightly.
“Then file an equipment report.”
Wells stared at him.
He should have argued.
He should have demanded it back.
He should have said something clever enough to win.
Instead, he looked at the closed drawer again.
Then back at Coach.
And smiled despite himself.
“Yes, Coach.”
Coach’s gaze lingered for one second too long.
“Good.”
Wells turned toward the door.
Coach’s voice stopped him.
“Laundry bag.”
Wells looked back.
“What?”
“Everything else goes in your laundry bag.”
Wells nodded toward the drawer.
“And that?”
“That stays here.”
Wells gave a short laugh.
“You’re serious.”
“Always.”
The word should not have done anything.
It did anyway.
Wells stood there, damp and half-dressed, feeling the heat of the shower fade into something else entirely.
Coach did not move.
Neither did Wells.
The unspoken thing between them sat in the office like a fifth wall. Solid. Close. Built from looks across training fields, extra drills after practice, late-night corrections, hands on shoulders held a second too long, the whistle, the voice, the way Coach said his name when nobody else was around.
Wells nodded slowly.
“Everything else goes in the laundry bag.”
“Correct.”
“No detours.”
“No detours.”
“No leaving high-impact training gear unsecured.”
Coach’s mouth twitched.
“Learning already.”
Wells stepped closer to the door, then paused with his hand on the knob.
“One question.”
Coach looked tired already.
“What?”
Wells nodded toward the drawer.
“If I perform well tonight, do I get it back?”
Coach’s eyes did not leave him.
“If you earn it.”
Wells breathed out a laugh.
“Of course.”
“There is a process.”
“There always is.”
Coach’s voice dropped again.
“And Wells?”
Wells stopped fully.
“Yeah?”
“Do not be late.”
Wells looked back over his shoulder.
He should have made a joke.
He almost did.
Instead, he let the smile sit there, small and honest and dangerous.
“Wouldn’t miss drills.”
Coach nodded once.
Dismissal.
Promise.
Warning.
All at once.
Wells left the office and walked back into the locker room.
The air felt cooler there.
Too open.
Too ordinary.
He packed the rest of his gear into his laundry bag with careful attention, tying it shut like he had been personally inspected by fate. His locker looked normal again. Gold shorts. Shirt. Towel. Cleats.
No Under Armour jockstrap.
That, apparently, had been scheduled.
He glanced back toward Coach’s office.
The door was closed.
Behind it, the drawer waited.
The case was not solved.
Not really.
It had been postponed.
That evening, Wells arrived at Coach’s place exactly on time.
Not early.
Not late.
Exactly.
Because Coach noticed things like that.
Wells wore a fitted black training shirt and black spandex compression shorts, the sleek fabric hugging his legs and sitting low enough to make it very clear he had chosen his outfit with care. He carried himself with the expression of a man who had spent the last four hours pretending not to think about a drawer.
Coach opened the door before Wells knocked.
Of course he did.
Black cap.
Fitted black shirt.
Whistle.
And shiny metallic gold shorts, tight and gleaming under the light, leaving absolutely no doubt that Coach had dressed with just as much intent as Wells had.
“Wells.”
“Coach.”
“You’re on time.”
“Didn’t want an equipment violation.”
Coach stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Wells entered.
The door closed behind him.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Coach walked to a desk near the wall, opened a drawer, and removed the black Under Armour jockstrap with the same solemn authority another man might use to present a signed treaty.
Wells stared at it.
Coach held it out.
Then paused.
“Before I return this,” Coach said, “state the lesson.”
Wells looked at him.
“The lesson.”
“Yes.”
Wells folded his arms.
“Do not leave high-impact training gear unsecured.”
“Good.”
“Report directly to laundry after hard sessions.”
“Better.”
“Do not create focus hazards.”
Coach’s eyebrow lifted.
Wells smiled.
“Without permission.”
Coach stepped closer.
“Very good.”
Wells reached for the jock.
Coach lifted it just out of reach.
Wells froze.
Coach’s voice lowered.
“Drills first.”
Wells stared.
Then laughed once, softly.
“Of course.”
Coach’s mouth finally allowed the smallest smile.
“There is a process.”
Wells took one step closer.
“And after?”
Coach’s eyes stayed on him.
“After, if performance is satisfactory, equipment will be released.”
Wells looked at the jockstrap.
Then back at Coach.
“Structural integrity test?”
Coach leaned in just enough for Wells to feel the words more than hear them.
“Endurance.”
Wells’ grin returned.
“Yes, Coach.”
The next morning, Wells returned to the Golden Army locker room freshly showered, relaxed, and wearing the smug calm of a man who had definitely attended his nightly drill session.
Inside his locker, folded neatly on top of his gear, was a note.
EQUIPMENT RETURNED. DISCIPLINE REINFORCED.
Beneath it sat the black Under Armour jockstrap.
Clean.
Folded.
His.
Wells stared at the note for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
From the far end of the locker room, Coach Stone walked past without slowing.
“Wells.”
Wells straightened automatically.
“Coach.”
Coach did not look at him.
“Good work last night.”
The locker room was empty.
There was no one there to hear it.
Somehow that made it worse.
Wells’ ears went hot.
Coach reached his office door, opened it, then paused.
“And Wells?”
Wells looked over.
“Yeah?”
Coach’s mouth twitched.
“Laundry bag.”
Wells smiled despite himself.
“Yes, Coach.”
The office door closed.
Wells looked back at the note.
Then at the jockstrap.
Mystery solved.
Mostly.
The missing gear had been found.
The culprit had been identified.
The evidence had been secured.
The discipline had been reinforced.
And somewhere behind Coach Stone’s office door, the archive remained under active investigation.
Discipline is not always loud. Sometimes it is secured in a drawer, tested after hours, and returned only when the lesson has been learned. Train hard, follow protocol, and let the Gold reinforce what belongs. Join the Golden Army. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125