#gaycoded

By the time the lights softened at Scooter’s Roller Palace, most of Mississauga had already started heading home. Wells still wondered why Coach Stone had wanted to go to the suburbs of Toronto to hit a roller rink, considering they could have just gone to the Terrace on Mutual St, rather than driving out to Mississauga on the Q.E.W.

The rink still glowed like a secret. Amber bulbs burned along the walls. The disco ball turned slowly over the polished floor. The last song of the night rolled through the speakers with that warm late-1970s rhythm: bass low, strings smooth, drums steady enough to keep wheels moving even when the crowd had thinned.

Wells stood near the rail, lacing his quad skates tighter. He looked made for the decade: dark feathered hair, open-collar shirt, fitted satin jacket, flared trousers catching the gold from the rink lights. Every line of him seemed relaxed, but Coach Stone knew better. Wells was always measuring the room. Always holding control in his shoulders, his jaw, his hands.

Coach Stone waited beside him, broad and calm, dressed in a dark track jacket with gold trim, snug athletic tee, fitted flares, and skates worn like he had owned the floor before Wells ever arrived. He said nothing. He only pushed off.

Wells followed.

The first lap was slow. Wheels whispered over wood. The snack bar lights dimmed behind them. A few couples coasted near the far wall, not touching too much, not looking too long, carrying the careful silence men learned in places like this. The kind of silence where a glance could say more than a hand ever dared.

Coach Stone stayed half a pace ahead.

Wells matched him.

Around the curve, their shoulders nearly brushed. The disco ball scattered gold across their shirts, their arms, the floor beneath them. Coach Stone adjusted his line just enough to make Wells correct his balance. Wells did. Smooth. Clean. Instinctive.

The next lap came easier.

The rink emptied further. The music lowered. The night outside pressed dark against the windows, but inside, everything still shone: chrome railings, rental skates, varnished floor, gold light sliding over muscle and fabric.

Coach Stone finally slowed near the centre line. Wells rolled beside him, steady now, moving with him rather than behind him. No lesson needed naming. Balance. Trust. Rhythm. Control. The same things Coach Stone taught on the field, translated into circles beneath a disco ball.

Their last lap began just before curfew.

No crowd watched. No one cheered. Just two men gliding in quiet formation, close enough for heat, far enough for the decade. Wells kept his eyes forward, but his smile gave him away. Coach Stone saw it reflected in the dark glass.

When the final song faded, they rolled back to the benches.

The rink attendant called closing time.

Wells loosened one skate, then looked up as Coach Stone held out his jacket. The gesture was simple. Too simple. Warm fabric. Gold trim. A hand waiting a second longer than necessary.

Wells took it.

Outside, the parking lot was cool and nearly empty, the last cars pulling away from Royal Windsor Drive. Coach Stone’s ride waited under a yellow streetlamp.

Wells did not ask where they were going.

He already knew.

The last lap was over.

The real lesson was waiting back at Coach Stone’s place.