TORONTO, SHOWN PROPERLY
Toronto hadn’t changed overnight, but Coach and Wells had.
They dress for daylight with the same care they dressed for night—quieter, heavier, more honest.
Coach moves first. Black winter boots planted with purpose. Tight black jeans cinched by a belt whose buckle carries weight beyond function. A black long sleeved short follows. Over it, a glossy black vinyl puffer that broadens him and catches the light when he shifts. The black baseball cap goes on last, backward, familiar, final.
Wells dresses after. Black winter boots, scuffed and lived in. Light blue jeans tight through the thighs. A navy University of Toronto hoodie—worn soft, earned. Gold baseball cap backward, lighter than Coach’s but aligned. Then the gold puffer jacket, bright against winter gray.
Coach glances once. “You dressed like you belong here.”
Wells lifts his chin. “I do.”
That’s enough.
They take the streetcar south because Wells insists—and because Coach lets him.
Coach stands, wide stance, one hand wrapped around the pole. Wells stays close, shoulder brushing Coach’s arm when the tracks curve. He doesn’t apologize. He lets the movement happen and steadies where he’s allowed to.
Toronto slides past in winter layers: salt-streaked sidewalks, bundled cyclists, steam curling from coffee cups. The streetcar bell cuts through it, sharp, familiar.
Coach taps Wells’ elbow once. Time to get off. Wells moves immediately.
At Harbour Square Park, the wind off Lake Ontario bites clean. Ferries idle at the terminal. The Toronto Islands sit across the water like a promise deferred.
Wells goes straight to the railing.
“Those are the Islands,” he says. “In summer you take the ferry over—Hanlan’s Point.”
Coach follows the line of his finger.
Wells smirks, local and casual. “It’s popular with the gay community. Nude beach too. Or… close enough.”
Coach raises a brow. “You telling me that for information, or permission?”
Wells laughs once, then corrects himself. “Information. Maybe future planning.”
Coach steps just behind him, blocking the wind without comment, like it’s automatic. “Summer,” he says. “Put it on the list.”
Wells glances back. “Bold.”
“Beach tells more truth than bars,” Coach replies.
Wells exhales, fogging the air. “Yeah. Less leather. More honesty.”
Coach’s gaze stays steady. “Clothes or no clothes, I read people better in daylight.”
Wells looks away toward the ferry docks like he’s filing that away for later.
They head north to the University of Toronto. Stone buildings hold the cold. When Varsity Stadium comes into view, Wells slows like his body recognizes it before his mind does.
“That track,” he says.
They walk it together. Snow pushed to the edges. Wells’ stride sharpens—instinctive, practiced.
“First place I learned how to listen to my body,” Wells says. “Also the first place I learned how to ignore it.”
“Coaches,” Coach says.
“Yeah,” Wells answers. Then, quieter, “And me.”
They walk the curve. Wells unconsciously matches Coach’s longer stride, corrects himself once, then lets it stand.
Coach notices. Doesn’t comment. Approval doesn’t always need words.
“You kept discipline,” Coach says. “Lost the noise.”
Wells exhales. “Permission helps.”
Coach’s gaze holds. “I don’t offer what isn’t earned.”
Wells nods, accepting the terms without argument.
They drift west into the Annex. Bookstores, cafés, old houses pressing close like they’ve seen a thousand versions of the same story.
Wells leads Coach into a bookstore on Harbord. Warm air. Paper. Coffee.
“This part’s for my head,” Wells says. “I read to widen my angles.”
Coach watches him move through shelves with athlete focus systems, selection, restraint. Wells hands him a book.
“You’d like this.”
Coach thumbs the pages. “You’re learning how I choose.”
Wells smirks. “Trying to keep up.”
“You are,” Coach says, and the compliment lands because it isn’t sweetened.
Wells pays at the counter before Coach can argue. Coach lets him. Sometimes authority is allowing. They head towards the Village.
Daylight Church Street is honest, rainbow crosswalk scuffed by winter, people moving without pretense.
They stop at Second Cup, Coach gets them coffees.
Coach sits facing the street. Wells angles inward, knee brushing Coach’s boot. He leaves it there.
Men pass and read them correctly. A leather jacket nods at Coach. Coach nods back. Wells gets a softer smile from someone curious, returns it briefly, then looks back to Coach.
“You okay being seen with me like this?” Wells asks quietly.
Coach doesn’t blink. “If I wasn’t, you’d be standing.”
Wells absorbs it. That line lands because it’s true—and because Coach doesn’t say it to impress anyone. They head back out to Church Street.
A leather-jacketed guy nods at Coach. Coach nods back. Hierarchy acknowledged.
A man smiles at Wells. Wells returns it briefly, then looks back to Coach. Choice made.
“You’re visible here,” Coach says.
Wells shrugs. “So are you.”
“Different reasons.”
Wells nods. “Different rules.”
A pup walks past with his handler. Wells’ eyes follow for a heartbeat.
“Curious,” Coach says, calm.
“Observant,” Wells corrects. “I know my place.”
Coach looks at Wells. “Say that again.”
Wells’ voice drops. “I know my place.”
Coach nods once. That’s enough.
They end the day in the Distillery District, brick and iron holding the late-afternoon light. The air smells like yeast and cold stone.
At Mill St. Brew Pub, they sit with heavy beers and solid food. Wells orders for himself. Coach asks what he should drink.
“Maybe something Dark,” Wells says. “You like things that take their time.”
Coach smirks. “You learning how I think?”
“I’m learning how you choose.”
They eat without rushing. The city settles around them.
“You showed me what you wanted me to see,” Coach says as they finish.
Wells meets his eyes. “And?”
Coach leans back, relaxed, certain. “You did well.”
That lands exactly where it’s meant to.
They leave as evening edges in, Toronto humming softer now. Not quieter, settled.
They went back to Wells’ condo as evening settled, no rush, no questions.
The night had started it. The day confirmed it.
Whatever this was, it no longer belonged only to the dark.
The condo is warm when they step in, city winter clinging to their jackets until they shake it off. Wells kicks out of his boots first, then his gold puffer and hoodie, leaving just the sweat of the day and the quiet hum of evening.
Coach drapes his vinyl puffer over the back of a chair—precise, folded once, not tossed. The flannel comes off next, his forearms caught in the last of the low light as he unbuttons it. The heavy belt buckle thunks when he sets it on the dresser, a small sound with intention behind it.
Neither speaks yet. Neither needs to. They’re past that part of the day.
Coach strips down and changes first: shiny wet-look black compression shorts, second-skin slickness catching the light, and a loose gray tank that hangs soft over chest and shoulders. Not performance. Comfort with authority.
Wells watches him for a beat before moving.
He peels off his hoodie and jeans, trades daytime softness for shine—shiny gold compression shorts, bright as signal flare, and a loose white tank that drapes over muscle without apology.
The color coding is accidental only in theory.
Gold and black at night reads differently than it does at bars.
And in the small domestic space between them, neither pretends they don’t see it.
Coach glances once. “Good.”
Wells doesn’t ask what part he meant.
They brush teeth side by side at the bathroom sink, Coach larger in the mirror, stiller, Wells smaller but brighter. Daddy in grayscale, boi in gold. There time in Toronto reflected in miniature, along with the new dynamic that had been unfolding as lines and boundaries changed.
When it’s time for lights out, Coach doesn’t offer to take the couch, after last night. He simply turns toward the bedroom and waits half a beat. Wells follows.
They slide under the covers in their shorts, tanks discarded somewhere in the dark. Both stay in the shiny compression, more erotic than athletic, more tease than training.
They lie on their sides at first, space between them, quiet, breathing steady against the cold outside glass.
“Come here,” Coach murmurs.
Wells shifts back slowly until their bodies meet, spine to chest, gold to black, warmth trading in open currency.
Coach’s arm drapes over Wells’ middle, heavy but not greedy, hand settling just below ribs. Wells’ hand comes up to rest on top of it—quiet confirmation.
No grinding. No moaning. No taking. Just contact and certainty.
“Good day,” Wells says into the pillow.
“Good boy,” Coach answers into his shoulder, low, earned, not ceremonial.
Coach’s voice is low in the quiet of the condo. “Good night, Gold.”
The word lands differently this time.
Wells doesn’t answer right away. He shifts slightly, just enough to turn his head without breaking the moment.
“Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “Is that… a nickname now?”
Coach doesn’t rush the response. He watches Wells the way he does when he’s deciding whether something is worth keeping.
Wells adds, almost sheepish, “I kinda like it. It’s… sweet.”
That gets a reaction, subtle, but real. Coach’s mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. “Sweet isn’t the reason,” Coach says.
Wells tilts his head. “Then what is?”
Coach’s hand settles more firmly at Wells’ middle, grounding and a little possessive.
“Because you stand out,” he says. “Because you hold value. And because you don’t need to be reminded of either, but you deserve to hear it.”
Wells swallows, the weight of that sinking in deeper than he expected. “So,” he says quietly, “it stays?”
Coach leans in just enough for Wells to feel the answer before he hears it. “It stays,” Coach says. “As long as you earn it.”
Wells exhales, smiling into the dark. “Guess I’ll have to.”
Coach hums approval, satisfied. “Sleep, Gold.”
Morning light slips in slow and pale, catching the edge of the bed and the shine of black and gold where they’re tangled in sheets.
Coach shifts first, arm loosening but not leaving Wells right away.
“We’ve got to move,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. “Flight’s early.”
Wells hums, half-asleep. “You always say that like it’s optional.”
Coach exhales a quiet breath that might be a laugh. “Up, Gold.”
The word lands without ceremony this time. No pause. No emphasis. Just fact.
Wells opens his eyes.
For a second he says nothing, just lets it settle. The nickname feels different in daylight. Less charged. More… claimed.
He rolls slightly, just enough to look back at Coach. “You remembered.”
Coach meets his eyes, unbothered. “I don’t forget things I mean.”
Wells smiles into the pillow, smaller than last night but warmer.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
Coach’s hand gives a brief, grounding squeeze at Wells’ side—then he sits up, already shifting back into motion and purpose.
“Coffee,” Coach adds. “Then we pack.”
Wells stretches, gold catching the light again. “Yes, Coach.”
Coach doesn’t correct him.
The name stays. Not because it was declared, but because it fits.
Coffee. Packing. Purpose returns.
“Golden City,” Coach says. “Drills resume tomorrow. Regency Eleven won’t beat themselves.”
Wells grins. “They’re fast.” “We’re faster,” Coach corrects.
Toronto did its work. Now they go back to theirs.
Not every trip is about the city. Some are about who walks beside you. To find out who walks with you, contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94
