#offsidestory

The Golden Chalice hummed with low music and warm light. Wells leaned against the bar, gold tank top clinging to his chest, sweat catching the glow. WELLS 58 sat in black across the front, bold and unmistakable. He laughed easily, loose from a couple of drinks, shoulders relaxed for once.

Then the room shifted.

Coach stood at the entrance.

Still. Black-clad. Watching.

Wells felt it before he fully registered it, the weight of that attention, familiar and grounding. He turned, grin faltering just a fraction as their eyes met across the room.

Coach moved closer, presence cutting through the noise. They ended up side by side at the bar, close enough that Wells could feel the heat from him.

“You’ve been training well,” Coach said quietly. Not praise. Assessment.

Wells straightened without thinking. “I’ve been doing what you told me.”

A pause. Then, “It shows.”

The words landed heavier than any compliment.

Coach’s hand came to rest on Wells’ shoulder, bare, deliberate, steady. Not a pull. Not a shove. Just enough to correct his posture. Wells felt his chest lift, spine align, breath slow.

He didn’t move away.

They left the pub together without discussing it. The alley behind the building was narrow, damp, lit by a single hazy streetlight. Mist hung low, the air quieter here.

They stopped a few feet apart.

Coach stood tall in black. Wells faced him in gold, chin lifted, heart beating harder than it ever did on the field.

No one spoke.

Coach stepped in first.

The kiss was controlled. Still. Brief, but charged. No hands wandering, no rush. Just contact, intentional and restrained, like a line crossed with full awareness.

Coach lingered for a minute, both of the, still hugging and holding each other.

Coach pulled back almost immediately.

“This is wrong,” he said, voice steady but tight. “I shouldn’t do this with someone I’m training.”

Wells stood there, stunned, breathing hard, gold fabric rising and falling against his chest. He didn’t argue. Didn’t apologize. Just absorbed the moment as it settled into him.

Behind him, Coach turned slightly away, already pulling himself back into control.

Coach stepped back in the alley, footsteps measured. He spoke, barely loud enough to carry, he spoke more to himself than to Wells.

“That kind of tension doesn’t come from nowhere.”

He didn’t look back.

Wells remained under the streetlight, alone now. The mist thickened. His breathing slowed. Whatever had shifted didn’t feel like loss, it felt like alignment.

Gold against the dark. Grounded. Changed. Wells was still in awe over the unexpected kiss and wondered what would happen at their next training session.

Coach’s silhouette faded deeper into the alley behind him.