Once a Nerd Ch. 09

He nods, returning to what's left of his luggage. I pop a pair of earbuds in and send the call through. Sammy usually answers on the third or fourth ring, and this time is no different. He grumbles through the line, "hey."

It's like John ceases to exist. "What crawled up your ass? That's my job."

Sam huffs, and I can imagine the little smile he tries to fight off his face. "Grading shitty papers for a Composition and Rhetoric course. I swear, it's like twenty assignments written by you."

"Damn, twenty A++'s?"

This earns a real laugh, and my chest tightens at the hearty, unrestricted sound. "God, I wish. English wasn't your best subject, Dean."

"Hey, I worked your ass off in that class."

He laughs again, and is it possible to fall more in love with someone every time they laugh? "Stop talking about my ass. It's in recovery."

"Enjoy the break while it lasts, Sammy."

"Ugh, don't make it sound like a threat. I'll never tell you where I live."

"You don't have to tell me, I have my ways."

There's a pause, and when Sammy speaks again, his voice shakes with the remnants of a withheld laugh. "You're not...nearly as cool as you think you are. That was so cheesy, Dean."

Grinning, I tip my head back and close my eyes. "You're all talk. I know you're missin' me, I can always hear it in your voice."

"...it's only been a week." He says quietly, and that's not a denial. I stiffen at the vulnerable tone, glancing at my phone's screen. My heart's suddenly a hummingbird in my chest, fluttering. I have to resist grabbing myself there in an attempt to quiet the arrhythmia.

"Week's a long time. You can say it, right? You'll get me through the rest of the month if you tell me you miss me." I don't realize I've dropped my voice into something low and suggestive until a bitten-off noise comes through the receiver. Ah, fuck, phone sex would be so—

"I...do miss you."

Those simple words flood me with a bright, robust warmth. It's like my blood's been replaced by the bubbling water in a jacuzzi. I think it's easier for Sam to be honest when he's alone, when I'm not standing right in front of him. It's easier for him to speak truths into the quiet solitude of his apartment. Maybe he's even pretending I'm not on the other line, and he's only being honest with himself. Whatever the case, it's like the ultimate gift, a precious reward for all my efforts. I groan from the back of my throat, dropping my forearm across my eyes.

"Goddamn, I miss you too."

"It's only been a week." He repeats, laughing softly. "Anything interesting happen today?"

"Oh—" I suddenly remember I'm not alone in this room, and John is making a valiant effort to mind my privacy. "Shit, yeah. I got a roommate."

After three weeks of nightly phone calls, just as sexually charged as that one, John finally musters the courage to ask about it. I wouldn't say we've gotten close, but we're comfortable enough. We acknowledge each other in shared classes, leave the dorms together in the morning, and make amicable conversation in the evenings. I've kept an eye on him during that time. He lives up to his bland caricature, not overly friendly with anyone. He's polite, but keeps to himself. I'm wrapping up my phone call with Sam, not bothering to disguise the whine in my voice: "Come on, just lay the phone on your pillow, I wanna hear you while you fall asleep."

"What are we, fucking middle-schoolers?" He scoffs.

"You know, that was only a few years ago for—"

"Finish that sentence, and I'll never pick up your call again."

Clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, I let it go. "Fine, but at least tell me you love me."

"...goodnight, Dean."

"I love you, baby." I coo.

He hangs up with an embarrassed grunt, and I pop the buds out of my ears to return them to their case. John, who'd been halfway typing up an assignment on his second-hand MacBook, isn't subtle in his side-eyeing. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the air stiff with questions he's hesitant to ask, he finally breaks: "Um, is that...your girlfriend?"

Wow, someone promote this guy to Head Detective.

"Nah." I flash a roguish smile at him. "Sam's a guy."

I'm not ashamed of my relationship with Sam, but it's something I'll leak strategically. If it becomes news, I'm the fucking reporter. From what I've observed of John, he's not the type to spread a person's business or participate in gossip. Honestly, I just want someone discreet to gush with, and John's stuck in a room with me for the next ten months. He straightens in his seat, blinking big, surprised eyes. "O-Oh, wow. I-I mean—! Ah, sorry, I didn't mean to sound...insensitive. You just seem..."

"Forcefully straight?"

John coughs a laugh. "Yeah, sorry. I was just trying to make conservation."

"You're fine, dude. I could've just said 'yes' when you asked."

"How long have you...been together? Does he go here?"

"Since January, and nah, he goes to Berkeley. He's on a PhD track for Literature, he wants to teach there."

"Geez, so you're both crazy busy, huh?"

"God it's fucking killing me. I'd give up my left nut to see him."

"I can tell." John mutters, strangely seriously. Instead of looking at me, his gaze is fixed on the corner of his desk. "We don't know each other very well, but you're totally different when you're on the phone with...him. Like, there's nothing else going on in the entire world."

"Catch."

He lifts his face just in time to see my phone sailing across the room. With a squawk, he scrambles to catch it. On the screen, it's that aforementioned picture, the one to see me through a handful of desperate wank sessions crammed in a corner stall of the community showers. He looks like a goddamn model in that picture, and John's mouth makes a shocked little 'O' shape. "Wow, he's—"

"Ugh, the sexiest creature to walk this fucking Earth?" I groan.

"Well, if I said that, I don't think you'd let it slide. But, he's very...handsome. He definitely looks too smart for you."

"He is. Keep it on the low for me, but if anyone asks, I'm taken."

John hocks my phone back with another laugh. "Sure."

—

One month and a week and a half.

That's how long it takes to become a starting quarterback for the Bulldogs.

Kneeling on the turf after Friday evening's practice, Coach Nelson is backhanding a clipboard as he reviews the highs and lows of everyone's effort. We all listen attentively, because his word is the one to give and take away those coveted positions. Despite it being late in the day in November, it's sweltering and thick with testosterone. My teammates are still working to get their breath under control, sweat burning our eyes and sticking clothes to our skin.

"Saunders!"

"Yes, Coach!"

"Congratulations, you're off the bench."

It comes as no surprise to anyone. I don't bite back a vicious grin, and it's not exactly the heartwarming expression of victory you'd see in 'Remember the Titans.' There's this...visceral, barbaric feeling associated with winning, being the best. When using your body, whether it's athletics or back-alley scraps, that feeling is inflated into something monstrous. Probably a primal reflex, overcoming death daily with your bare hands. It certainly feels of savage origin as it pulses under my skin. My core is hot and tight. My head is light. My nerves hum with an undercurrent of electric satisfaction. I feel like fighting. Fucking. Something to cement myself on top of another, weaker person.

Fired up as I am, it's...a good thing Sam's an hour away. If he were on campus, I wouldn't let this feeling burn out. I'd hunt him down like tonight's fucking dinner. I wouldn't have the decency or sense to find a private place, just the first empty room that locks. He'd panic over getting caught, begging me to wait, but he's so weak to pleasure. It wouldn't take much cajoling to have him bent over a desk or sink, that prizewinning ass milking my cock like it's got a mind of its own. Sammy's smooth, toned back bowed with white-out pleasure, fucking stupid with how good I'll make him feel. God, what about sex right after a winning game—

That's the thought to overwrite adrenaline with clarity. Coming back to myself, there's the congratulatory cheers and claps on the back from my teammates. There's only one downside to this:

"It's on Kappa Sigma tonight, boys!"

Well, fuck.

While there's no excuse stupid or insignificant enough to throw a rager, it'd cause too many problems if I skipped out on one thrown in my honor. Maintaining respect and popularity is almost a political game. You have to make appearances, be willing to kiss a couple babies. I have to show up, outdrink, outclass, and nurture the fragile connections with my peers. Teammates, especially. If they don't respect me, or at least fear me if it comes down to that, we'll be fucking trash on the turf.

It's Saturday, and Coach Nelson is more than aware he's coaching a college team—D1 or not. He delivered this news on the cusp of a rest day, no practice or classes. Fresno State has over thirty fraternities and sororities, and the chapter housing for the IFC is conveniently linked to the stadium by one little street. So, it's locker rooms, then an immediate brisk walk to liver failure. It's already after eight. I'd normally be settling in for my much-anticipated call with Sam, and I'm struggling to swallow my irritation over missing it. Sure, I can still call him, but it's not like I'd be able to dedicate the attention he deserves.

Begrudgingly, I shoot him a text before disrobing for the showers.

"I can't call at the normal time :( going to an obligatory frat party, BUT I have news! Ily and I miss you, pls tell me about ur day and send nudes :("

I don't wait for an immediate reply, as he usually doesn't reply right away. If he did, I'd be rooted lockerside exchanging sad, desperate messages back and forth. Peeling out of damp gear, grateful for freedom from it, I make the quick beeline to the big, white hall of shower heads. It's a nice fucking lockeroom, night and day to the facilities of a backwater high school that hasn't seen a renovation since the mid eighteenth century. But, the communal showers are still something you'd get in prison, just cleaner. Dick, balls, and ass galore. If you'll remember, I had almost no interest in dick and balls before they were attached to Sam. That's still very much the case. Like a hive mind, my teammates greet me with a round of uproarious barking.

It's a thing, apparently. We're the Bulldogs, so we bark. I bark back on the way to my designated head, because I'm not an antisocial asshole. Parked between two teammates I'm particularly close with, as the game demands, Jalyn Cahill on the left, Max Finnus on the right. RB and WR respectively. Jalyn is on the shorter side, stocky, with a core like iron to withstand a beating. He's considered a power back, so trying to get him off his feet is like trying to tip over an F150 with your hands and weight alone. Max is practically a cookie-cut WR. He's got an inch of height on me, whip-thin, and hands like fucking bear paws. He's one of the fastest guys on the team. Or any team in a fifty mile radius. Dude could lap me for days.

"Thank Christ Nelson made you a starter before the season kicks up, Saunders." Max groans, eyes pinched to avoid shampoo blistering them.

"It's a good thing he's so hard to please. It's why we've got so many solid guys."

Jaylin scoffs, scrubbing his underarms like they've offended him. I'd never say it unprovoked, but my man's B.O. could knock a lesser man out. He already knows it, hence the prescription-strength deodorant. "Dean, please. It's fucking insulting when you try n' act humble. You should've seen your face when Coach announced it, it's like you...Joker-ed some poor cunt."

"Joker-ed?"

"Yeah, like the Joker. Heath, not Joauqin."

"So, insane. Why not Joaquin?" I snort.

"No, no, just...evil? I mean that as a compliment, honestly. Not Joaquin because you're made to feel bad for the dude, and I don't feel fuckin' bad for you. Heath's Joker just had that dog in him."

Max carries on, choosing not to address my place on the 'Most Evil' scale. "I literally cannot wait to blow off some steam tonight, man. You know how people go out saying, like, 'I wanna get buzzed, but I don't wanna overdo it! I wanna be able to walk home and see straight!'? Nah, nah. I wanna pass out in a pile of vomit, Uber me to the goddamn ER if you have to. I wanna still be tipsy when I wake up on Monday. I need this."

"Jesus Christ!" I laugh at the image. Hard pass.

"I just wanna get laid." Jaylin whines.

"What happened to your girl?" Max asks over my head, and it sort of pisses me off that anyone's able to do anything over my head. "Uh, Sha...kira?"

"What the fuck do you think happened, Finnus? If we're not in class, we're right goddamn here. If we're not here, we're crashed out or at the gym. She dumped me because I don't have time for dates and shit. Said she felt like she was dating my shadow or some bullshit."

"Damn, man, I didn't know. You dated in high school, right?"

Jaylin's darker than sin, but he's scrubbing himself hard enough to have red blooming through. "I'd like to see you, or anyone on this team, hold down a steady relationship. It's fucking impossible unless she's down way, way bad."

"I bet Mr. Monster Cock over there wouldn't have a problem!" Comes the chortling answer four heads down, a linemen named Shawn Kelsey. He's more a linemen in name than size, as anyone in here wouldn't have a problem tackling the dude on his ass. I don't love the nickname, but it's not inaccurate.

"Dean's probably got bitches in a queue. 'Take a number, ma'am, we'll call you when ready!'"

"Seriously," Max eyeballs my soft dick with a mix of envy and amazement. "How many puppies and orphans did you rescue in your last life?"

"It's not all it's cracked up to be." That's...mostly a lie. "If I get hard too fast, it feels like I'll black out."

"That's a brag, not a fucking problem, Saunders!"

With showers wrapping up, we find towels to keep from advertising our junk more than necessary and return to designated locker stalls. I knot the cotton at my hip and snatch my phone from the top shelf of my locker. If I'm being honest, Jaylin's comments about maintaining a relationship left a bad taste in my mouth. I knew the reality of it going in, even if Sam thought I was off in some la-la-land. I knew it'd be hard to see each other. I knew we'd be fucking busy. But, I was only thinking about it two-dimensionally. If I can prove how serious I am to him, it's all rainbows and butterflies down the line. Between the two of us, I'm definitely the one with more of an...appetite.

But, what about Sam's...desires? What if he starts to feel lonely, horny? What if he's seduced by some other bastard in his time of need, while I'm not around? Would he tell me? He...would, right? Sam's so fucking softhearted, he wouldn't even let me kill the spiders we'd find in the house. There's no way he'd—

Unless he thinks I'm getting my dick wet without telling him.

Fortunately, for the sake of my crumbling confidence, there are three replies from Sam. I unlock my phone like a man possessed. There's a typed message at the top, an image, and another typed message below it. My eyes zero in on the picture, and it's ironic that we were just discussing my risk of unconsciousness should I pop a boner too suddenly. "Jesus Fuck—!" I hiss under my breath, ripping my teeth into my knuckles. He actually...fucking did it.

Sam sent me a nude. Sort of.

It's like...something a girl would take, which makes sense considering I fuck him like one, but how'd he even know how to...arrange himself? Has he taken pictures like this before? Sent them to ex's or flings? I have to remind myself he's not a virgin, nor a boomer. He was only taking the moral high ground with me, specifically. He's naked as the day he was born, on a bed, in a room that's mostly dark save the aurelian glow of a bedside lamp. I recognize it as his bedroom from previous FaceTimes. His chest is pressed to the bed, but he's on his knees, ass lifted. He must've had his phone extended in front of himself, because it doesn't catch his face at all—only a few curls tousled across his brow.

The knobs of his slender shoulders, the slope of his sexy back, and the fuckable rounds of his ass in the background. There's a delicate flush glazing his skin, a starburst of darkened freckles in the midpoint of his spine. It's not a crude picture of his dick or asshole, but it's goddamn erotic. Exactly the type of picture I'd expect Sam to take, exactly the type of picture to have me lightheaded and boldly tenting a towel.

A picture like this, knowing it was taken and sent with me in mind, makes it so, so easy to insert myself in it. The longer I stare at it, the easier it is to imagine myself there with him, behind him. The lockeroom melts away, and I'm kneeling on his bed, fisting bruises into his plush hips. The back of his creamy thighs are sticky and twitching, and his eyes are fuzzy with anticipatory tears through a mess of dark hair, catching mine over his shoulder. It's the expression he makes when his belly is burning and clamped with need, dick drooling into the sheet, desperate for my cock. He's always putting up a front, acting cool and unaffected when others are around. When we're alone like that, I want to completely break him down.

I'd massage the head of my cock against his soft, warm hole until he's fucking sobbing for it, driving his hips back like a bitch in heat. "Dean, fuck, please!"

"Please what, baby? Say it like you mean it."

He'd be ripe with embarrassment. "Nngh, please, don't...make me say it!"

God, sliding into him those first few inches? Feeling his pliant body spread around my girth? The suction of his tight, wet insides is fucking otherworldly. His eyes would probably roll back, rosebud mouth dropping around a choked-off sound. It's been so long, he might even cum off the first thrust. I'd make him thank me for it, too, or maybe he'd be so delirious, he'd sing my praises without being asked.

What I wouldn't give to—

"Christ, Saunders, you trying to waste a nut before we get there? What the fuck are you lookin' at, man?"

I shock out of the daydream. Marcus, a TE, is scrutinizing me from two stalls down, brows lifted to a neat, buzzed hairline. I don't intend it to come out as hostile as it does, but: "Mind your fuckin' business or join the queue."

He sobers up at the tone, lifting his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "My bad, my bad, shit."

Erection halfway murdered, I return my attention to the thread. I at least have enough brain cells to read Sam's written messages. The first one reads: "Sorry if this looks stupid, I don't take pictures like this."

The second one reads: "Congratulations on becoming a starter, 1+1=2 so I figured that was the news. I'm proud of you, have fun. You deserve it."

"Fuck." My chest is throbbing. It's Saturday night. Instead of this useless party, I could find a way to make the hour drive to see him. I'm fucking aching to see him, actually, in more places than my balls. I miss him so goddamn much, it feels like it's eating me alive. Patience, patience, patience. I'm not there yet. I'm not at the tippy top of the totem pole. If I don't attend shit like this, it'll bite me in the ass. I type up a hasty reply and slam my phone on its face so I can focus on dressing.

Reply: "I'm going to fuck the absolute shit out of you, Sam."

If you've been to one sloppily organized rager, you've been to 'em all. For those who enjoy that type of environment, I'm sure the consistency is appreciated. It's not that I don't enjoy it, but lately, there are far better uses for my time. As a herd, we make the twenty minute walk from the stadium's lockeroom to the Kappa Sigma house. The closer we get, I can feel basslines pounding through the soles of my feet as if the house had sprouted roots underground. It might be held at Kappa Sigma, but it looks like the occupants of every other chapter are weaving about like drunken ants.