Once a Nerd Ch. 11

a/n: I've gone back through and done some editing. The first and seventh chapters got hit with the most edits, so I've re-uploaded them both to Literotica. I tried to keep the overall spirit of the first chapter, but frankly, it was heinous to me and got overhauled.

For this chapter, it's mostly plot—wee bit of smut at the end.

Thank you for all your sincerely kind comments, and I hope you enjoy this one too!

"Thought I missed ya."

He says it as soon as he's in earshot.

John's shoulders droop with visible relief. Casey must recognize Dean's face from the school's roster page or the jumbotron footage, because his eyes light with quick recognition. Dean claps a friendly hand to his roommate's shoulder, but he's not looked away from me for a second. It's smothering. While Casey's sure to put the huge, obvious pieces together at some point, he's too starstruck to do it now. You'd think Dean was already a Hall of Famer. He belts an incredulous laugh, throwing his hands up:

"Dude, hey! Holy shit, that was an amazing fucking game, man! I had no idea you and Sam knew each other."

Right before my eyes, Dean's personality subtly shifts. He's like...one of those holographic trading cards that displays a different image when held at an angle. With Casey, he's more lighthearted, easygoing, and just a touch of ditzy. His expression drops the edge, becoming bright and open. Like me, John's spent a fair amount of time around Dean. He, too, picks up on the change.

"Ah, thanks, man! I was super motivated today, played my fuckin' heart out. Yeah, Sammy and I go way back." When he cuts a look at me, it's the real Dean. Then, he says something that very nearly gets a violent, physical reaction—probably a massive fucking coronary, my heart seizing and deprived of oxygen:

"He taught my English class."

John's a lot less subtle than I hoped he'd be, as he passes a wide-eyed, disbelieving glance between Dean and I. He didn't know. Casey, surprised for a different reason, gawks at me from the side. "Sam, man, why didn't you say?!"

"Well, I was a shit student." Dean laughs. "Sorry, man, I didn't catch your name." He sticks his hand out, and Casey grabs it for a firm, proper shake.

There's a lump the size of a bowling ball in my throat. I'm both hot and clammy, and my hands are starting to shake by my hips. I've refocused my gaze to the stadium's wall over Dean's shoulder, because I can't look him or his roommate in the face. I'd give anything for the ground to split under my feet and swallow me up. John's opinion isn't as much of a concern. He and I don't have a personal relationship, and he's also stuck in a room with Dean every night. Surely, between Dean and I, he has to realize who has the more forceful personality. But, Casey's my friend. Once he figures it out, will he look at me with disgust? Will he distance himself from me?

Belatedly, I realize why he's doing this. It's Dean's way of saying:

Watch me win them over. Watch me make it not matter.

"It's great to meet you, man. Dean."

"Yeah, man, I know who you are!" He laughs. Mutual passion has them getting along like a house on fire. One thing leads to another, and Dean must have to special order his pants—because he's got the biggest balls on Earth.

"Have you guys eaten yet? Wanna grab a bite before you head back?"

Over my cold, dead body: "No, no, I'm sure you want to celebrate with your team. They have to be looking for you."

"Nah," Dean grins, flashing eyes at me. "I told 'em I'd come throw some drinks back later. I asked you to come, so let me at least treat you to dinner before you go."

I tense, expecting it's the straw to break the camel's back. Knowing Dean was the one who asked me to come is as big a red, flashing, neon sign as anything. If Casey caught on, he doesn't show it. He really, really loves football, enough to lose his Sherlockian edge. Unlike me, Casey has no reason to refuse.

"Sounds good to me! I haven't had anything since breakfast, and I don't think Sam's eaten at all yet today."

Jesus fucking Christ, Casey.

"Cool, let me wash up real quick and we'll pick a place. John and I can meet ya there."

John must not have expected the invitation, because his eyebrows climb as he again glances at Dean. Our little quartet splits for the time being, and it's not the relief you'd think. With Casey and I alone, he'll ask questions, and without Dean around to cloud his judgment, he's bound to reach a few conclusions. My stomach turns as we make the trek across the lot, nausea pushing up into my throat. Sure enough—

"Dude! Why didn't you say the literal quarterback asked you to come? You were talking like you didn't know him, but you taught the kid English! What, were you his favorite teacher?"

Kid.

Teacher.

These words are like javelins arcing through the air, piercing me through the back. This is precisely what I was dreading. The questions I have no reasonable answer for. I could've saved myself some trouble by just admitting to our hometown connection, but I didn't anticipate this batshit move from Dean. It's well in his wheelhouse, but I believed he'd be too tied up in obligation to break away. I should've known better. He's so fucking unpredictable, just doing what he wants—

"Sam?"

"Oh, I—"

We've made it to the car. I'm idling by the passenger's door, palm curling the handle, and I don't recall how I got here. My brain is overloaded with half-thoughts, and my bodily systems are flooded with that ever-present anxiety. We climb into our respective sides of the car, and ultimately, it's my continued string of strange reactions that finally snaps the pieces together in Casey's mind. His big hands go slack around the steering wheel, and from my periphery, I can see his mouth dropping as he stares off through the windshield. I strangle my wrist in my lap to give my own hands something to do, and I try to hide the shame in my face behind sweeps of hair.

"Holy...shit."

I can't bring myself to say anything, and he turns to appraise me.

"It's...him? Sam, when—"

He's asking when this all started, because Dean's a teenager.

"This year." It's a gagged admittance, one I can barely squeeze out. 'This year' doesn't make it redeemable.

"Wha—? How? Why? I mean, you were his...his teacher—"

"I fucking know! I...I know. He just...wouldn't leave it alone. He wouldn't leave me alone." I don't feel comfortable blaming Dean, but it's the goddamn truth of the matter. The desire to defend oneself against scrutiny is an ingrained, human response. Unless you're someone like Dean, which I'm decidedly not. "That's why...I enrolled here, because it's far, far away from home. Then, he accepted a scholarship to Fresno, and here we are, okay? I tried to end it so many times. That's all I can...fucking say for myself."

"Is he...forcing you? I mean, he's...a big guy, so—"

"No, no! He's never...forced me. He's just...really, really persistent, and I..."

Give into it every. Single. Time.

Casey gets this pensive, frowning expression that sets my nerves to twisting. Casey's a guy of high moral fiber, and at one point in time, I thought I was too. What if...he doesn't believe it? Or, even if he does, what if he's too put off to maintain a friendship with me? God, I have a hard enough time connecting with people as it is—

"So, you're okay? Do you like him? I mean, in hindsight, you looked terrified, dude."

His concern uncoils the cord from my neck, and I can breathe marginally easier.

"I'm just...uncomfortable with it, for obvious reasons. I know how it looks on me, and for him, it's...it won't be well-received. I don't want him to have a hard time because of this. I mean, he's got so much ahead of him. Like you said, he'll probably get drafted, and no matter what he thinks, I just can't see myself in his future. I'm eleven fucking years older than him. I was his teacher, for Christ's sake!"

Burying my face in the cup of my hands, I scrub that skin to a red puff.

"I mean, he followed you all the way to California. After a win like that, he'd rather have dinner with you than get shitfaced with his team. Seems like he's got a 'hell or high water' mentality. If you like him, just...go with the flow." Casey shrugs flippantly, and I'm baffled by his nonchalance.

"...seriously? You don't think it's...fucking crazy? You don't think I'm—"

...a terrible person?

"We've only known each other for a short while, but I've got a good eye for people. You're a good person, Sam. I really, really don't think you'd have instigated anything with one of your students, but guys like him—" He scratches the stiff hairs of his beard with blunt nails. "I know guys like him. I get it. As long as you're okay, that's all that matters to me, I guess. I don't think less of you for it."

Just as the knots in my stomach begin to loosen, my phone chimes. It's from Dean, and it's a wordless location pin for the restaurant he's picked.

Sighing, I drop my head against the rest. Less than an octave above a whisper:

"...thank you."

—

Sam's bubble makes steady progress down the highway, en route for the Valley Children's Stadium.

He's fifteen minutes away, give or take. Last Sunday, when roaming his apartment unsupervised, it took less than two minutes to get into his phone and send myself location access. He might notice it at some point, but he's not the most tech savvy guy. If you're surprised, disappointed, or repulsed by the lowest of low roads I continue to take, feel free to drop an anonymous complaint in the bitch-box. It's a bare minimum piece of mind, but it's something.

He's coming, at least.

On game day, and sometimes the day or two preceding it, damn near every second since opening my eyes is accounted for. In a way, the campus' athletic facility is its own community with every amenity we'd need, so there's no excuse to step foot outside of it. Breakfast and lunch, no calorie out of place, are served at seven and eleven sharp. In between, there's light bouts of last minute practice, recovery workouts, gear checks, and a pre-game review in the amphitheater. The atmosphere is lighthearted, and at first glance, you'd assume none of the guys are taking it as seriously as they should be. It's a coping mechanism, I think.

If they let themselves contemplate the possibility of failure, it becomes an inevitability. Instead, there's raucous banter and high-energy music blowing out the speakers of an old bluetooth pill. I know what it means to be nervous, but not over something like this. It'd be like...worrying about missing a breath, skipping a heartbeat, or my liver's ability to filter. Those things come naturally, and as I'm young and in good health, I trust my body to make it happen. If we lose, it won't be a lack of effort or skill on my part. Once the ball's out of my hands, so is most of the responsibility. I can't control a fumble forty yards away.

Football is a team sport, so the whole team has to be up to par.

Fortunately, I'd say it is. Our current line-up makes a well-rounded group, no big holes in offense or defense.

By noon, we're dressed in our ill-fitted Sunday-best and meandering towards the buses with travel totes slung across shoulder and back. It's a short ride to the stadium, and upon deboarding, the cultural phenomenon surrounding college football makes itself known. From the traffic light to the stadium's entrance, red-and-white clad fans are lined up behind the ropes: kids with jerseys to their ankles, old folks that might've been wheeled out of hospice to be here, classmates I barely recognize. They cheer, bark, and hold out their palms for walk-by high-fives.

It's...tedious, but I can appreciate the need for positive energy.

Once inside, the Bulldogs' cheer squad is lined against either wall on the way to the clubhouse. They shake their pompoms and cry out their wishes for our victory. I've said it before, but this is a different world from playing in highschool. The dog-and-pony show is now a whole-ass Barnum&Bailey production. Someone like me, I'm sure you're thinking I'd eat it the fuck up. Who doesn't love a pedestal? Who'd turn their nose up at blind adoration?

I don't play because it comes with prestige, or I want my fucking name written in lights. I play because I'm good at it, and it feels good to be better than everyone else at something physical. I play because this was my one and only ticket to California, where Sam is. If Sam was the only person sitting on my side of the stadium, I'd be beyond content with that. I'd prefer that. But, that's not how it works, and if I want to be worth something for him, I have to keep coloring in the lines. Shake the hands, kiss the babies, play well with others.

Minutes before we're meant to rush the field, I check his location and squeeze in a few last minute messages to him. I know where he is, but he doesn't know that. Ire starts to spike when I realize he doesn't intend to hang around. I get where he's coming from. It'll be chaotic, cause for either rowdy celebration or an ass-reaming from Nelson should we lose, but he's my reward. The game is almost like...foreplay. Some ancestral, lizard-brain display of strength and competency. 'Look, Sam, I just slaughtered this mammoth with my bare hands! Let me fuck you senseless on this nice, new pelt.'

It's all I care about. That he's watching me. That he's impressed with me. If he fucking leaves, it's all for nothing. When his last text comes through, my heart leapfrogs into my throat. Those little hairs lift like lightning's about to strike me dead. I can't help but laugh, dragging my hand down my face.

1:53 PM: Good luck, I love you.

"Ha..."

If he thinks a throwaway 'I love you' is enough for a clean getaway, he's sorely fucking mistaken.

"Line the fuck up, boys! Let's go! Saunders, so help me God—!"

Before Nelson rescinds my phone privileges, I make a quick call. The recipient answers on the second ring.

"Hey, man, I need a favor."

—

The Bruins are either the shittiest team in the state, or I've ascended to collegiate divinity.

In the heat of the moment, it's hard to tell if the opposing defense is lumbering and clumsy, or if I'm moving at fucking warp. My teammates seem to think it's the latter, because they're knocking helmets with me roughly between point conversions, safeties, and touchdowns. My receivers and RB's are all but weeping over those passes that require no effort to catch, sliding through their hands like there's a spotter in my ear feeding pinpoint coordinates. I've never seen a bigger smile on Coach Nelson's face. I didn't think his mouth had the ability to stretch further than a grimace, honestly.

The Bruins use up every timeout they have available. One midway through the first quarter, another at the end of the first quarter, and their third three minutes into the second. Their coach is desperately trying to kill our momentum, while also hacking together some kind of contingency.

By the second quarter, the high sets in. My muscles are liquid heat, and those practiced movements that came easily in the first are now seamless and fluid. Slow, measured breath cycles through my lungs with mechanical pacing, and adrenaline numbs any place that might otherwise ache or fatigue. With the speed at which I'm sprinting, sweat is like a screen of frost to keep me from overheating. It's total mastery over this suit of meat I was born into. Every part of me is functioning better than it needs to, every cog clicking smoothly into the next.

I'm deaf to everything but the deep exhales bouncing around the inside of my helmet, commentary passing between my teammates, and interruptions from the refs. I'm blind to anything beyond the thick, white stripes boxing in the turf. It's a feeling second only to being pressed up against Sam, and whenever there's a spare second between plays, I turn to find his face in the midway point of the stands. It was a 'Where's Waldo' moment at first, but once I found him, his position stayed pinned in my mind.

Through the entirety of the game, there's a series of repetitive thoughts and questions looping in the background of my mind:

Did Sam see that?

I bet he's just watching quietly, I can't imagine him cheering or screaming.

Is he uncomfortable? Is it too loud? He hates places like this.

Is he proud of me?

Did he mean it, when he said he loved me?

Will he say it again after this, to my face?

I hope he's proud of me. I hope he's so fucking proud, he won't be able to bottle it up.

I hope he saw that, fuck, that was good—

Then, there's the guy next to him, the friend he brought. During halftime, I finally have a chance to appraise the dude. Even fifty rows up, he stands out as a truly massive bastard. His name's...Casey, and he's 'big into football'—either because he's a lineman for the Golden Bears or he was a lineman for the Golden Bears. Sam deliberately withheld that little tidbit, but it's not like I've got the time or freedom for a deep-dive. Besides, Sammy only has eyes for me. He can't help but look down here, as hard as he's trying not to. It's killing me that I can't make out the finer details of his expression, and our team's sideline isn't the best place for focused contemplation:

"Saunders, good God almighty, where have you been all my life?!"

"Dean, I think I'm actually in love with you, dude."

"You've got to chill, man, my girl's watching."

When the game's over, the Bruins look like they're preparing to form a suicide pact in the wake of such a brutal defeat. There's a rush of those designated friends, families, and lovers swarming the sidelines, and I'm swept into the center of a celebratory circle that shouldn't feel like the biggest pain in my ass. I can't hear myself think. I can't tell where I end and the hot, damp bodies around me begin. It's fucking suffocating, and making merry with my teammates is at the bottom of the priority list. I can do that anytime, but I only see Sam once a goddamn week.

Frantically searching the stands, he's up.

Sam's leaving.

The feeling that shocks through me is downright violent, and it takes a considerable amount of restraint to not start swinging a path out of the circle. Before too long, the clump starts to thin. Thank fuck. The guys are breaking away, and I seize my chance to do the same. There's only one excuse that'll see me back to the clubhouse, no questions asked. I thump a fist against my lower stomach as I jog past, addressing anyone who's looking: "post-game shit!"

This gets a few sympathetic nods.

Fast forward about forty minutes, and John is side-eyeing the shit out of me as we depart from Sam and his tag-along. Casey seemed like a good enough dude, easy to charm. From that brief interaction, I couldn't sense anything amiss concerning his friendship with Sam. It was beyond obvious he knew nothing of our relationship, which comes as no surprise. Sammy would take it to the grave if I let him. John, of course, has learned a few new things.

"Spit it out, man."

"Dude—" The epithet is a burst from his mouth, a breath he'd been holding. "...he was your English teacher?"

"Yup." I pop the 'p' sound, looking ahead as we pass back into the stadium.

John glances around, then leans in to whisper: "Did you...blackmail him or something?"

"The fuck—"