Once a Nerd Ch. 12

a/n: This one's a whopper. 13k, 49 pages. Flew by when I was writing it though! A lot of plot progress, big smut at the end. There's one comment I sort of wanted to address in the previous chapter: they mentioned that they're bothered by certain aspects of Dean's character and how he always seems to get his way by disregarding Sam's feelings.

I just wanted to let that person know, as well as anyone who comments on this, I love comments like that one (as long as they're polite, which that person definitely was)! The way you phrased it makes me feel so proud, because I know my characters feel some kind of real to you. No character is supposed to be perfect or free of judgment, otherwise they'd be boring. I love that my story is compelling enough for things like that to come to mind.

Anywho, chapter updates will be in my Bio!

Thanksgiving, a time for gratitude and family.

The only 'family' from Illinois I've kept up with are my old man and Jacob, both of whom I talk to at least once a week. My dad's never been a talkative, affectionate man. For the most part, his parenting hits a wall at the physical: food, shelter, clothing. While he's never been cruel or quick to temper, neither did he have the time or energy to facilitate a bond. That's all to say, we're out of things to talk about within three minutes of a call. With Jacob and I, being on the phone is no different than sitting in a room together. We shoot the shit, exchange updates about anything relevant, or sit in companionable silence while the other's occupied.

The onset of this holiday has brought a pressing issue to the forefront of my mind, and John's proven to be an invaluable sounding board. He's smarter than my initial appraisal gave credit for. He's got a smartass mouth, too.

The issue?

Jane Powell. Sam's mom.

Obviously, I need her approval. Laid out on my bed, I frown at the ceiling while snapping my lanyard around my fingers. It's got my facility key at the end, and the constant jangling prompted John to double-bud. He won't hear it if I call his name. Instead, I hurl a miniature, foam football at his head.

It bounces off his skull, tumbling to the floor. He doesn't react beyond a slow, irritated blink and fingertips pausing mid keystroke. Reaching up, he pops an earbud from the ear facing me. "Yes?"

"So—"

Before I can dump all my thoughts at his feet, he sighs loudly. Then, he pauses whatever's playing on his Spotify. "Okay, what?"

"So, what should I do about Sam's mom?"

I asked Jacob the same question. There was a beat of silence through the receiver, then a burst of shiteating laughter: "Holy shit, dude, you're so fucked."

"What about his mom?" John shoots back.

"Like, getting her on board."

John snorts, but quickly attempts to hide it in a cough. He's become...decidedly unsympathetic towards me since I put him in that awkward spot with Sam. Apparently, Sam is much too good for me. "Well, what's the usual methodology? Threats of dismemberment?"

See? Smartass.

"I need her to like me."

John pins me with a dry, unamused stare. "Why would she like you?"

"Wha—? What's not to fuckin' like?"

"I mean to say, she specifically has no reason to like you."

I scowl at him, because while I know he has the ability to be helpful, he's going out of his way not to be. "I make Sam happy. That's reason enough, isn't it?"

John opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks a mix between thoughtful and exasperated. "I mean, you do seem to make him happy, but is that really enough? You don't know anything about her, so it's hard to tell if she'd be satisfied with that. Ignoring everything else, she might not even know he's gay."

"She does."

"Hm." John hums, stretching his legs out under the desk. "So, let's address the second biggest concern: your age and that you used to be Sam's student. Both of those things make him look bad."

The temporary truth of that will never cease to piss me off. "Right." I grunt, resuming my incessant flicking of the lanyard—just to irritate John. He does that slow, pained blink again, so I know it's working.

"Then, why not just be honest with her?"

I roll my head to look at him. "Honest how?"

It becomes clear John was waiting for this moment, because he's suddenly working his expression and tone like I'm an audience of one at his improv show. Except, he's pretending to be me, and he's being a real dick about it:

"Hello, Ms. Powell, my name's Dean Saunders. You might know me as...Fresno's rising star? ESPN wouldn't shut the fuck up about me last week? Yeah, pretty impressive shit. Anyway, earlier this year, I twisted your son's arm into engaging in a sexual relationship with me, his eighteen-year-old student, even though he was just trying to do his job. Then, I followed him across the country without having any kind of a meaningful discussion about it, and somehow, I bullied him into loving me. I'd like your blessing, please."

Christ, why did I tell him any of that?

"I didn't bully him into loving me." I huff. "I'm...lovable, you shitlick."

"Oh, and I'm also probably a raging narcissist. Or a sociopath, maybe. So, about that blessing—"

"You are begging for a swirly right now—"

John breaks character to laugh at the blunt cliché. I snort to myself, turning back to the ceiling. Whether I went about it the right way or not, I'm happy with how it's going. It's Wednesday now, and the previous weekend was a dream. Spending the night with Sam was...

I missed it so much. We fucked ourselves half to death, yeah, but everything else—getting to hold him while I slept, waking up to him, taking meals together, traipsing around Berkeley on an impromptu day-date. If Sam was at all bogged down by guilt or reservation, I couldn't tell. He was glowing. Happy, relaxed. God, it was good, and it killed me to leave. Every Monday through Friday feels like its own century, dragging my way through another hundred years until I can see him again. He's finally reciprocating, he's even been texting me first. I know it doesn't sound like much of a milestone, but it is with Sam.

It's huge.

"Look, you don't have to say it exactly like that," John resumes. "But, if you're able to get her alone, lay it all on the table, it would absolve Sam of any wrongdoing. You've been the instigator from day one. It just depends on if she can get over your age and history."

"Mm."

Lying isn't really an option with Jane. For one, we're all from the same town. I never had reason to run into her, but she might remember me. She lived there up until two years ago, when Sam's dad passed. Even if she doesn't remember me, like John said, my face is plastered all over ESPN. If she's ever in a bar or restaurant with big TV's, she'd know exactly who I am: "Up and comer out of the MWC, Dean Saunders, a nineteen-year-old freshman at Fresno—"

With strangers, my age being known is irrelevant because Sam's isn't.

Jane isn't a stranger, and she knows exactly how old her only child is. I'll have to be honest and sincere, without Sam knowing. He'll never, ever introduce me to her, at least not until I'm close to thirty myself. I don't want to sneak around his mom for an entire goddamn decade. But, the only way I'll be able to meet her is on campus. That's another drive to Berkeley, all without Sam's knowledge. Then, there's the big, fat possibility that she won't be okay with my age or our history. She could be so not okay with it, it backfires onto Sam. I can't just...threaten her into acceptance.

...can I?

The risks might outweigh the benefits on this one. It's a little too far out of the realm of my control. If I destroy his relationship with his mom, it's game over.

"Damn." I grumble, but John's already swished back towards the desk—both buds in place. It's almost time for my nightly call with Sam anyway. If I'm subtle enough, maybe he'll be willing to provide some detail about his mom's personality. Thanksgiving, family—those topics would run right into each other. It wouldn't be strange to bring her up. I'll admit, my reasons for all this are a little selfish. We both only get three days for the break, but he's sure to want to spend the holiday itself with his mom. Maybe Black Friday, too.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Those are three whole extra days I could spend with him. Same goes for the upcoming winter break. With Jane in the dark, Sam desperate to keep it that way, that's all out the fucking window. Exams are in between the two breaks, so our time might already be interrupted as is.

My phone starts shuddering atop the desk where I'd left it to charge. Swiping it, I balk at the sight of Sammy's name and face taking up the screen. Fear lashes in my chest, as my first instinct is—something's wrong. He's never initiated a call before. Slapping it to the side of my head, I exhale a rushed, worried greeting:

"Hey, is everything okay?"

"...what? Yeah, everything's fine. Why?"

"You—"

Oh. Oh.

I melt back into the bed. It's after eight, and we always talk on the phone after eight. For the first time, instead of waiting on my call, Sammy called me. If I say something to the effect of 'you never call me first!', it'll embarrass him. He might go out of his way to never call again. It's yet another milestone, and a tingling warmth travels my vascular system, bubbles popping in my stomach.

"Nah, nothing." I sigh, trying to keep the big grin out of my voice. "I'm just...happy you called."

He huffs, embarrassed anyway. "I finished grading early, so I—" He hesitates.

"I figured I'd call. When'd you finish?"

"Like, thirty minutes ago. Practice ran late tonight."

"You're not behind on anything for class, right?"

I don't stifle the tease in my voice. "Why? You wanna supervise my detention?"

John, who'd finished his assignment and is in the process of readying a shower bag, shoots a scandalized look over his shoulder. He's got no sense of humor, I swear. Sam doesn't either, apparently, because an agonized groan rattles through the receiver.

"Go ahead and crack jokes, but if you start doing poorly in class, I forbid you from coming over on the weekends. You need to maintain your GPA, and you've already got a lot on your plate with practice and games."

"Bullshit!" I snap, throwing myself upright like Sam might see the extremism of the reaction. "I can catch up on my shit at your place!"

"You're too distracted." He fires back. "I know this past weekend was spur of the moment, so I can't hold that against you, but I'm sure it's contributed to your being behind, if you are."

"I'm...not."

There are two assignments due tomorrow night that I haven't so much as thought about, let alone touched. The plan was to slop them together between my morning classes and afternoon practice. I'm almost tempted to tell him as much, because—

His strict, critical tone is turning me the fuck on. It's taking me way, way back to the beginning of my senior year, when 'Mr. Powell' introduced himself as my Lit teacher for that semester. I couldn't believe my luck when I got him again for the spring semester. He used to lecture me just like this, before—well, y'know. Before I made it my mission in life to fuck his brains out. However, the threat of being banned from his apartment on Sundays is too serious to risk it.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Samuel, I'm sure."

"Wha—" He stutters at the unfamiliar use of his full name. "Don't...call me that, ever. I have fucking goosebumps, ugh."

Sensing an opportunity, I ask: "no one's ever called you that?"

"I mean, my dad, but only when he was upset."

"Not your mom?"

He snorts. "No, she calls me 'Sammy' too, especially when she's upset. She never yells, just sort of—sighs."

So, she's not a temperamental woman. That doesn't mean she's kind or understanding. Plenty of older, elitist women have that waspish air, where they might click their tongue or sigh out their disappointment over something that doesn't really warrant it—expecting perfection, and sometimes even that's not enough. Explosions of anger aren't the only marker of a poor personality. I continue, as Sam and I haven't really explored this part of his life:

"Do you have a good relationship with her?"

"My mom? Yeah, I do. We don't see eye to eye on everything, but she tries her best to understand my points of view. She's always been busy, but she always did her best to prioritize me. Even now, this is her condominium. She offered to let me stay here for free, but I declined."

So, maybe not waspish. Within her means, she's done what she can to make his transition to California as painless as possible, and according to Sam, she was neither surprised nor bothered by his being gay. Like a game of Tetris, Jane's blocks are beginning to stack up—all that's left is to level off the grid. If Sam's overall happiness is her biggest priority, I just need to convince her I'd be the best one for the job. Preferably by next week.

"Is she comin' over for Thanksgiving?"

"No, she's hosting a 'Friendsgiving' for some of her colleagues. I told her I'd stop in for a bit."

"Yeah?" God, even to my own ears, I've perked like a Labrador to the jingle of a leash. "Then, I can—"

"Only if you're caught up with everything, and you bring what you need to study for exams." He says firmly, before shyness creeps into his tone. "You can come...Thursday evening."

"Fuck yeah."

Needless to say, I throw my entire back into wrapping up my assignments and catching up on what's due next week. Introductory courses to kickstart my half-assed attempt at a B.S. include: Computer Concepts, Computer Concepts Lab, Financial Accounting Principles and Systems, and Statistical Analysis I—

Oh, I'm sorry. Did you fall asleep through that excruciatingly tedious list? Because it's an actual hardship to keep my lids peeled back over my eyes through the lessons themselves. I can't express how few fucks I give about the content of these courses, but I'm a man of renewed motivation. If you'll remember, I share three of them with Cecilia. She's minoring in business, majoring in psych. What a go-getter. We've ended up as deskmates by choice, as I find her the least grating of most of my classmates—including some guys from the team.

Jaylin, Max, Nash, and a few others are scattered throughout these rooms. Business is a popular throwaway degree among athletes, apparently. Cecilia says it's due to requiring less innate intelligence and effort, with a curt 'no offense' tacked to the end of the harsh observation. I can't get offended over something that rings so true, as even I find the material trite and repetitive. Once it became clear that she didn't have the first shred of interest in me sexually, it was easier to make genuine attempts at befriending her. She's smart, bullheaded at times. Comfortable in her own skin and her place in the world, with a sense of humor so dry, it borders on parched.

Much like John, she's not a gossip or a blabbermouth. Unlike John, she keeps broad, overlapping circles of friends and acquaintances—so it's all the more impressive. I didn't tell her about Sam, but as we sit next to each other, she's a side-eye away from gleaming any deep, dark secrets to be found in the scroll and swipe of my phone. Obviously, Sam's less risqué pictures come up a lot.

Last week, when there was a break in the lecture, I might've been...a little moony. She didn't beat around the bush:

"I guess I was presumptuous." She murmurs, leaning in.

"What?" I look at her, too lost in fantasy to even translate a word like presumptuous.

Her eyes jump pointedly to my phone. More specifically, the most recent selfie of Sam I'd been mooning over. "Oh." I shrug, unashamed. "I never said I had a girlfriend."

"You definitely didn't." She admits. "He's cute. Long distance?"

"Unfortunately."

"Is he back in Illinois?"

"Berkeley."

She spares me a withering look. "Dude, that's an hour away."

"I know." I sigh, because to me, that distance feels insurmountable at times. He feels entire oceans and continents away.

"Oh—my God." She laughs quietly, mindful of those working around us. "I've never even met the guy, and I already feel sorry for him."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Being loved by you must be exhausting."

I couldn't defend myself, because I'm conscious enough to know that's probably true. Sex aside, Sam does seem generally exasperated by my antics—fondly exasperated, but nonetheless. With Cecilia being the only woman I engage with in plain view of others, she's become an accidental beard. Rumors catch and spread like plague or fire, and without either of us being asked, the general consensus is that we're dating. When it's brought up, I deny it. I'm sure she does the same, but to no avail. Said denials aren't taken seriously, and it's a hot topic amongst my teammates.

It's a big, motherfucking pain in my ass.

Through drills, runs, rehabilitation, showering, changing, it's brought up constantly. Wednesdays are set aside for Nelson's strengthening program in the weightroom. It's one of our shorter days, two hours of nonstop lifts and bodyweight exercises, lasting from four to a little after six. Nelson calls it 'the bare minimum of what you boys should be able to do', but it's a brutal, draconian affair that would put the most stalwart of men on their ass. Even I feel gaunt and terminally ill by the end of it, wrung out like a rag between twisting fists. So, you can imagine how irritating it might fucking be to field asinine questions and comments while in recovery.

Before showering, a majority of us seek repair in heat therapy—either the sauna or jacuzzi. Including myself, there's a group of seven piled on the two-tier, wooden benches in the dim-lit sauna. Leaning back into the bench behind me, the back of my head flat to its seat, I'm breathing deeply into a warm, dry towel draped over my face. Most of us are naked save for modesty towels, since showers are next on the agenda. Max, Jaylin, and Shawn take up the benches opposite me, as well as three more guys filling the wall furthest from the door: Marcus, Caleb, and Richie.

Their inane chatter is gibberish for how little attention I'm paying it, just a collection of gruff sounds bumping off the porous walls. I don't realize I'm being addressed until Jaylin raises his voice an octave: "Dean!"

Without lifting my head or removing the towel: "—what?"

"Damn, dude, did you pass out?"

Richie, a linemen as beefy as they come, snorts. "He was in the zone, Cahill."

"What fuckin' zone?"

"Probably the bone zone, fantasizing about that dime he bagged."

God in Heaven, spare me.

"Who?" Marcus asks, somehow out of the loop. He does sleep, eat, and shit with buds plugging his ears. They're waterproof, so he showers with 'em half the time too.

"Cecilia Greene. She's in a few of our business pre-reqs."

"Oh, oh. Yeah, shit, she's bad as hell."

"Dean's been all up in her business." Shawn chortles.

I draw the line with puns. I can only take so much. Snatching the towel from my face, I raise my head to glare at whoever's in my line of sight. "For the love of fucking Christ, we're not together."