Once a Nerd

I'm...nervous.

I can't stand it.

You'd think that wouldn't be the case with Sam squeezed into an economy seat next to me, the plane's belly bumping off hiccups of wind beneath us, but he wasn't wrong. It's going to be hard to see each other after this, especially with the passive role he's clinging to.

I like that Sam is a guy of high moral fiber, I do. I wouldn't be half as attracted to him if he was a sleazeball. It's adorable, but it's also an obstacle. He's totally convinced that a little prolonged distance will kill my interest in him, and while an hour's great in the grand scheme of things, it won't be the daily interaction I'm used to. Because he's so dead set on 'doing the right thing', he'll make no effort to bridge the gap. If I don't make that effort, I'll probably never see or hear from him again once we part ways at the airport.

It's fucking

aggravating.

I know how much he likes me. He's as easy to read as a 'Baby's First Words' foam book. He just won't act on it because he's a damn martyr. It wouldn't be an issue if we were attending the same school or living together, but we're not. I'll have no way of keeping track of him, who he's spending time with. This isn't Bumfuck, Illinois. It's the progressive, forward-thinking state of California. Sam's gorgeous, and while I believe he isn't into women as he claimed, he'll be surrounded by plenty of nepotistic, handsome, intellectual pricks. I fucked almost exclusively girls before Sam, so it's not a stretch to think he'll break a few more Kinsey Scales.

Will he entertain it if I'm not around? He doesn't consider us to be in a relationship, it's a seasonal fling in his mind. It's driving me literally insane just thinking about it. He makes me insane. I've never had control issues until now. I want to...microchip him. Install a little spy camera in his fuckin' glasses, something. If I had to put a pin in the timeline, I'd say anywhere from the end of the first semester to the end of our first year will be the toughest. After that, when I'm still clinging to him like the most persistent barnacle in the sea, he'll have no choice but to admit he was wrong about my interest being flippant.

I can't let off the gas, not for a second. If I play hard to get, let the distance happen, he won't suddenly start pursuing me like some desperate co-ed. He'll believe he was right and let me go. Sam is fucking mine. I glance over, and shit,

just look at him.

He's reading, and his long legs are crossed primly at the knee. He's wearing a deep green hoodie with a bunched, dipping neckline that does nothing to obscure his creamy throat and clavicle. His glasses slump down his small nose, and his freckles look like God flicked ink across his cheekbones. The bright green of his eyes flickers haltingly beneath long, thick lashes, and he scoops a bouncy curl behind his ear.

I wish I was the English major. I wish I paid more attention to his class, to Hawthorne. I wish I had the fucking words to describe how beautiful he is. He's not even doing anything, just sitting, reading, but I can barely breathe. I love him so fucking much—

"Dean, I didn't agree to take this flight with you so you could melt my face off." He murmurs, not looking up from his paperback.

"You wanted to join the Mile High Club, right? Got ya covered."

This earns an embarrassed huff, and I get butterflies watching him try and kill a tiny smile. He slides a teasing glance from the corner of his eye. "With you? I'd never. You fuck like a bull in a china shop."

Oh, ho. That was absolutely the worst thing to say to a jealous, horny bastard like myself. I lean over the armrest, deeper into his space than he'd ever be comfortable with in public, but he doesn't pull away. He angles his face towards mine, but still doesn't fully look up from his book. "Just me? As much as you scream my name, the whole plane would know it."

He snaps his book shut with a sigh, turning his face all the way towards mine. "Looks like we're both banned from the club then."

Half an inch, and our lips would touch. I want nothing more than to steal that distance, but as flirtatious as he's being now, he wouldn't let that fly. He might break my nose with a headbutt. I retreat with my own mournful sigh. We're set to land at Fresno Yosemite International in forty-five minutes, which is all too soon. Sam insisted on Fresno's airport to make the transit easier on me, feeding his mom a line about the cost of travel being cheaper. She's picking him up, and I'm forbidden under threat of castration from coming within a hundred yards of her. That doesn't mean I can't...discreetly observe.

My nerves buzz like flies as we touch down, deboard, and field pockets of impatient travelers at the baggage claim. I don't want to let him go, I don't want him out of my sight for a second. Sam, on the other hand, looks about as emotional as he'd be comparing brands of toothpaste at the grocer. He doesn't look bothered at all, but if there's one thing he's got going for him, he has an impressive poker face. He held it together very well during the school year, when I'd sit in the front row of his class and watch him with all the fascination of a strip club's regular. When Mr. White nearly caught us, he went from panicked to plain-faced in five seconds. He's only vulnerable and easy to read when we're alone.

It's all of a sudden time for us to part ways, and I can't just—

I grab the bag from his hand, veering off towards the bathrooms.

"Dean, what—?!"

Naturally, he follows.

I don't go in the bathroom, just set his bag on the floor outside of it. "What are you doing?" He asks, frowning up at me. I want to smudge the pinch from between his brows, so I do. Shockingly, he allows the contact after only a hasty, nervous glance around. No one's paying attention in a place as busy as this.

"Sam, before you go, listen to me for a second."

"Oh...kay." He agrees slowly.

"You're not going to shake me." I start, and he knows what I'm implying. His fixed, curious stare shifts uncomfortably to the side. "Text back. Answer the phone when I call. Make time for me, and if you don't, I'll cut it out for myself. Got it?"

He flattens his pretty, red lips into a terse line, but returns my gaze. After a moment's hesitation, he nods. "I will."

"Good."

Dropping my head too fast for him to rear back, I bracket his face in my hands and take his mouth in a biting kiss. He reaches up to grip my forearms, gasping a little noise into it. If anyone's looking, they've got more important matters to carry them on their way. But, it's too dirty of a kiss to be had in public, so I don't drag it out. I lick the inside of his cheek like it's cream dripping the side of a waffle cone, and he spasms against me. Then, it's over. Before completely straightening up, I can't help but warn him: "Don't do this with anyone but me."

He scowls, though it's more to do with his embarrassment over the PDA than my warning. "Between class and you blowing up my phone, do you really think I'll have the time to entertain anything or anyone else?"

"Let's fuckin' hope not, because I'll find the time to beat them half to death."

I really, really tried to make it sound like a joke. I tried to smile, say it on the wings of a laugh. He flinches back, because it didn't come out like that at all. It came out as serious as I meant it. It came out like every syllable is a shard of stabbing ice. I wonder what he sees in my face, and I hope he remembers it. He takes a calming breath, something he does a lot when rattled, and retrieves his bag from the floor.

"You won't have to worry about that, Dean. I promise. Just, do your best, please?"

As if to placate me, he perches on his toes and drops a brief, featherlight kiss to my cheek. It's about 100,000x harder to let him walk off after that, but he does. I follow discreetly after a minute or so, because I want to see what kind of lady his mom is. Her name's Jamie, which I learned from previous snooping escapades. She's waiting for him inside of the terminal, so she must've parked her car in the adjoining deck. My first glimpse of her, it's like...looking in the future. Jamie looks just like Sam, or...I guess he looks just like her. Dark, curly hair down to the middle of her back, streaked with white. Vertically challenged. Freckled.

Shit, she's even wearing a pair of tortoise-shell glasses.

She's much thinner than her son, almost to a point of being sickly, but it doesn't take from her librarian-esque charm. Crow's feet and laugh lines suggest maturity, and I imagine Sammy's face aging into something timelessly beautiful, just like her. They hug for a long minute, and he isn't afraid to smile widely. I can count on one hand the times he's smiled at me like that. There's a pang of jealousy before I snuff it out, because that's his fucking mom, not a romantic rival.

From this distance, from five minutes of observation, their relationship seems like a healthy one. She looks thrilled to see him, and he looks relaxed in her presence, bleeding himself of the tension I created. I contemplate ignoring his warnings and popping up between them, introducing myself. I know I'd make a good impression. I'm a charming son of a bitch, and even if I claim to be a former student, I'd win her over. With Sam, however, our relationship would kick back to the stone ages. He'd probably block my number.

"Hah." The sound is a hot burst from my mouth as I turn away.

It's...hard.

My chest is throbbing. Walking away from him, even if it's just temporary, is miserable. There's no sense of security to make it easier. It's wanting, needing something so desperately, but being constantly told to wait. I feel like I've been crawling through miles of desert with a mouth so brittle and dry, my tongue won't unstick from my hard palate and my lips crack and bleed. In the distance, there's a spring of cold, crisp, sparkling water, but no matter how far I drag my bones through the sand, it doesn't get any closer. Zombified, I'll keep crawling.

Because, when I do finally get to the water's edge? When I take that first sip and realize it's everything that's fucking right with the world? There's nothing better. I got a whisper of that feeling the first time we fucked, and I won't let it phase out of my life. I won't let it be a mournful, bitter memory of the one that got away.

There's wanting something, and then there's doing something about it.

—

It's a rough first month.

I already knew it going in, but being a 'student athlete' in college is a far cry from high school. It's two, full-time jobs with no fucking pay. Sure, sure, tuition, room, board, and healthcare are covered, but with no cold, hard cash—I can't afford to do shit off campus. I can't save up for a car, nor the gas to power it. I've contemplated flying back to Illinois, then making the drive with my truck. My old man has taken on the burden of my phone bill, thank Christ. I'm stuck here, and if I didn't love the game so much, it'd be more miserable than it already is. I'm not a starter for the illustrious Bulldogs yet, but it shouldn't be long.

I'm one of four out-of-state signees for the school, one of twenty signees for the football team. To my surprise, I'm also one of the biggest guys on the field. There's only a handful of us over six feet, heavier than two-fifteen. I know I'm a big dude, but this is a university team. I don't know, I guess I just expected...giants or some shit. Frankly, I'm nervous to get stuck as a lineman due to my size, and to avoid such a fate, I make sure to throw some of the cleanest, sharpest passes this side of the Mississippi. The head coach is a man named Jeremy Nelson, and I'm positive he's a former Staff Sergeant. I got the read on him pretty quick, and he's not the type to be swayed by personality. He gives a shit about one of two things:

Talent and ability.

I cracked my first joke with the guy only after throwing the most pristine, pinpoint long pass to Nash Kelly, one of our WR's, for a touchdown. He quirked a little smile, whereas he'd normally stink-eye a man to tears. I've gotten on well enough with the guys on the team, starter or otherwise. Some of them are right pricks, the type of guys that are only good to you if you're a copy. Non-conformity isn't looked on kindly, which comes as no surprise. For all intents and purposes, I appear to conform. I don't mind letting them think as much for now. It's better to establish myself at the top of the food chain before advertising a weakness.

I've been invited to plenty of on-and-off-campus events, mostly ragers disguised as cram sessions, though I've only attended two for the sake of keeping up appearances. Even if I wanted to engage in the classic college experience, there's no time for it. I haven't given much thought to a major, so for now, I'm enrolled in the bare minimum four courses for a general Bachelor of Business Administration. Between those three classes, it's a strict, time-consuming regiment of practice, training, and conditioning. Up at four, tucked in by nine.

I'm sure you can guess where I'm going with this.

I miss Sam to fucking death. He's only an hour away, but it feels like lightyears. I didn't realize how much of a prisoner I'd be to my own schedule. I text him whenever I get a spare second, and there's so few of those in the day. Thankfully, he always responds, though he does so in accordance with his own schedule. His replies aren't clipped, one-word responses either. I can tell he's making an effort to give me the time I asked for, and he's transparent about what's going on in his neck of the woods. Even if it's only for five minutes before I crash, we talk on the phone or FaceTime nightly.

He sounds just as exhausted as I feel, and I sustain myself on his sleepy voice crackling through the line like it's crumbs tossed through the bars of a cell. We exchange pictures now, too. Of course, I was the instigator. I'd send him snapshots of my reflection in the gym's mirror, flattering selfies of myself grinning brightly in the best lighting I can find. The necklace he gifted me, I wear religiously, and that's not an exaggeration. I'd pray to the damn charm if I thought it'd do any good. I haven't taken it off since putting it on: shower, sleep, gym, practice.

He's attracted to me physically, so I'm capitalizing on that as much as possible. It took three weeks of begging before he gave in and started sending pictures of himself. He looks gagged with embarrassment in each one, but fuck, he's so photogenic. He captures well on film in any light, any angle.

He refuses to send anything provocative, so I make do with what I'm given. There's one picture I can tell he took hastily, as it's in public. He's squinting against midday sun that's coming through what looks like a cafe's window, no glasses. His eyes are so goddamn green and bright. His hair's gotten longer in the short time we've been apart, and he's scraping it out of his speckled face. He has the tiniest, cutest smile, and his cheeks are a little pink, either from the bake of sunshine through glass or his own mortification at taking a selfie.

I've beaten off to that picture ten times.

I'll circle back to that, but let me introduce you to my roommate. Rewinding to the first week on campus, I didn't meet the guy until four days after I'd moved into the dorm. I was starting to get my hopes up about having the space to myself, but lo and behold, Thursday night brought a new face clunking through the door, luggage in tow. I didn't mean to scare him, it's just—

"Agh, holy shit! I'm so...sorry, shit!"

I have next to no shame, so my slip of a towel away from nakedness wasn't the doomsday he seemed to think it was. "It's cool, man. I'll change in the bathroom."

Scooping my pile of clothes from the bed, I return to the adjoined community bathroom with a quickness to spare the poor guy further embarrassment. He's very determinedly staring at the far wall, studying it like the original Mona Lisa is hanging there. I take my time pulling into my clothes, brushing my teeth, nighttime this' and that's. Emerging from the bathroom, Roommate [since I've yet to learn his name] is rummaging through his unzipped luggage. I appraise him from the back, like Termovision. Is he someone to be wary of? Competition? Trustworthy? Interesting?

No, nothing like that.

Analysis complete: painfully, aggressively average.

Seventy inches tall. Neither overweight, nor underweight—the underdeveloped physique puberty bestowed upon him. Plain hoodie, plain jeans, plain shoes. No accessories. He's not ugly, but he isn't good-looking. His auburn hair was cut with only one request: "I don't care, just keep it out of my eyes." There's no attempt at styling. He doesn't smell like anything beyond the faint musk of effort and whatever brand of dryer sheets was tossed in with the laundry. Even the contents of his luggage and backpack, there's no indication of a hobby, personality, or a girlfriend's feminine touch. He's like...the living, breathing personification of the pictogram on a men's public bathroom door. Faceless, anonymous, and forgettable.

There's one thing, however, that snatches my interest: car keys.

As if sensing the scrutiny, he turns with what might've been a smile, more of an awkward grimace. "I'm...really sorry about that. It's late, I should've knocked."

Huffing a laugh, I drop down onto the edge of my too-small-bed. I know this is community housing, but twins are a crime. "Dude, relax. This is your room too. Name's Dean, it's good to meet ya."

"Oh, John. It's nice to meet you."

Christ, even his name is average. I bite the inside of my cheek to withhold the wise crack: "Last name, Doe?"

Instead, I say: "You must be from here, huh? You drove?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm from Bakersfield. What about you?"

"Illinois."

"Geez, that's a ways away. You're...a student athlete, right? That's why you're here?"

Snorting, I glance around my side of the room. It doesn't take a modern-day Sherlock to figure that one out. Protein shakers drying upside down on a little towel. Bulldog-branded gym bag stuffed halfway under my bed. Jersey hanging off the back of my desk chair. "Yup, full-ride."

"Wow," John whistles. "Even without all the, uh, evidence, you're in...shape. Are you a starter yet?"

We chat for a few minutes more, learning the basics of the person we're meant to share a room with for the year. John's attending on an academic scholarship, and while it's not the full-ride mine is, it shaved a hefty chunk off his tuition and living expenses. He's ultimately aiming for a PhD in Psychology, and I'm a little floored at the goal. For the life of me, I can't picture this guy diagnosing depression in Eeyore, let alone anything more complex than that. I'm sure to John, I'm as much the meathead as I look, entirely give-a-fuck about the education end of things.

Something else interesting about him, his family's hardly the All-American Standard it was thirty years ago. Instead of 'Mom, Dad, two-point-five kids, and a Golden Retriever named Buddy', John's an adoptee of a well-off lesbian couple in their fifties. They adopted him as an infant twenty years ago. I have to remind myself this is California, a safe haven for the non-standard. I'm most shocked he told someone like me, especially during our first ever conversation. So far, it's the most interesting thing about him, and I have to wonder if he goes out of his way to be the human embodiment of a flavorless, colorless wafer to offset the strangeness of his upbringing. John assures me, he's a stringent heterosexual.

I laugh, "it doesn't matter to me, man."

Obviously, it works in my favor.

My alarm goes off ten minutes into our Icebreaker session. It's 8:30, so Sammy's officially available. "Ah, sorry, I've gotta make a call."