Once a Nerd

a/n: Another astronomically long one, because I've just lumped the next two chapters together. Peak sitcom drama, folks. I've been very, very unmotivated lately, and I'm also trying to get on with a new job due to my own personal drama at the place I currently work. Also, frankly, I'm just not happy with what I've been churning out. If you guys enjoy it, that's all that really matters, but I drag my ass with both writing and posting when I'm disappointed in it. If I've posted anything here, I will of course put a note in my bio. Triggers for this one, so stand by as I list them below!

TW's: Homophobic language, drugging w/o consent, graphic-ish descriptions of attempted SA, non-consensual behaviors, violence, assault. I think that covers it? Comment anything I've missed if need be.

Thanks, as always!

It takes five full seconds for the question to completely process. Five more to analyze the reason it was asked, specifically why it was asked

here and now,

and the correct way to respond.

In a room full of people gone silent, ten seconds is a long, long time. Enough time for sweat to spring from a brow, to make teeth tickle in their gum. Enough to become intimately acquainted with secondhand discomfort. In those seconds, while I don't lift my head, there's visible stiffness. My thumb hovers in place over the screen of my phone. There's no sense of urgency in me. There's no mad scramble to defend myself against, in Ortega's mind, an extremely damaging accusation.

Instead, there's a buzzing sensation that flits all through me. I'm not unfamiliar with it, and it isn't unpleasant. Not quite excitement, but a type of thrill. There are scenarios, opponents, in which I'm decidedly

better in every conceivable way.

The natural winner before anything's really begun. Of course, there are just as many where I'm not. As these are all in the realm of social engagement, physicality has fuck all to do with it. It's why Jane Powell, a borderline pygmy-sized woman in her late fifties, brings me to heel far more than a man who's close to matching me in stature.

While it's a split hair from becoming one, this isn't a physical fight. It hinges on how much of a spine Ortega grew between yesterday and today, because there's a threshold for anyone's tolerance. I can admit mine comes up a little short.

Obviously, so manifest it's

painful,

this is an attempt at public humiliation. Being outright confronted amongst a large group of peers, anyone would be expected to lose composure--whether the accusation is true or not. In my case, a denial won't do any good here, especially not one edged with defensive hostility.

There's also the matter of

I don't give a shit what these people think.

Now, their personal opinions mean less than nothing in the grand scheme, and there's not a single cell in my body that carries any shame over my relationship with Sam. Once arrived at this point, I've never had the intention of denying anything.

But, when have you ever known me to turn the other cheek?

I clench my jaw hard enough to nearly snap it from my face. I've not forgotten that Joker comparison, and I can feel a smile trying to break. I think grinning or laughing would come off less than sane, even if the urge is there. Plucking the bud from my ear, not yet looking up, I start where anyone should when flipping a script:

"Sorry, man, I don't think I caught that."

It's

so goddamn quiet,

my own voice bounces off the lockers and back into my head. Glancing up, finally:

"Can you say it again?"

Have you ever watched the color bleed from someone's face? The surety sag from their shape? The real-time realization of:

this isn't going like I thought it would.

Moments like this, my ego exists in me as a voracious black hole, and I'm aware enough to recognize that's not a good thing. In the moment, it's almost euphoric, an 'on top of the world' feeling. Ortega's reaction is fed to the hole, but so is every redeemable quality I've got left. If I allowed this part of my personality to be the loudest, the biggest, I'm certain Sam wouldn't want shit to do with me.

To Ortega's credit, he rebounds quickly.

While he might not have known what to expect from me, he knew to expect

something.

He was probably braced for a fist, maybe even counting on it. An unprovoked attack would see me booted from the starter's position at the very least. Scrubbing the shock from his expression, he replaces it with one of nonchalance. He repeats the question with a deliberate slowness that has the room sweltered with tension, and even I'm a little thrown by all this newfound audacity.

"I asked...if you're a

faggot."

He pops the 't' sound at the word's end, lifting his brows expectantly. "I mean, looking back, it makes sense. You got so bent about Cecilia."

Now, I decide, is the time to stand. I won't be physically looked down on for the latter half of the conversation, but the change in position puts a few guys on edge.

"Dean, hey..." Jaylin starts warily from my left. For some of 'em, I could be giving out nickel blowjobs behind my dorm, it wouldn't matter. They'd rather win games than make a big stink over who I choose to fuck.

Ortega is an inch or two shy in height, and as close as we're standing, his chin visibly lifts to keep eye-contact. Twisting my face with exaggerated confusion, "what's suddenly got you so curious, man? Have I been on your mind like that?"

Ortega scoffs, but he's rattled. "What, you won't answer? Shit, if it's true, this must've been a free fuckin' show for you, huh?"

I really, really can't help it, because it's

funny.

Even if it's just an attempt at provoking me into a physical response, the insinuation is

too fucking much.

Laughter bubbles out from my chest, and it's almost worth clutching my stomach or slapping a knee. Striking a tear from the corner of my eye, even. No one else seems to catch the punchline, however. I'm not oblivious to the big eyes and gaping mouths, looks of concern and vague horror. There's a sense of, 'I should probably wrap this up.'

Scraping damp hair across my scalp where it's come loose, I put more of myself in his space. I want him to be hyperaware of the differences between us. I want him to be cowed by it, and he is, because arrogance isn't confidence. It's as sturdy and persevering as candyfloss in the rain, vanishing under the first sprinkle of resistance. On the remains of incredulous laughter, "holy shit! You're a confident guy, huh? If only you had

any

fucking reason to be

."

Ortega flinches back from the blistering hostility of it, "what--?"

"Let's try and be realistic, yeah?" Exaggerated, forced, or genuine, any humor is gone. Only the cold, bare bones of contempt. Disdain for having to engage in this at all. Loud enough to not be missed by anyone:

"I could be choking back twenty dicks a day, the biggest faggot in this fucking hemisphere, but that's not changing your stats, Ortega. That won't make you any less of a

shit athlete.

You're lucky this team is as good as it is, because they weren't just carrying you, nah. They were

dragging your ass

through the season. Nelson was over the goddamn moon to replace you, man."

However many shades exist in a human's palette, Ortega's an unhealthy mixture of them all. Flushed six different hues, but also pale as a sheet. He looks gutted. God, do I eat that shit up. We might both be upright, face to face, but I can feel his throat lurching for breath under a grinding heel. Part of me wishes that were the reality. This is satisfying in its own way, but not to the extent of splitting my knuckles off the bones in his face.

"Shouldn't you be...a little more embarrassed, coming on to me like this? At your big age? I'm a sensitive guy, and I'm feeling pretty fucking hurt."

Tension swells unanimously through everyone in the room, though more in Collin Ortega than anyone else. They can sense what's on the horizon, an audience who can't tear their eyes from the imminent snap of a noose. Social execution. Ortega will go on to live more life after this, but parts of him have died here today. If he had the option, he might even have chosen real, permanent death over continuing to exist in this moment.

"Apologize."

If he refuses, there won't be any consequence now. It's his last chance at saving face, maintaining whatever dignity is left. He could say 'fuck you, Saunders!' instead and storm from the clubhouse. But, he must've seen it. He must've glimpsed it somewhere in my face, my body language, my voice.

Eagerness.

How badly I want to feed him his own teeth, smashing a hole through his face until he swallows every last cuspid and incisor. How much I'd love the excuse, even if some time needs to pass.

Ortega decides the unknown of 'later' is more terrifying than the shame of right now.

"...yeah, I'm--sorry."

Every syllable is it's own torture, and there's no such thing as a dignified exit after that. With Ortega's hasty withdrawal, activity is slow to resume. Maybe they're expecting an outburst, or it just feels

wrong

to go back to changing and conversation after the world's most uncomfortable standoff. Ortega's twenty-two, a guy they've had on their roster for almost two years. Personality aside, they've mixed blood, sweat, and tears with him out on the gridiron. Wins, losses, triumphs, and disappointments. Maybe they're resentful of me for embarrassing him to that extent, even if it was invited. Maybe they're harboring the same sort of discriminatory thoughts about my sexual identity, but were too cowardly to support the interrogation.

I'm not interested in lightening the mood, but as I turn to continue changing, it's a cue for my teammates to pick their jaws off the floor and do the same. I don't have to pretend to be calm or relaxed in the aftermath, I just

am.

Predictably, it went my way, not Ortega's. The result of any such confrontation is preordained, because there's nothing anyone can say about me that I'd be bothered to hear. If Sam's character is attacked, it'd be different.

I finish changing, gather my shit, and leave as I would any other day. There's no fanfare, no slamming my locker's door, no addressing the room. Practice is over, and Sam's available for a FaceTime.

In the coming weeks, nothing changes. There's still a palpable strain between myself and the team as a whole, but it doesn't inhibit practice. We're a cohesive unit on the field, and we win our last game before going on break. Spirits do lift at being guaranteed a spot in the Fiesta Bowl, though I expected nothing less. I chose this school only because it's close to Sam, but I wouldn't have been satisfied with regular losses or incompetent teammates.

With Sam, fuck, things are

great.

So, so great. Like, holy shit.

Jane finding out like she did, and my immediate reaction to it, were unfortunate. But, the result? With his mom in the know, he's like a different person. Or, not a different person, but

more of himself.

He's less hesitant, less withdrawn. Brighter, softer. Instead of choking down his affection, he's giving it up freely. While we can't be on the phone with each other all day, we make up for it in those spare hours. One or both of us might be busy with an assignment, but it's a privilege just to exist in silence with him. Brittle sighs, fingertips punching keys, body shifting after it's grown too tense.

I could listen to it for hours.

That, and it's almost Christmas.

My first Christmas with Sam, and it feels like

the first

Christmas. I'm so eager, it feels like it's detrimental to my health. Hearts probably shouldn't gallop like that, at least not for days on end. I want to do all that Hallmark shit with him.

The topic of my sexuality, still shrouded in mystery, isn't brought up again until after our last practice before the winter break. All of my teammates, even the ones I'm on good terms with, have been on eggshells since that altercation with Ortega. Everyone's mature enough to play their part during drills, but there's been a noticeable decline in conversational attempts off the field. If anything, it's appreciated. I don't like my business being nosed into, even innocently.

Jaylin, however, can no longer bear the unacknowledged tension. It's yet another colloquy called to order in the sauna, and if he's so concerned over my alleged propensity for fucking other men, it seems strange to bring it up in a small, humid box packed with naked dicks.

"So..."

As soon as that stretched 'oh' leaves his mouth, everyone's tense in anticipation. Whether it's anticipation over my beating Jaylin half to death or finally getting an honest answer, I'm not sure. There's an immediate urge to loudly sigh, but I hold it in.

"--you gay, man?"

There's not a lick of tact to the question, but I don't have to look at him to know it's coming from a place of sincere curiosity. Jaylin's like a kid in that way. He blurts whatever thought pops into his head, and if there's a question that might require some delicacy on the delivery, he's the last man who should be asking it. While I might not be bothered by the friction that's sprung up between myself and my teammates, I can admit it might not be the case for them. Sure, they could be burning to know, but they'd also probably appreciate the return of an easygoing environment.

I answer honestly, though I don't pick my head up from the bench: "Not sure."

There's a long pause, and I can almost hear the gears smoking in their heads.

Richie clears his throat, apparently deeming it safe enough for further inquiry, "like, you're...experimenting?"

"No." I answer immediately. "I was definitely attracted to girls."

"...was? So, you're not...anymore?"

"I'm dating a guy, and he's the only one I want to fuck. I'm not attracted to anyone else. So, I'm not sure if that makes me gay or not. I never thought about it, and I don't really give a shit."

There it is, folks. Feel free to ring it into your local station, bomb the forums, run it home to your parents. Does this count as coming out? I'm not feeling any more or less liberated. My only reason for keeping it close to the chest before now was to secure a top position on the totem, a purely strategic move. There's no crushing weight off my sternum, no heaving sigh of relief. It wasn't a secret that emotionally burdened me, nor was I desperate to keep it.

"Seriously?!" Jaylin belts, too loud for such a small room.

"Seriously."

I get it, I do. It's hard to believe, because I don't fit the bill. There's nothing about me that suggests an attraction to other men, and truthfully, there wasn't much of one before Sammy. There was always just...something about

him.

You won't catch me side-eyeing another dude's dick in the showers, and while I've always been attracted to the soft types, feminine men were never quite as appealing as plain ol' girls. It was tough to beat a supple pair of God's honest breast.

With my confirmation, questions and comments are fired off almost too quickly to keep up with:

"How long have you been together?"

"Almost a year."

"Is he back in Illinois?"

"He's on a PhD track for Literature at Berkeley."

"Holy shit, you're into

nerds!

Were you, like, his bully?"

Jesus Christ, why does everyone assume that? Do I come off as that much of a douchebag? "No comment."

"Oh my God, that's why you're always on your fuckin' phone, never coming out to shit."

"Has he been to any of our games?"

"Yeah, one."

Max, with an elephant's memory, hits the nail on the head: "Against UCLA, yeah? You bailed on the afterparty."

Begrudgingly, I admit, "that's the one."

Then, Richie asks in a more serious tone: "You tryin' to keep this on the low, man?"

Honestly, it's a little touching. I know I have a hard time forming attachments, and I don't put nearly as much thought into the lives of other people as they might dedicate to mine. Over the years, there have been countless peers who've wished to become an important 'someone' to me, even just as a friend. They open themselves up so easily, carelessly, and I've never felt inclined to do the same. Jacob got his foot in the door early enough for that friendship to stick, and he's persistent where others lose interest after enough nonreciprocity.

To these guys, it has to be obvious how few fucks I give about...

Well,

them.

Aside from idle, good-spirited chitchat before and after practices, it's not like I've gone out of my way to get to know them. I rarely attend hang-outs or parties. I don't remember the names of their families, friends, or girlfriends. Less than friends, they're practically coworkers. I enjoy the sport, yeah, but this is a job for me. Yet, here they are, seeming to take a genuine, unprejudiced interest in my personal life. Richie gives enough of a shit to check after my comfortability with the spread of this private information.

"I might not advertise it, but it's not something I'm actively trying to hide."

"Yeah, no shit." Max scoffs, "'s why you were sucking his tonsils out two feet from your dorm,

allegedly."

"What's his name? Got any pictures?" Jaylin's leaned forward, forearms draping his towel-clad thighs. Instead of that sincere interest from earlier, I think it's more to do with the novelty of it all. His eyes are still big and disbelieving, mouth dropped where he's forgotten to close it. I'm sure his perspective is something like:

this guy has his pick of pussy on any given day, and he's giving it to a

dude?

For me, it's only more opportunity to discuss my favorite topic in the whole, entire world:

"His name's--"

--

"Sam!"

Casey pokes his head through the open doorway of my lecture hall, students trickling past him. I'd just finished proctoring one of many exams to come between now and the winter break, and his predictable appearance is well-timed. I wouldn't label myself

prolific,

I'm no R.W.B. Lewis, but I still get caught up with my classmates and students in discussing dissertations, thesis statements, and my personal analysis of whichever material we're cycling through.

It's the case now. One of my doctoral peers has me cornered behind the desk, my satchel halfway packed. Instead of a two-way discussion, she's been talking

at me,

clearly frazzled by a lack of credible research on the topic she submitted for her dissertation. She's younger than me by two years, but miles ahead of me in the program. I haven't spared half a thought to my own dissertation, and I'd rather not stress about the shortsightedness of others in the meantime.

"Oh, sorry, you busy?" He says, as his interruption was enough to get her to pause for breath.

"No, you're fine. I'm sorry, Melissa, I have a prior engagement."

It's a little cold, but I can't think of any words of consolation to offer. While it isn't impossible, overhauling her topic would be a huge setback. 'Keep looking!' also feels cheap. Maybe she wasn't expecting any response at all, she just needed someone to dump on.

She shakes her head, smiling weakly. "No, no, thank you for listening. Sorry for going off like that."

Points for self awareness.

She takes her leave as I finish gathering my things, nodding politely at Casey as she passes him.

It's only late morning, so there's still a tedious amount of day to get through. Our next class is one we share, but there's a lot of time between now and then, almost two hours. It's routine to find each other if there's nothing and no one else keeping us. We'll grab drinks and catch up on work, usually in the atrium of the building where our next course is held. It's a comfortable, open space with more windows than wall.               Couches and round tables galore.