Chapter 11
Nick Nelson is Fucked.
Like, royally, catastrophically, no-coming-back-from-this fucked.
Because ever since this morning—ever since Charlie—he hasn’t been able to think about anything else. Not his statistics lecture. Not the half-assed attempt at his history essay. Not even the fact that his dad is probably still fuming about Friday's game.
No.
All that’s in his head—on repeat, like a goddamn broken record—is Charlie Spring.
His lips.
His hands.
The way he sighed into his mouth, just before Nick kissed him deeper, just before Nick pressed him into the wall and let himself get lost in it.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, Nick wants to forget it—needs to forget it. Needs to erase every single fucking second, because it doesn’t mean anything.
Right?
Right.
So why does it feel like everything?
Why does it feel like the only thing?
Why does he feel it in his bones, in his skin, in his fucking soul?
No. No, no, no, no.
This is not happening.
- He needs to focus.
- He needs to get his shit together.
And what better way to do that than going to rugby practice and pretending like he’s totally fine, completely normal, 100% straight and not questioning his entire existence?
So he shoves it down.
Deep.
Buries it.
Tells himself it’s nothing, tells himself it was just a mistake, just a moment of weakness, just something that needs to be forgotten.
And then he marches into the locker room like nothing happened.
And—yeah.
That doesn’t work.
Because everyone is looking at him differently.
Not in the usual way—not in the way where his teammates pat him on the back, call him "Captain" with that proud little smirk, follow him into the locker room like he’s some leader they’d go to war for.
No.
They’re looking at him like they don’t quite know what to make of him anymore.
Like he’s changed.
Like he’s something else.
Something less.
And he doesn’t know whether he should be relieved or fucking terrified.
Then—Coach Jackson walks in.
"Ah, Nelson. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment."
Nick tenses, already knowing this isn’t going to be good.
Still, he forces himself to nod, forces himself to act unfazed, forces himself to shove down every single feeling clawing at his chest.
"Yeah, um—yeah, sure, I’ll be there in a second, let me just finish changing real quick."
"Nope." Coach Jackson shakes his head. "Right now. My office."
And—fucking hell.
Nick sighs, dragging a hand down his face as a few of his teammates make obnoxious little "ooh" noises, like he’s a schoolboy being sent to the principal's office.
He doesn’t have time for this shit.
But he stands up anyway, shoving his bag into his locker before trudging out of the room, following Coach Jackson down the hall and into his office.
The door clicks shut.
And then—Coach Jackson locks it.
Fuck.
Nick plops down into the chair, slouching, trying to act like he doesn’t care, like he’s not dreading whatever the fuck is about to happen.
Coach Jackson sits across from him, arms crossed.
"So."
Nick braces himself.
"Your teammates have told me that you got in a bit of a brawl with Derek on Saturday. Is that true?"
Nick sucks in a breath.
Okay. Not the worst-case scenario. He can handle this.
He nods, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
"Um. Yeah. Yes, sir."
Coach Jackson raises an eyebrow.
"Does that explain the bruising? Not just on you, but on him?"
Nick clenches his jaw, resisting the urge to touch his still-healing split lip.
"Yes, sir."
Coach Jackson leans back, studying him.
"Do you want to explain to me why my team captain is deciding to fight a teammate?"
Nick grits his teeth, digging his fingers into his knee.
"Sir, he was saying things that got under my skin."
"And that can’t happen, Nick."
Nick forces himself to stay still.
"Because if your teammate is able to say something and get under your skin, what happens when someone on the opposing team finds that weakness and decides to exploit it on the field?"
Nick doesn’t answer.
Because—fuck, what is he supposed to say?
That it wasn’t about rugby? That it wasn’t about the game?
That it was about a word that has haunted him for years, a word that has stayed buried in his subconscious, waiting to crawl back out the second he lets his guard down?
That it was about Charlie?
That it was about himself?
That for the first time in his life, the insult wasn’t a lie?
No.
No, he can’t say any of that.
So he just sits there.
Silent.
"Nelson," Coach Jackson says, his voice softer now, steadier. "These kids—they follow you. You’re their leader. And if they see their leader fighting someone, they’re going to assume that they can do the same thing."
Nick swallows.
Because what is he supposed to say to that?
What is he supposed to say to any of this?
What is he supposed to do when his body is betraying him, when his mind is betraying him, when he’s spent his entire life running from something that has finally, finally caught up with him?
Because—fuck.
Coach Jackson is right.
He’s supposed to be their leader.
Supposed to be the Captain.
Supposed to be Nick fucking Nelson.
He sits in Coach Jackson’s office, fingers gripping the arms of the chair, trying to keep himself still, trying not to react, trying not to let the shaking in his hands get worse.
Because he knows—he knows what’s coming.
And yet, when it happens, when Coach Jackson sighs and shakes his head, disappointment thick in his voice, it still feels like a fucking punch to the stomach.
"I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again."
He forces himself to say it, forces himself to keep his voice steady, forces himself to pretend like he’s in control of the situation.
But Coach Jackson just leans forward, elbows on his desk, hands clasped together, looking at him like he’s already seen through the act.
"Won’t it?" he says, voice sharp, skeptical. "Nelson, you’ve always had a bit of a temper. But before, you used it in the right ways. You used it to push yourself in games. You used it to be better. But now?"
He shakes his head.
"I saw it on Friday. It happened on Saturday. I’m seeing it right now."
Nick feels his jaw clench.
Because he doesn’t know what to say.
What is he supposed to say?
That he’s fine? That he’s just going through a rough patch? That this isn’t going to be a problem?
Because he’s not fine.
And this is a problem.
But how is he supposed to explain it when he doesn’t even understand it himself?
Coach Jackson sighs again.
"Now, it is not my place," he says, voice steady. "But as your coach, and as someone who trusts you with my team, I need to tell you this: You should not be bringing individuals into my classroom to be making out with them."
Nick feels his stomach drop.
His fingers curl into fists against his thighs.
"I know that, sir," he forces out. "That wasn’t the intention."
"I don’t care if it wasn’t the intention," Coach Jackson says sharply. "It still happened. And that’s a disrespect. To me, to you, and to this entire team."
Nick swallows hard, stomach twisting.
"Your focus should be on the team," Coach Jackson continues, tone stern, unyielding. "It should be on going pro. It should not be on any individuals who can give you a few moments of pleasure."
Nick feels something tighten in his chest.
Because—fuck, he already knows that.
He already knows that.
That’s the problem.
That’s why he’s been spiraling all fucking week.
Because his focus isn’t where it should be.
Because Charlie Spring has taken up space in his brain, in his body, in his fucking soul, and Nick doesn’t know how to make him leave.
So he does the only thing he can do.
He deflects.
"Sir, I don’t understand what you’re saying," he argues, voice tight. "Many of the team members have girlfriends—"
But Coach Jackson cuts him off.
"And yet, they are your teammates. They are not the captain."
Nick freezes.
"You are the captain."
And suddenly, his title feels like a weight.
Like a fucking noose tightening around his neck.
"Your focus needs to stay on the game," Coach Jackson continues. "And I’m going to tell you something, son. Relationships only cause distractions. Keep that in mind. Because if you get too distracted—if you pull more shit like you did on Friday, and continue to fight your teammates like you did on Saturday—"
He leans forward.
Eyes sharp.
Voice final.
"You’re going to lose your position."
Nick stares.
Heart hammering.
Lungs twisting.
The words hit like a fucking bullet.
"What?"
He blinks, shaking his head, because no, no, that’s not fair.
"That’s so fucking unfair, sir. I’m the best there is. I’m the best player on this team, and you know it."
Coach Jackson doesn’t even flinch.
"Yeah?" he says, voice even. "Because you sure as hell didn’t show that on Friday."
Nick opens his mouth.
But nothing comes out.
Because he knows Coach Jackson is right.
He fucked up the game.
He wasn’t focused.
He wasn’t himself.
And all of that was because of Charlie.
"And the best doesn’t fight their teammates," Coach Jackson continues. "You’re a unit, Nelson. A team. You’re supposed to have each other’s backs. Not throw punches at each other."
Nick clenches his jaw so hard it aches.
"You’re brothers," Coach Jackson says. "Not by blood, but by bond. And I need my captain to understand that. I need my captain to be a leader. I need my captain to get his head in the fucking game—"
His voice sharpens.
"And out of whatever little fantasy you’ve got going on with that boy I caught you with earlier today."
And—fuck.
Nick feels his stomach churn, his skin go hot, because that? That was not something he was expecting.
That was not something he was ready to hear.
He should deny it.
He should laugh it off, shake his head, make some dumb joke, brush it aside—
But he can’t.
He just sits there, frozen, suffocating, every single part of him breaking at the seams.
Because his coach just confirmed what he already knows.
What he’s been trying to deny.
What he’s been trying to erase.
What he’s been trying to force out of himself.
His feelings for Charlie are real.
And if he doesn’t get rid of them, they’re going to ruin him.
Nick forces himself to nod.
Forces himself to say the only thing he can say.
"Yes, sir. I understand."
Coach Jackson studies him.
Then he leans back.
"Good," he says. "Then prove it."
And Nick?
Nick is going to do exactly that.
He’s going to make sure this never happens again.
He’s going to cut Charlie out of his brain, out of his life, out of his fucking body.
Because he has to.
There is no other option.
---
Charlie Spring is Losing His Mind.
Absolutely, positively, no-doubt-about-it losing his fucking mind.
Because Nick Nelson just texted him.
Nine hours.
Nine.
That’s all it took.
Nine hours since they last saw each other, nine hours since they last kissed, nine hours since Nick had his hands on Charlie’s face like he was something breakable, something precious, something worth holding onto.
And now, Nick Nelson—the rugby captain, the asshole, the living, breathing, walking contradiction—is texting him.
Charlie lets out a high-pitched squeal, kicking his feet in the air as he flops onto his stomach, shaking his ass like a teenage girl in a rom-com.
He’s winning.
He’s fucking winning.
From across the dorm, Isaac barely even looks up from his book.
He sighs, dog-ears the page—(which Charlie will later scold him for because what kind of monster does that??)—before saying, completely deadpan,
"Let me guess. Nick?"
Charlie rolls onto his back, holding his phone to his chest like it’s a love letter from a Victorian-era poet.
"Yes," he says, dreamily.
Isaac just stares at him.
"Charlie."
"Isaac."
"You’re a lost cause."
Charlie gasps, affronted.
"I am not!"
Isaac raises a brow.
"Charlie, you’re literally kicking your feet over a man who has actively been an asshole to you."
Charlie huffs.
"Yeah, but I can fix him."
Isaac groans, dropping his book onto his desk.
"Oh my god."
"No, listen!" Charlie sits up, determined. "He’s soft, okay? I know he is! He just has this... this wall, or—or a mask, or whatever you want to call it. But I swear, there’s something there. There’s something good."
Isaac stares at him.
"You sound like a girl in a Wattpad mafia romance right now."
Charlie gasps again.
"Take that back."
"No."
"I am not some hopeless romantic who falls for bad boys—"
"You literally are, though. That’s exactly what you are."
Charlie pouts.
"You’re no fun."
Isaac nods.
"Correct. I am not. I am, however, the responsible one. The one with common sense. The one who thinks before he acts."
Charlie huffs, flopping back onto his bed.
"I think before I act."
Isaac tilts his head, unimpressed.
"Okay. What are you thinking about right now?"
Charlie smiles.
"His ass."
Isaac stands up immediately.
"And that’s my cue to go."
Charlie snickers as Isaac grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, already heading for the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Library," Isaac says. "Somewhere far away from whatever unhinged delusions you’re about to fall into. Please, for the love of god, do not do anything stupid."
Charlie waves him off.
"I won’t!"
Isaac narrows his eyes.
"Charlie."
"Isaac."
"I mean it."
"Okay, okay, fine! I’ll be good."
Isaac lingers for another second, as if debating whether or not he should actually believe that, before sighing and walking out the door.
And Charlie?
Charlie waits approximately four seconds before unlocking his phone and opening Instagram.
Because, really.
What’s the worst that could happen?
[ @nicknelson ]
Nick Luke Nelson
Nick
my coach is mad at me :(
Charlie
Well hello to you too
Nick
Charlieeeee
Important... But hi.
Charlie
Hi :)
Now, rude coach?
Nick
He thinks I'm too angry
That me having a relationship is distracting
Charlie
You're in a relationship????
Wait?! I didn't kiss a taken man, did I?
Oh shit!
Nick
Relationship = you dumb ass
Did you forget he walked in on us?
Charlie
We're in a relationship?
Nick
No!
No.
But coach thinks so.
Annyywayyss if I don't get my shit together
Goodbye Captain
Charlie
All because he saw you kiss me?
Sounds homophobic to me
Nick
You're homophobic
Charlie
I'm literally gay???
Nick
Right.
Anyways... I'm sad :(
You should come to mine??? xox
Charlie
That doesn't sound very straight of you.
Nick
Homophobic
Charlie
Gay. As I'll always be.
Nick
Okay, fine.
Not straight to say.
So???
I should stay away from you.
You're trouble
Charlie
Says the boy that causes bad fights
Nick
I know.
I'm an asshole.
I'm working on it.
Charlie
Are you?
Nick
If I say yes will you come over?
Charlie
Nick, no.
1) you're hot, yes.. and I'm horny but bad idea
2) why bad idea? Because it's way to soon for gay sex
3) why too soon? Because you'd probably freak out
4) as much as I think you're hot as fuck, I won't be a fuck buddy....
Nick
:(
Charlie
No
Nick
What if I just wanna talk?
Don't know if you know this, but I have 0 friends
Harry didn't talk to me at practice
Otis is scared of me
Imogen is ignoring my texts
I just wanna talk
I'm confused and hurt
Please?
Charlie
Do you really want me walking in the hallway and heading to your dorm room? We'd get caught, and people would assume.
Nick
Okay... you're right :(
I am trying.
I'm sorry I'm an asshole
Charlie
It's not fine, but I know you're working through stuff
If you really just wanna talk and hangout, you can go to mine?
My roommates currently in the library
So you're secret would be safe
Nick
Really???
Charlie
Sure. But no funny business
Nick
:(
Okay.
My coach would be so mad
Charlie
Do you listen to everything your coach says
Nick
I do what everyone tells me to do ergo asshole
Charlie
Oooh fancy word.
So you can read
Nick
Just tell me what fucking dorm building and room you are
Sorry.
Please
Charlie
Better
I'm room 513, Jabbard Hall
Nick
Coming!
He lets out another little squeal—a barely-contained, utterly undignified squeal—because Nick is coming over to his dorm.
Which means—FUCK.
He needs to look presentable. He needs to clean.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
Charlie launches himself out of bed like he’s just been shot, scrambling to make his sheets presentable, smoothing out the wrinkles even though they’ll inevitably get messed up again.
He grabs his dirty laundry basket and shoves it into his wardrobe like it’s a dead body he’s trying to hide, throws out the three empty coffee cups cluttering his desk, stuffs his stray socks under his bed, and flips on every fairy light and neon LED strip on his side of the room.
Ambience. Aesthetic. Mood.
Nick Nelson is about to step foot into his room, and Charlie needs the setting to be immaculate.
He glances over at Isaac’s side of the room—the dark academia, book-lined, intellectual haven—and cringes slightly at the contrast to his own neon-lit, emo-anarchist chaos.
Not his problem.
What is his problem, however, is the fact that he is still wearing his ugly nightshirt from two years ago that says “I PAUSED MY MOVIE TO BE HERE” in cracked white letters.
Absolutely the fuck not.
He whirls around, rips it over his head, and scrambles to put on something decent—something cute, something that screams “yes, I am a casual, sexy, effortlessly cool, gay icon.”
He settles on a cropped pride t-shirt, struggles to pull it over his head, nearly chokes himself in the process—
And then—
A knock.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
"One second! One second!" he yells, hopping on one foot as he yanks on a pair of sweatpants, trying not to trip over his own goddamn feet.
He takes a deep breath, composes himself, runs a hand through his hair to make it look effortless but sexy, and then—
Opens the door.
And immediately wants to fucking faint.
Nick Nelson is standing there, all gray sweatpants and black tank top, broad shoulders and thick arms, baseball cap turned backwards like some sort of sinful thirst trap straight out of a fantasy.
Baseball cap backwards!
Charlie is two seconds away from dropping to his knees.
His brain? Gone. Completely gone.
His dignity? A distant memory.
“Uh—” Charlie says, because apparently, that is the only function his brain is capable of performing right now. “Come on in. Sorry, ignore the mess!”
Nick steps inside, taking in the space, his gaze flicking between the moody neon of Charlie’s side and the dark academia aesthetic of Isaac’s.
Charlie plops himself down on his bed, watching with barely-contained giddiness as Nick scans the room.
And then—
Nick points at Charlie’s electric drum set, sitting near Isaac’s desk, and asks, “This yours?”
Charlie giggles—(giggles, Jesus Christ, he needs to get a grip)—and says, “Yeah.”
And Nick—muttering under his breath, probably not even realizing he’s said it aloud—says,
“That’s so hot.”
Charlie short circuits.
His soul leaves his fucking body.
Hot.
Nick Nelson thinks he’s hot.
Charlie Spring is about to combust on the spot.
Nick glances up, seeming to realize what he just said, his ears tinging pink as he clears his throat.
Charlie?
Charlie just grins, tilts his head, and says, “Yeah? You think?”
And Nick—flustered, adorably grumpy, disastrously sexy—grumbles, “Shut up,” before looking anywhere but at Charlie.
And Charlie is just thinking one thing.
Oh, this is going to be fun.