Chapter 13
Nick doesn’t know what compels him—fear, panic, loneliness, confusion, or some twisted cocktail of all of it—but he can’t shake the need for something he’s been missing for far too long.
As he stumbles back to his dorm, his mind is a chaotic mess of shattered expectations and raw desire.
His Shakespeare hat—the one that used to make him feel so proud of his “nerd” side—slips from his grasp and falls to the floor with a soft thud, a silent symbol of his unraveling.
Taking deep, ragged breaths to calm the storm inside him, Nick finally unlocks his phone and types a short, desperate message to his mom.
He doesn’t even know if he deserves her comfort, but right now, all he craves is the warmth of a real hug—the kind only his mom can give.
It’s been so long since her arms enveloped him, since he felt that sense of safety and unconditional love, and the emptiness is almost too much to bear.
He misses her. He loves her.
Does she love him?
How could she love him?
He shakes his head. Fuck, fuck fuck. Doesn't matter. Text and wait.
Breathe.
Inhale. Exhale.
[ Mom ]
February 11
Nick
Is there still a chance I can visit?
I'm a bit scared right now.
I miss you and I'm sorry.
Mom
Scared?
Nicky, what's going on?
You had a panic attack a few days ago
Now this. Are you okay?
Sweetheart??
Nick
I'm just stressed
And confused
I don't know
Drinking and partying isn't helping anymore
I have an away game this Friday but I could visit after?
Just drive to the game and to yours?
If not that's okay
I've been a bad son
Mom
Of course you can come and visit!
Do you want me to go to the game?
That way you're not driving when you're tired?
You aren't a bad son, Nicky
I still love you
Nick
Please come to the game
I'm sorry
I love you
Mom
Okay sweetheart
I'll drive there and watch you play then we can drive home and you can take the train back, how's that work?
I'm sorry too
I wish I knew what was wrong
Nick
Everything is wrong
I just need a hug
I'll send you the details of the game
Thank you
Mom
Oh, Nicky it will be okay
I'll see you soon
Be safe and take care of yourself
Don't forget to eat
His mind is still a tangled web of emotions, but maybe—just maybe—this small act will remind him that he’s not alone.
Even if the world outside is a storm of doubts and shattered identities, his mom’s love might be the anchor he desperately needs.
The rest of the week passes in a blur, time slipping through Nick’s fingers like sand, coarse and suffocating. He avoids Charlie at all costs, making sure to send a vague, half-assed text about being out of town for an away game and visiting his mom.
That should be enough, right?
Enough to keep Charlie at arm’s length, to give Nick the space he so desperately needs to shove everything back into the box it came from and lock it away with a key he’s already lost.
Routine. Routine is safe.
He sticks to it like his life depends on it.
Wake up. Practice. Lift until his arms shake and his hands are raw from gripping the bar without gloves. Work extra shifts at the gym, mindlessly wiping down weights, re-racking dumbbells, nodding when people ask for a spot but never lingering long enough for conversation. Run drills, take tackles harder than he needs to—Derek makes sure of that, knocking him down at every opportunity, driving his shoulder into Nick’s ribs like he’s punishing him for something unspoken.
And maybe he is.
Maybe Nick deserves it.
Tara is there some nights, headphones in, running on the treadmill or stretching near the mats, but she doesn’t come up to him. Doesn’t acknowledge him beyond a glance, and he feels unworthy of anything more.
What would he even say?
Hey, I know I’ve been a piece of shit, and I probably don’t deserve your friendship, but I’m sorry.
Would that even be enough?
Would anything?
Harry and Otis barely look at him. Sebastian scoffs whenever they pass in the locker room. There’s a shift in how people see him now.
He’s still the captain, still the golden boy, but the gold has tarnished, and now the world sees through the cracks in his carefully built facade.
Some of them look at him with anger, some with amusement, some with something he can’t quite name—pity, maybe?
Lust?
Disgust?
He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.
He refuses to care.
He deserves this. He caused this.
So he works himself into the ground, running until his lungs burn, lifting until his muscles ache, throwing himself into tackles like his body is nothing more than a machine built to endure punishment.
He counts the bruises, cataloging them like tally marks on a prison wall. One on his hip, deep purple from where Derek slammed into him. A scrape on his forearm from the turf. Raw hands from gripping weights too tightly, too carelessly.
It’s fine. It’s okay.
It has to be.
But fuck, he misses Charlie.
He misses his sharp tongue and teasing remarks, the way he made Nick feel like more than just a title, more than just a uniform. He even misses the burn of hot coffee spilling down his chest.
He misses—fuck—he misses him.
But no.
No.
He sticks to routine.
Because routine is safe. Routine keeps him from thinking, keeps him from feeling.
And feeling is the last thing he can afford right now.
Nick ignores the texts. All of them.
Charlie texts. Nick ignores it.
He texts Imogen. She doesn’t even open it.
He calls his dad. No answer.
Not that he expected one.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
And in the silence, Nick is left with nothing but the storm in his head, an endless cycle of questions he can’t answer.
Is he straight?
Is he gay?
Is he something else?
Is that okay?
He doesn't know.
He doesn't fucking know. And the worst part? He doesn't know if he's allowed to not know.
He wants an answer.
A clear, simple answer to all of this. He wants to wake up one day and just know who he is. What he is.
But instead, every time he reaches for certainty, it slips through his fingers like smoke, impossible to hold onto, impossible to define.
Would society treat him okay?
Would rugby still be in his future, or would he have to say goodbye?
Is he enough as he is?
Is he anything at all?
Nick doesn't know. He doesn't know, and he hates himself for it.
But he knows routine.
And so, he sticks to it.
---
By the time Friday rolls around and he’s on the team bus headed for his meeting with the University of Birmingham, he shoves all of it away.
No thinking. No feeling.
Just focus. Just the plan.
There could be scouts. His future could be riding on this game. His teammates barely speak to him, but that doesn’t matter.
He’s the captain.
He plays.
He scores.
He wins.
That’s all that matters.
Not the fact that he’s been keeping himself one breath away from total exhaustion, pushing his body until he physically can’t think about anything else.
Not the fact that he wants to text Charlie back, that the memory of Charlie’s smudged eyeliner and teasing grin keeps clawing its way into his head no matter how hard he tries to bury it.
Not the fact that he wants to kiss Charlie again.
No, no, no, no, no. Stop thinking about it.
Stop fucking thinking about it.
It’s not worth it.
It’s wrong.
…Is it?
Nick's fingers tighten around the strap of his gym bag. His jaw clenches.
Is a boy kissing another boy wrong? Or is Nick wrong for assuming it is?
Would his dad still be proud?
Would his team still respect him?
Would anything be the same?
It doesn’t matter.
Because tonight, nothing exists except for the game.
Play. Score. Win. Visit Mum.
Play. Score. Win. Visit Mum.
Play. Score. Win. Visit Mum.
It’s a mantra. A lifeline. A cage.
And when the whistle blows and the game begins, Nick doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if his lungs burn, if his legs scream in protest, if a tackle hits him too hard and he gets another bruise to add to his ever-growing collection.
Bruises numb the confusion in his head. They dull the weight of the questions he can’t answer.
Pain is simple. Pain is easy.
Pain is better than thinking about Charlie fucking Spring.
He doesn’t know how many times he’s been tackled.
He doesn’t know how many times he’s hit the ground, how many times he’s shoved through the pain and forced himself back onto his feet. He doesn’t know how many points he’s scored, doesn’t even fully register the sound of the final whistle, only that when it blows, the entire stadium erupts into cheers.
They’ve won.
Thank God.
Nick barely hears Harry’s triumphant shout as an arm slings around his shoulders, barely registers Otis’s heavy slap on his back, the way Sebastian yells, “That’s my fucking captain!” like all is right in the world again.
Like nothing has changed.
Like the last week haven’t been a fucking nightmare.
He breathes hard, hands on his knees, his entire body trembling with exhaustion. There’s dirt on his arms, blood smeared across the back of his hand from wiping at his nose—he must’ve taken an elbow to the face at some point, but he doesn’t remember when. His knees throb, bruises already forming under his socks.
It’s fine.
He’s fine.
Winning numbs everything.
The shouting, the celebration, it’s just noise. He shrugs off questions about whether he’s coming to the after-party, barely even responds to the eager claps on his back. He’s already scanning the crowd, already searching.
And then—he sees her.
His mother, standing near the front of the stands, beaming.
She’s standing, clapping, cheering—cheering for him—and for some reason, it wrecks him.
His chest tightens. His vision blurs.
His throat burns.
Who the fuck cries after a game like this?
Nick swallows the lump in his throat and pushes past his teammates, ignoring the curious looks, ignoring everything except the fact that she’s here, that she’s watching him, that she’s proud.
He jogs up to her, barely slowing down before she opens her arms.
“Nicky!” she says, voice thick with warmth. “You did so good! Oh, I’m so proud of you!”
And then he crumbles.
He collapses into her arms, arms tightening around her shoulders, his face burying into her neck as he sucks in a ragged breath.
She doesn’t even hesitate, hugging him tightly despite the mud and sweat, rubbing slow circles into his back like she knows. Like she knows how much he needs this right now, even if he doesn’t have the words for it.
Nick squeezes his eyes shut, fingers fisting the fabric of her coat as the first sob breaks out of him. It’s quiet at first, muffled against her shoulder, but then another shakes through him, and another, and then suddenly he can’t stop.
Fuck.
He’s crying. He’s fucking crying.
He’s a mess of blood and sweat and dirt and bruises, and he’s crying into his mum’s shoulder in front of everyone.
He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care, because for the first time in weeks, he feels like a kid again. Like he doesn’t have to be strong. Like he doesn’t have to pretend. Like he’s allowed to break.
Her hand strokes gently through his damp hair. “Oh, Nicky,” she murmurs, and somehow, that ruins him even more.
He shakes his head, tries to get words out, but he can’t.
His voice won’t work, his thoughts are tangled up in exhaustion and relief and everything he’s been shoving down since the moment Charlie fucking Spring turned his life upside down.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, doesn’t care who’s watching. All he knows is that he’s holding onto his mother like she’s his last tether to something real.
And she’s holding onto him just as tightly.
---
Charlie is worried.
Scratch that—Charlie is spiraling.
Nick hasn’t answered his texts. He hasn’t been to the café all week, hasn’t shown up at the gym at the same time as Charlie, hasn’t done anything except vanish.
Charlie tells himself not to be dramatic, but fuck.
He knows this pattern. He’s seen this before. He knows what it looks like when someone is trying to outrun their own thoughts, when they’re throwing themselves into routine to avoid something bigger, something messier.
And Charlie cares. He cares too much.
At first, he convinces himself it’s fine. He won’t be a clingy, needy freak about it. He sends a few texts, casual ones—Hey, how’s training? or Good luck at your game! or You still owe me a coffee, thief.
No answer.
Maybe Nick’s just busy.
But then it’s four days of radio silence, and Charlie is not okay.
He stops by the café at his usual time, orders his drink, sits in his usual spot, waits.
Nick never shows.
Charlie tells himself not to freak out. Maybe he just skipped coffee today. Maybe he’s running late. Maybe—maybe he’s avoiding him.
The thought itches under his skin, makes him feel queasy in a way he doesn’t like.
So he tries somewhere else. The gym.
That’s where Nick spends most of his time when he’s not at practice, right? That’s where he can find him.
But the receptionist won’t even let Charlie past check-in.
“Sorry, if you’re not a member, you can’t go in.”
Charlie leans over the desk, trying to see past the machines, see if Nick is in there somewhere.
“I just need to talk to someone. He’s—” He fumbles. “He’s my—”
What? Friend? Crush? Complicated person who kissed me twice and then ran away?
The receptionist just shakes their head. “Sorry, rules are rules.”
Charlie swears under his breath and leaves, hands shoved in his pockets, heart twisting.
And yeah—the hormones and horniness are long gone now.
Because this isn’t about that.
This isn’t about stolen kisses or gray sweatpants or how fucking delicious Nick Nelson looked in that stupid backwards baseball cap.
This is about Nick.
About the way he ran. About the way he looked at Charlie like he wanted him and hated himself for it.
Charlie knows what that feels like.
Knows what it’s like to be scared of yourself, to want something and not want it at the same time, to hear a voice in your head telling you you’re wrong, you’re broken, you’re something that needs to be fixed.
Charlie has been there.
And he knows that pulling away only makes it worse.
But Nick won’t let him in.
Won’t text him back, won’t talk to him, won’t even look at him.
Charlie lies in bed that night, phone face-up on his chest, waiting. Staring at the ceiling, replaying everything, wondering.
Is Nick okay?
Does he even want Charlie to check in?
Or is Charlie just making this worse?
He grips his phone, lets out a shaky breath, texts one more time.
You don’t have to talk. But if you need me, I’m here. Okay?
He watches the screen.
Nothing.
Charlie closes his eyes.
Nick needs help.
But he won’t let anyone in.