Chapter 1: The Locker Room After Hours
The locker room was a cavern of stale sweat and faded glory. Derek Callahan stood alone in the center of it, his chest still heaving from the sprints Coach Matthews had made them run until their legs turned to rubber. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like a swarm of trapped insects, casting their sickly glow over the empty benches and the scattered cleats that nobody had bothered to pick up.
His phone was still hot in his hand.
"This is the last time I'm gonna say it, Derek." His father's voice echoed in his skull, that same patronizing tone he'd been using since Derek could walk. "You don't get to be soft. You don't get to be anything but the best. I didn't raise a quitter."
Derek had heard those words a thousand times. They'd been screamed at him from the sidelines of peewee games, whispered at parent-teacher conferences, and hammered into his skull every single day until they'd become the only truth he knew. His father had been a football legend at this same university. And now Derek was supposed to be even better. Except everything he did, every pass he threw, every tackle he made, every goddamn breath he took carried the weight of that expectation.
He'd hung up before his dad could finish whatever lecture he was building toward. His hands were shaking. They always shook after these calls.
The locker room was empty. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
A soft noise caught his attention. Paper rustling. The sound of someone trying to be very, very quiet.
Derek's head snapped toward the back corner, where the coaching offices sat dark and locked. And there, half-hidden behind a stack of equipment bins, was Timmy Petrakis. The coach's assistant. The scrawny little fuck everyone called "Timmy the Twig" behind his back. He was clutching a clipboard to his chest like a shield, his eyes wide, his whole body coiled tight as a spring.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Derek's voice came out sharper than he intended. Not that it mattered. He wasn't in the business of being gentle.
Timmy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. "Coach... Coach asked me to finish counting inventory. I didn't—I didn't know anyone was still here."
"Nobody asked you to hide in the corner like a rat."
"I wasn't hiding. I was just—"
"Just what?"
The words came out like gravel, low and threatening. Derek took a step forward and Timmy took a step back, his shoulders hitting the row of lockers behind him with a dull clang. The sound rang through the empty room. Timmy flinched.
Derek should have let it go. He should have grabbed his gear and walked out. That's what a normal person would do. But the rage from the phone call was still burning through him, looking for somewhere to land. And Timmy was right there. Small. Weak. An easy target.
That's what everyone expected Derek to do. Push him around. Make him squeak. He'd done it before. To Timmy, specifically. He remembered the way Timmy had looked at him after—not angry, not scared. Just... resigned. Like he'd expected it. Like he'd been waiting for the punchline his whole life.
It should have made Derek feel powerful. It didn't.
"Did you hear me?" Derek said, closing the distance between them. "I asked what you're doing here."
"I already told you." Timmy's voice cracked on the last word. "I'm just doing my job."
"Your job." Derek laughed, and it was an ugly sound. "Yeah. What the hell is your job, exactly? What does the coach need you for? You can't play, you can't lift. You can't even stand up straight when someone talks to you."
Timmy's jaw tightened. A small movement, almost imperceptible. But Derek saw it.
That was different.
Instead of cowering, Timmy looked up at him. Really looked. His eyes were dark and tired, with shadows underneath them that suggested he hadn't slept properly in weeks. He looked like he was carrying something heavy, something that had been pressing down on his shoulders for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like to stand upright.
"I'm not afraid of you," Timmy said quietly.
Derek froze.
"You should be."
"I've been afraid of things way bigger than you. You think you're the first guy to call me a twig? The first one to push me around?" Timmy's voice was steady now. "I've been dealing with that since I was twelve. So go ahead. Do whatever you're gonna do. Get it over with."
Derek's mind went blank.
The script was supposed to go a different way. Timmy was supposed to stutter and run. He was supposed to make that pathetic little squeaking sound that everyone laughed at. He wasn't supposed to stand his ground.
The word that usually followed was a slur. He could feel it sitting on his tongue, ready to fire. Faggot. Queer. The kind of thing his father had taught him to say, the kind of thing that filled the silence when he couldn't think of anything else.
But the word wouldn't come.
He couldn't say it. Not while he was looking at Timmy's face, at that small, hardened flicker of defiance. Not while he was so close to someone who had clearly spent years learning how to take a hit and keep going.
"What?" Timmy asked, his brow furrowing. "Nothing to say?"
Derek grabbed him by the front of his shirt. The fabric was thin, worn, and it bunched in his fist like paper. Timmy gasped, his back slamming against the lockers again.
"You don't know anything," Derek said.
"Then what's the problem? Just do what you came here to do." Timmy's breath hitched. "Get it over with."
The lockers were cold against Timmy's back. Derek could feel the metal through his own knuckles. His hands were still shaking. His whole body was shaking, and he didn't know why, and he hated that he didn't know why.
This was wrong. This was all wrong.
But he couldn't stop.
The anger was supposed to protect him. It was supposed to keep everyone at a distance, keep them from getting close, keep them from seeing the things he'd spent his whole life hiding. But standing here, with Timmy's thin shirt bunched in his fist and his own heart pounding so loud he could hear it, Derek felt something crack open inside his chest.
His grip loosened. Just slightly.
And then, before he could think, before he could stop himself, he pulled Timmy forward instead of pushing him back.
It wasn't a decision. It was gravity.
Timmy's eyes went wide. "What are you—"
"Shut up."
Derek's voice was barely more than a whisper. His hands were on Timmy's shoulders now, hard enough to bruise. He could feel the sharp bones underneath, the fragile architecture of someone who hadn't eaten enough in weeks.
"Just... shut up."
Timmy didn't speak. His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. He was staring at Derek like he was seeing something he'd never seen before. And maybe he was. Maybe this was the first time anyone had seen Derek like this—raw and unguarded, held together by nothing but the rough edge of his own panic.
The drop of water from the leaky pipe echoed through the silence.
And then Derek pushed him down.
Not hard. Not like the way he shoved freshmen into lockers. It was almost... uncertain. His hands hovered over Timmy's shoulders as if they didn't know whether to hold on or let go.
The tile was cold and grimy beneath Timmy's knees. He should have fought, should have pushed back, should have done something other than kneel there and stare up at Derek with that unreadable expression.
But he didn't.
Maybe he was too surprised. Maybe some small, quiet part of him had been expecting this. Maybe he just didn't have any fight left.
Derek's hands slid from Timmy's shoulders to his jaw, tilting his head up. His thumb pressed against the corner of Timmy's mouth, a gesture that was almost tender except for the way his fingers trembled.
"I said shut up," he whispered.
But Timmy hadn't said anything at all.
"W-what are you doing, man?" Tim asks, getting slightly nervous at that look in Dereck's eyes. He'd never seen him like this.
Dereck just stared at him and then reached for the hem of his own pants. Tim's eyes widened as he saw Derek slide his hands over a huge bulge there, before starting to bring his pants down slightly.
"D-Dereck, what are you-"
Tim's eyes widened as he saw Derek slide his hands over a huge bulge there, before starting to bring his pants down slightly.
"D-Derek, what are you—"
"Don't." The word came out strangled, like Derek was choking on it. His fingers had stopped moving. They just rested there, trembling against the waistband of his practice shorts. "Don't say anything."
He ran a hand over the bulge again letting out a shaking breath as he stared at Tim. After a long moment of silence he spoke.
"You want it, yeah?"
"No!" Tim said, shaking his head frantically.
"Don't lie. I've seen the way you look at me. Fairy through and through, right? I'm sure you've been dying to see what a real man's cock looks like."
"Dereck, I'm not-"
He smacks him across the face, causing Tim to gasp.
The slap cracked through the empty locker room like a gunshot. Tim's head snapped sideways, his cheek already blooming red, but he didn't make another sound. Just stared at the grimy tile beneath his knees, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp bursts.
Derek's hand stung. He looked at his own palm like it belonged to someone else.
"I didn't—" He stopped himself. What was he going to say? That he didn't mean it? He'd meant it. He'd meant every goddamn second of it because if he didn't hit, if he didn't hurt, then he'd have to feel whatever the hell was crawling up his throat right now.
Tim's voice came out small. "You done?"
"No."
The word hung between them. Derek's hands were still shaking. He hated that. He hated that Tim could see it, that anyone could see it. His father's voice was still echoing in his skull—you don't get to be soft—and here he was, standing over some kid with his pants halfway down and his heart pounding so hard he thought his ribs might crack.
"This doesn't mean anything," Derek said. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. Rough. Cracked at the edges.
Tim looked up at him then. His cheek was already starting to swell, but his eyes held something Derek couldn't name. Curiosity, maybe. Or pity. That was worse.
"What does it mean then?" Tim asked.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
The word caught Derek off guard. Tim wasn't supposed to talk back. Tim was supposed to cower and cry and do whatever Derek told him to do, because that's how this worked. That's how it always worked. But Tim was just kneeling there, staring up at him with that swollen face and those tired eyes, and he looked like he'd already figured out every secret Derek had spent his whole life burying.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Derek said.
"I know you could've just left. I know you didn't have to stay. You're the one who came over here. You're the one who—" Tim gestured vaguely at himself, at Derek, at the space between them that was crackling with something neither of them wanted to name. "You're the one who started this."
"I was gonna scare you. That's it."
"Is it?"
No.
Derek didn't say it. He couldn't. Instead he just stood there, frozen, watching Tim's throat move as he swallowed. There was a bruise forming on his jaw. Derek had done that. His hands had done that. But his hands had also done other things—softer things, things he'd only ever dreamed about in the dark of his dorm room with the covers pulled up to his chin and the shame burning so hot he couldn't breathe.
"Just..." Derek's voice cracked again. He cleared his throat. "Just stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you know me."
Tim was quiet for a moment. The dripping pipe echoed through the room, counting out seconds neither of them could fill.
"I don't know you," Tim finally said. "I don't think anyone knows you. Not really."
That landed somewhere deep. Somewhere Derek didn't let anyone touch.
He should leave. Right now. Pull up his pants and walk out of this locker room and never think about this again. That's what a smart person would do. That's what a normal person would do.
But Derek had never been normal. Not in the ways that mattered.
His hands moved before his brain could catch up. They cupped Tim's face—not gently, because Derek didn't know how to be gentle—but with a kind of desperate intensity that bordered on violence. His thumbs pressed into the soft hollows beneath Tim's cheekbones. The skin there was warm. Alive.
Tim flinched.
"Don't," Derek said again. The word was becoming a prayer.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this harder than it already is."
Tim's brow furrowed. "Harder for who?"
For me. For you. For everyone who has to live in this world where things like this aren't allowed to happen.
Derek didn't have an answer. He just leaned down, close enough that he could smell the cheap detergent Tim used on his clothes, close enough that he could feel Tim's breath on his face. His own breath was ragged. Unsteady. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something and one wrong move would send him plummeting.
"You're gonna do what I say," Derek whispered. "And you're not gonna tell anyone."
"Or what?"
The question was so quiet. So calm. Like Tim had already accepted whatever was coming.
Derek's grip tightened. "Or I'll make your life hell."
"More than it already is?"
Derek froze.
Tim wasn't smiling. Wasn't smirking. He looked dead serious, his dark eyes boring into Derek's like he was searching for something buried deep. And whatever he found there made his expression soften. Just a little. Just enough.
"You think I don't know what it's like to have to be something you're not?" Tim asked. "You think I don't know what it's like to wake up every morning and wish you could just... be someone else? Someone people actually wanted?"
Derek's throat closed up.
"You're not the only one who's scared," Tim said. "You're just louder about it."
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed—a janitor, maybe, or a straggler from practice. But in here, in this pocket of stale air and rusted lockers, time felt like it had stopped.
Derek's hands were still on Tim's face. He could feel the slight tremor running through Tim's body, could feel his own heartbeat echoing in his fingertips. Everything in his head was screaming at him to run. Run fast. Run far. Never look back.
But he didn't.
The locker room had held a lot of things over the years. Wins and losses. Blood and sweat. The kind of rage that had nowhere to go and the kind of pain that only got louder the harder you tried to bury it.
Maybe it was time for something else.
Derek let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His shoulders dropped an inch. Then another. His hands slid down from Tim's face to his shoulders, then to his arms. They just... rested there. Holding on. Not squeezing. Not hurting. Just holding.
"I don't know how to do this," Derek admitted. The words felt like shards of glass coming up his throat.
Tim looked up at him. His eyes were still, patient. "Do what?"
"Any of it." Derek swallowed hard. "I don't know how to... I've never..."
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Tim didn't make him. He just sat there on the cold tile, one cheek red and swelling, his whole body still trembling, and waited. Like he had all the time in the world. Like Derek was worth waiting for.
That was the moment something cracked open. Something Derek had been carrying since he was ten years old and his father had caught him staring at the neighbor's son too long. Something that had calcified into armor so thick he'd forgotten what his own skin felt like underneath.
His knees gave out.
He came down hard, one hand slamming against the locker beside Tim's head to catch himself. The metal rang out through the empty room, and then there was silence. Just the two of them, breathing.
"This isn't happening," Derek said. His voice was barely a whisper now. The anger was gone, replaced by something worse. Something that felt like drowning.
"It's okay," Tim said.
"It's not."
"It is."
"No, I—" Derek's voice broke. He pressed his forehead against Tim's shoulder, just for a second, just to feel something other than the weight of his own lies. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"Neither do I."
"That's not—" He lifted his head. "That's not reassuring."
Tim laughed. It was a small sound, barely more than an exhale, but it was real. It was honest. And it hit Derek somewhere he hadn't known was exposed.
"You're an asshole," Tim said. "You know that, right?"
"Yeah."
"You're a huge fucking asshole."
"I know."
"You hit me."
"I know."
"And now you're—" Tim gestured vaguely between them. "What? What is this?"
Derek didn't have an answer. He just stared at Tim's mouth, at the way his lips parted slightly when he breathed, at the faint sheen of sweat on his neck from the heat of the empty locker room. He'd been thinking about this for so long. Longer than he'd ever admit. And now it was here, in front of him, and he had no idea what to do with it.
"I don't know," Derek finally said. "I just... I needed..."
He couldn't finish.
Tim reached up. His hand was small and cold against Derek's jaw. The touch was tentative, like he was expecting to get hit again. But Derek didn't move. He just stood there, frozen, as Tim's thumb brushed over his cheekbone.
"You need to stop punishing yourself," Tim said quietly. "Whatever you're running from, it's not my fault. It's not your teammates' fault. It's not your dad's fault."
"Don't talk about my dad."
"Okay."
"Just—" Derek's hands fisted in the fabric of Tim's shirt. "Just stop talking."
"Okay."
They stayed like that for a long moment. Derek couldn't say how long. The fluorescent lights hummed. The pipes dripped. Somewhere outside, the world kept spinning, oblivious to the fact that everything in this room had just shifted.
Then Derek moved.
It wasn't a decision. His body just acted. His hands slid down to Tim's waist, holding him steady. His forehead pressed against Tim's, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"I don't know what I want," Derek admitted. "I just know I can't stop."
Tim's breath hitched. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." Derek swallowed. "I mean, I've been watching you. For months. At practice. In the cafeteria. Everywhere."
Tim's eyes widened.
"I told myself it was because you're pathetic. Because I hated you. Because—" Derek's voice cracked. "Because that's what I'm supposed to feel. That's what everyone expects."
"But it's not true."
"No."
"Then what is?"
Derek didn't answer with words. He answered with his mouth.
The kiss was rough. Clumsy. It tasted like sweat and shame and something underneath that was almost sweet. Tim didn't kiss him back at first—just froze, his hands hovering in the air. But then something in him seemed to give way, and his lips moved against Derek's, tentative but real.
They broke apart, breathing hard.
"I'm still an asshole," Derek muttered.
"Yeah."
"I'm still—"
"I know."
They stared at each other for a breathless moment.
And then Derek pulled away. He stood up, yanked his pants back into place, and grabbed his bag from the bench. His hands were still shaking. He felt like he'd been turned inside out.
"I need to go," he said.
"I know."
Derek paused at the door. He didn't turn around.
"Don't tell anyone."
"I won't."
"Seriously."
"I said I won't."
Derek's hand hovered over the door handle. He could feel Tim's eyes on his back, patient and unreadable.
"Tomorrow," Derek said. "Practice. Don't be weird."
"Okay."
"It didn't mean anything."
Silence.
"Right," Tim said softly. "Nothing."
Derek pushed through the door and into the night. The air was cold and smelled like rain. He walked to his truck without looking back, climbed in, and sat there for a long time with his hands on the steering wheel.
His phone buzzed. Another text from his dad.
Did you sign the forms?
He typed back one word. Yeah.
Then he stared at the windshield, at the darkness beyond, and tried to remember how to breathe.