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Fiction

• Fiction : Récit entièrement imaginé, avec des personnages et des situations inventés

• Inspiré du réel : Récit partant d'une expérience vécue, avec une part d'invention ou d'embellissement

• Réel : Récit fidèle à une expérience réellement vécue

• Fantasme : Histoire correspondant à un fantasme personnel ou collectif

• Poème : Texte rédigé sous forme poétique avec contenu érotique

Gays

Orientation principale dans ce chapitre

Tourmented by jock in love triangle — Chapitre 5 · Building our forever

21 minutes

470

il y a 4 jours

Écriture avec assistance partielle d'une IA — Cette information est librement déclarée par l'auteur, elle n'a pas été vérifiée.

Erotique / Romantique Jeunes majeurs / Université

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L'avis peut contenir des indices sur l'intrigue.

Ce chapitre prend le parti risqué du temps long — des saisons entières défilent en quelques pages — et ça fonctionne, parce que chaque ellipse est ancrée dans un détail concret et juste. On aime la façon dont Marcus, l'ancien tyran du campus, se retrouve désarmé dans des situations où son armure de quarterback ne lui sert à rien — sans que ce soit jamais mièvre. La voix de Lee, précise et drôle, garde tout le monde vivant et imparfait jusqu'au bout, et c'est ce qui retient.

Tourmented by jock in love triangle

Chapitre 5 · Building our forever

Spring semester arrived like a slow exhale. The Walton campus thawed. Crocuses pushed through mud. I walked to my seminars with Marcus's hoodie draped over my shoulders and his kiss still warm on my mouth from the doorstep goodbye that lasted twenty minutes every morning. Twenty minutes. Every morning. I timed it once. He was late to quarterback drills four times in February. His coach yelled. He didn't care.

— Worth it, he said that night, sprawled across my grad-student twin bed, his feet hanging off the edge. — Every second.

— You're going to get benched.

— For you? I'd get benched, traded, fired. He rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand. The lamp carved shadows across his jaw. — I'd quit football tomorrow if you asked.

— Don't you dare. I threw a pillow at his face. — I'm dating a future first-round draft pick. Do you know how much my cohort respects me now? Nick from the AI lab asked me to proofread his dissertation because he thinks I have connections.

Marcus laughed. The sound still hit me like the first time—unexpected, genuine, nothing like the cruel bark I'd known for two years. — Using my athletic prowess for academic clout. I'm so proud.

— Learned from the best.

— Who?

— Tyler. He's been teaching me the art of social manipulation.

— That's my boy. He caught my wrist, tugged me down beside him. His mouth found my ear. — Speaking of social manipulation. There's this thing. Next Saturday. Athletic department banquet. Very fancy. Very public.

My stomach did something complicated. — How public?

— Cameras. Press. Boosters. Coaches. His breath was warm against my neck. — My parents.

I went still.

— What?

— My parents are flying in. They want to meet you. He pulled back enough to read my face. His own was carefully neutral. — I told them about us. About everything. The bullying, the apology, the year apart. All of it. They want to meet the man I've been in love with for three years.

— Marcus—

— You don't have to. No pressure. But I'm going, and I want you with me. His thumb traced my knuckles. — Not hiding in the nosebleeds. Not running to the parking lot. With me. As my boyfriend.

The word still felt new. Boyfriend. We'd been using it since January—officially, publicly, unapologetically—but every time I heard it, some old scar tissue twinged.

— Okay, I said.

— Yeah?

— Yeah.

He kissed me. Soft at first, then deeper, his hand sliding under my shirt. The kiss said what he couldn't articulate: thank you, I love you, I'm terrified, I'm grateful. Then it said other things. His mouth moved to my throat. His hips pressed into mine. The twin bed creaked ominously.

— Your bed is too small, he murmured.

— I'm a graduate student. I'm contractually obligated to have a too-small bed.

— We're going to fall off.

— Probably.

He grinned against my skin. — Let's risk it.

---

The banquet was held in the Walton Athletic Complex's grand ballroom. Crystal chandeliers. White tablecloths. An ice sculpture of the Walton mascot that melted slowly into a puddle of unrecognizable bird-shape. I adjusted my tie seventeen times before we walked in.

Marcus put his hand on the small of my back.

— You're shaking, he said quietly.

— I'm fine.

— Lee. He stopped walking. Turned me to face him. The parking lot lights caught the silver in his tie—we'd bought matching ones, his idea, and I'd said it was ridiculous, and I'd worn it anyway. — I've got you. Every second. Anyone looks at you wrong, anyone says anything—

— You'll what? Beat them up?

— No. His voice was serious. — I'll leave with you. We'll get ice cream and watch terrible horror movies and I'll spend the rest of the night reminding you why you're the best thing that ever happened to me. He paused. — But also I'll memorize their faces and hold a grudge forever. I'm still me.

Despite everything, I laughed. — Okay. Let's do this.

The ballroom swallowed us. Two hundred people, maybe more. Boosters in suits that cost more than my stipend. Coaches with clipboard-callused hands. Athletes from every sport, cleaned up and uncomfortable in formalwear. And Marcus's parents, waiting near the bar, watching me with expressions I couldn't quite parse.

— Mom. Dad. Marcus's arm was still on my back. — This is Lee.

Patricia Chen was a small woman with Marcus's eyes and a posture that suggested decades of Pilates. David Chen was taller, broader, with silver at his temples and a grip that crunched my knuckles when we shook hands.

— Lee Walsh, David said. Not a question.

— Yes, sir.

— We've heard quite a bit about you.

I didn't know what to say to that. Fortunately, Patricia spoke first.

— My son tells us you're pursuing a PhD in computer science. Machine learning applications in natural language processing. That's impressive.

— You know about machine learning?

Her smile was small but real. — I Googled. Extensively. I wanted to be prepared to ask intelligent questions.

— She's been reading academic papers for three weeks, Marcus said, and the pride in his voice was unmistakable. — She printed one out. Highlighted it.

— I had to know what kind of person could make my son work on himself for an entire year. No one's ever managed that before. Not me, not his father, not any coach. Her dark eyes met mine. — Thank you.

My throat tightened. — I didn't—he did the work himself.

— Because of you. David's voice was rougher than his wife's. — We're not blind to what Marcus was. The bullying. The harassment. He told us everything, and we've been— He stopped. Swallowed. — We've been doing our own work. As parents. Understanding what we missed. I want you to know that.

Marcus's hand tightened on my back.

— I love your son, I said. — That's not something I ever expected to say, and it's not something I say lightly. But I love him. And I'm proud of who he's becoming.

Patricia's eyes glistened. She blinked it away with the same stoicism I recognized in Marcus when he was feeling too much.

— Well, she said. — Let's get champagne.

---

The banquet passed in a blur of handshakes and introductions. Marcus presented me to everyone. — This is Lee Walsh, my boyfriend. Not "my partner," not the ambiguous "significant other." Boyfriend. Clear. Unambiguous. Over and over, to boosters and coaches and teammates and their dates, until my cheeks ached from smiling.

Tyler found us at the dessert table. — Dude. You guys are the talk of the banquet. Power couple vibes. Very intimidating. He grabbed a chocolate-covered strawberry. — Coach Henderson just told a booster that Marcus playing better this season is directly attributable to 'domestic stability.' Domestic stability. That's you, Lee.

— Domestic, I said. — Like a housecat.

— A very influential housecat. The most influential housecat in Division I football.

Marcus laughed and pulled me closer. — He's not wrong. You're the reason I'm any good out there.

— I'm not catching your passes.

— No, but you're the reason I want to be good enough to deserve them. He said it simply, like it was obvious, and Tyler made a gagging noise and wandered off to find more dessert.

Later, on the dance floor, moving slowly to something orchestral, Marcus's forehead pressed to mine.

— So, he murmured. — My parents love you. The boosters love you. The coaching staff thinks you've domesticated me. How are you feeling?

— Overwhelmed. In a good way. I looked up at him. The chandelier light caught his features, softening them. — You really told your parents everything. The bad parts.

— Had to. If I'm going to build something real with you, I can't have it built on lies. His thumb traced my spine through my jacket. — They cried. My mom especially. Not the 'we're disappointed' kind of crying. The 'we didn't see our son suffering and that breaks our hearts' kind. It was hard. It was necessary.

— Marcus—

— I'm not that person anymore. But I need to remember that I was. Every day, I need to remember. So I never go back.

The music swelled. His arms tightened around me.

— I love you, I said.

His breath caught. Every time I said it, the same reaction—like he couldn't quite believe it was real.

— I love you too. More than— He stopped, shook his head. — More than anything. More than football. More than my own skin. I know that sounds insane but that's what it feels like.

— It doesn't sound insane.

It didn't. It felt like I was finally learning a language I'd been hearing my whole life without understanding the words.

---

April arrived. The draft talk started in earnest. Scouts. Combine stats. Endless speculation about which teams needed a quarterback and which ones would trade up. Marcus's phone buzzed constantly with calls from agents, reporters, former coaches offering advice.

We were in his apartment—the same two-bedroom where we'd shared burned garlic bread and confessions—when the call came.

I was on the couch, grading undergraduate assignments. He was in the kitchen, making coffee. His phone rang.

— Yeah, he said. Then silence. Then: — Uh huh. Okay. Can I—can I call you back in five minutes?

He hung up. Set the phone on the counter. Turned to face me.

— That was the LA Storm, he said. His voice was strange. Distant. — They're offering me a contract. Rookie deal. Millions. They want me to start in the fall.

The papers in my lap slid to the floor.

— Millions. Actual millions.

— Lee. He crossed the room, knelt in front of me, took my hands. His palms were sweating. His pulse hammered against my fingers. — Lee, this is it. This is what I've been working for since I was twelve years old. But I need you to understand—

— Understand what?

— I'm not going if you're not coming with me. His eyes were fierce, almost frightened. — I told my agent. I told the team. Wherever I go, Lee Walsh goes. That's non-negotiable. So if LA doesn't work for your degree, if you need to finish your program here, I'll turn them down. There will be other teams. Other offers. This is not— He stopped, breathed. — You are not optional. You are not an afterthought. This career means nothing if I'm coming home to an empty apartment.

— Marcus—

— Say you'll come. Say you'll think about coming. Say something.

I stared at him. This man who'd tormented me for two years. Who'd confessed his love in front of thousands. Who'd waited a year in silence. Who'd built himself back from nothing just for the chance to kneel in front of me like this, terrified and hopeful and mine.

— My program has a remote option for the dissertation phase, I said slowly. — I could transfer. Finish my research from anywhere.

His grip tightened. — Is that—are you saying—

— I'm saying yes. You idiot. Of course I'm saying yes.

He kissed me then. Hard and desperate and full of the kind of relief that only comes from fear finally released. I kissed him back until we were both breathless, until the coffee went cold and the undergraduate papers stayed scattered on the floor and the world outside narrowed to just his mouth and his hands and the impossible reality of our life together stretching out ahead of us.

---

The graduation ceremony was held in the Walton stadium. Fitting, I thought, that the place where I'd once hidden in the nosebleeds was now where I watched my boyfriend walk across a stage in a cap and gown, diploma in hand, and then immediately point to me in the crowd.

The LA move happened in June.

We found an apartment in Santa Monica with too many windows and a view of the ocean that made me stupid every morning. I'd stand at the glass with my coffee going cold and Marcus would come up behind me, wrap his arms around my waist, press his lips to my shoulder.

— Real, he'd say. — We're really here.

— Mmm.

— Professor Walsh.

— I'm not a professor yet. I have to defend my dissertation first.

— You're a teaching assistant. Assistant Professor Walsh.

— That's not how titles work.

— As far as I'm concerned, that's exactly how titles work.

My dissertation defense happened in August. Remote. The committee grilled me for two hours. When they told me I'd passed, I sat in our apartment and cried. Marcus came home from practice to find me still at my desk, staring at the screen.

— Lee? What's wrong? What happened?

— Nothing. Everything. I passed.

The roar he let out probably disturbed the neighbors.

---

The NFL season started in September. Marcus's first game as a starter was against the Denver Redhawks. I sat in the family section—a designation I'd never imagined applying to myself—surrounded by players' wives and parents and siblings, wearing a Storm jersey with CHEN on the back that Marcus had special-ordered in my size.

He threw for four hundred and twelve yards. Three touchdowns. No interceptions. A quarterback rating so high the broadcasters kept bringing up rookie records. And when the cameras found him after the final whistle, sweaty and exhausted and radiant, he looked directly into the lens.

— That was for my fiancé. Lee, I love you. I'll see you at home.

Fiancé.

I looked down at my left hand. Empty. I looked back at the screen.

He'd proposed on national television without a ring.

— Marcus, you absolute disaster of a human being, I said out loud.

The woman next to me—linebacker's wife, I'd forgotten her name—laughed so hard she snorted champagne.

---

He came home that night with a ring in a velvet box and terror in his eyes.

— I know I did that completely backwards. I know I should have asked you privately. I know you probably hate public gestures after everything I've put you through. But we were winning and I was so happy and I looked up at the section where I knew you were sitting and I just— He opened the box. — Lee Walsh. Will you marry me? For real this time? With an actual ring and everything?

The ring was silver. Simple. Engraved on the inside with a date: the day I'd shown up at his apartment for pasta.

— Yes, I said. — You absolute disaster of a human being. Yes.

---

We got married in the spring. Small ceremony. Beachside. Just family and close friends. Tyler was Marcus's best man and spent his entire speech detailing every embarrassing thing Marcus had ever done, including the time he'd accidentally texted the entire football team a voice memo of himself practicing his confession speech. Rachel sent a card—not an RSVP, just a card in her crooked handwriting: I'm glad he finally figured out how to love you. I'm sorry I wasn't braver. I kept it.

Patricia Chen cried again. David shook my hand with that same bone-crushing grip and said, — Welcome to the family, son.

Noah didn't come. I hadn't expected him to.

---

The years unfolded. Marcus's career was meteoric. Two Super Bowl appearances. One ring. Endorsement deals, magazine covers, a quarterback rating that analysts called "generational." He brought me to every game, every event, every party. His arm around my waist. His voice in my ear. His eyes tracking me across crowded rooms.

— This is my husband, Lee. Professor Walsh, actually. He teaches at UCLA now. Computer science. Machine learning. He's smarter than anyone in this room, including me, including you.

— Marcus, you can't say that to the team owner.

— I just did.

Owners. Celebrities. Politicians. He introduced me the same way to every single one: with pride so fierce it bordered on defiance. You have a problem with this? it seemed to say. I dare you.

No one dared.

His jealousy, when it flared, came in private. A hand on my hip at faculty parties when colleagues stood too close. His mouth at my ear, low and rough: — Who was that?

— Dr. Patel. He's seventy-three and married to his research.

— I don't care. You laughed at his joke.

— It was a very funny joke about Bayesian inference.

— I don't know what that is and I don't care. You're mine.

— Marcus.

— Say it.

— I'm yours. I'd press my back against his chest, feel his heartbeat through his shirt, let the possessiveness wash over me. — And you're mine. And we need to work on your coping strategies for non-threatening academic interactions.

— Therapy, I know. I'm going. She says I'm making progress.

— Are you?

— Last month I would have interrupted the joke. Today I just glared.

— Growth.

— I love you.

— I love you too.

---

The adoption conversation started on a Tuesday. We were in the backyard of our new house—actual house, three bedrooms, too much space for two people—and Marcus was grilling vegetables. Badly. Smoke curled into the October sky.

— There's something I want to talk about, he said.

— Please not another public proposal.

— No. Different. He flipped a pepper. It landed in the grass. He didn't retrieve it. — I want to be a father.

The word hit me like a gust of wind.

— I've been thinking about it for a while. Since the Super Bowl, actually. We were on the field after we won, and there was this kid—this little boy, maybe six years old—whose dad had brought him down to the sideline. He was wearing my jersey. He looked at me like I was a superhero. Marcus's voice roughened. — And I thought: I want that. Not the superhero part. The part where I'm someone's dad. Where you're someone's dad. Where we're a family.

— Adoption, I said.

— Yeah. If you're open to it. I know your career is—I know you just got tenure. I know the timing might not be right. I just wanted to put it out there.

The pepper smoked on the lawn.

— I've thought about it too, I said.

His head snapped up. — You have?

— I didn't know how to bring it up. I wasn't sure if you'd—with your career, the travel, the media—

— Fuck the media. He dropped the spatula. Came to me. Took my face in his hands. — I don't care about any of it. I care about you. About us. About kids in the backyard burning vegetables with their disaster of a father. I want that. I want everything with you.

— Okay, I said. — Let's do it.

— Really?

— Really. But you're never grilling again.

— Deal.

---

The process took years. Paperwork. Home studies. Interviews with social workers who asked questions about our relationship, our history, our capacity to provide a stable home. We were honest about all of it—the bullying, the confession, the year apart, the therapy, the work. — That's not a red flag, one social worker said. — That's a green one. You guys fell apart and chose to rebuild. That's what families do.

In the end, we were matched with a sibling pair: a six-year-old girl named Maya and her four-year-old brother, Diego. They'd been in foster care for eighteen months. Their caseworker described them as "resilient" and "cautious about trust."

— We can do cautious, Marcus said. — We can do patience.

The first meeting happened at a park. Neutral territory. Maya had her brother's hand clutched in hers and a wary expression that didn't budge for the first hour.

Marcus knelt to their level.

— Hi, he said. — I'm Marcus. This is Lee. We're really nervous.

Maya squinted. — Why are you nervous?

— Because we really want you to like us. And we're not sure what to say. We've never done this before.

— You've never had kids?

— Never. We're total beginners. We're going to make mistakes. Probably a lot of them. He glanced at me, then back at her. — But we're going to try really hard. And we brought ice cream. Does that help?

Diego tugged his sister's sleeve. — I like ice cream.

Maya's expression softened a fraction. — What kind?

— Chocolate and vanilla both. We weren't sure what you'd prefer.

— Strawberry, Diego said. — I like strawberry.

— I like strawberry too, I said. — Marcus doesn't. Marcus is wrong about strawberry.

— I'm not wrong—

— You're wrong about strawberry, Marcus. Diego and I are right.

Diego giggled. The sound was small and unexpected, like a bell ringing in a room you'd thought was empty.

Maya looked at her brother. Looked at us.

— I guess strawberry is okay, she said.

---

The adoption was finalized on a Thursday in May. The courtroom was small. The judge was a woman with kind eyes and a collection of children's drawings taped to her desk. She asked Maya and Diego if they understood what was happening.

— We're going to live with them forever, Maya said. — They're going to be our dads.

— And you're okay with that?

She looked at me. At Marcus. Then at Diego, who was already drawing on the back of a legal pad with the crayons the bailiff had provided.

— Yes, she said. — They waited for us to be ready. They said we could take our time.

The judge smiled. — I think you found a good one, kids.

Marcus cried. Unabashed, full-face, ugly-beautiful tears. I held his hand. Maya held Diego's. The bailiff found more crayons. Somewhere outside the courthouse, a bird was singing.

We walked out as a family of four.

— Dad, Diego said, testing the word. — Dad. Dad. Dad.

— That's me, Marcus managed. — That's us.

— Dad, Maya said, quieter. Then she slipped her hand into mine. — Can we get ice cream?

— Strawberry, I said. — Obviously.

— Obviously, she echoed, and smiled.

---

That night, after the kids were asleep in beds that had been waiting for them for months, Marcus and I sat on our back porch. The grill sat cold on the patio. The October sky—no, May, it was May now—spread velvet-black above us.

— We're parents, I said.

— Yeah.

— Four kids we're responsible for.

— We have two kids.

— Maya, Diego, you, me. Four.

He laughed. — Okay. Four.

His hand found mine. The ring on his finger caught the porch light.

— I never thought I'd have this, he said. — Family. Love. You. I spent so many years so twisted up in myself I couldn't see anything else. And now I'm here. His voice broke. — I'm here. With you. With them. With everything.

I leaned into him. His arm came around me automatically, the same way it had at Tyler's party all those years ago, the same way it had at banquets and games and every moment of our shared life since.

— You did the work, I said. — You chose to change.

— I chose you.

— That's what I just said.

He kissed my temple. — I'm going to spend the rest of my life loving you. You know that, right? As much as thunderstorms. As much as Diego loves strawberry ice cream. As much as—

— As much as a Super Bowl ring?

— More. His voice was certain. — So much more.

Inside, one of the kids stirred. A small sound, quickly quieted. The monitor on the table between us glowed green.

Marcus stood. Held out his hand.

— Come on, he said. — Let's go check on our children.

Our children.

I took his hand.

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