The Star Rugby Player Is My Protector... And My First Kiss

The new term began, as it always did, with the low-grade dread of Mr. Lange’s form class. He had a particular fondness for "shaking things up," which usually meant a new seating chart designed for maximum social discomfort. I kept my head down, doodling spirals in the margins of my notebook, praying to be placed somewhere quiet and out of the way. A back corner, preferably next to a radiator, where I could fade into the wallpaper for another year.

“Charles Spring,” Mr. Lange called out, his voice echoing with far too much enthusiasm for eight-thirty in the morning. My stomach clenched. “You’ll be over here, please. Next to Nicholas Nelson.”

A low hum went through the room. My head snapped up. Nicholas Nelson? Of course, nobody called him that. It was Nick Nelson. Year 11 rugby god, possessor of a golden retriever smile, and the center of a social orbit I could only ever observe from a safe, astronomical distance. The empty chair was right next to him, a spotlight in the middle of the room.

I gathered my things, my hands suddenly clumsy. Every step felt excruciatingly loud. I could feel eyes on my back, the familiar mix of pity and derision. I was the school’s only openly gay kid, the one who’d had a nervous breakdown last year. Nick Nelson was… well, he was Nick Nelson. This was a cosmic joke.

I slid into the seat, keeping my gaze fixed on the wooden grain of the desk. I tried to make myself smaller, to shrink into the hard plastic of the chair. I could feel the warmth radiating from him, could smell the clean, simple scent of his soap. He was bigger than I’d realized up close, his shoulders broad under his school blazer.

Then, he turned to me. I braced myself for the usual—a smirk, a pointed silence, a muttered comment to his friends. Instead, his face was open, friendly. His eyes, a warm, clear brown, met mine directly. A genuine smile touched his lips.

“Hi,” he said.

The word was so simple, so normal, it completely disarmed me. It wasn't laced with irony or contempt. It was just… a greeting.

“Hi,” I managed to breathe back, my own voice sounding thin and reedy.

He gave a small nod and turned back to the front as Mr. Lange droned on. But the moment lingered. The simple, two-letter word echoed in my head. A warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment bloomed in my chest, spreading through my limbs until my fingers tingled. I risked a glance at him. He was chatting quietly with the boy on his other side, laughing at something. The sound was easy and unforced. He was kind to the kid who dropped his books, he listened patiently when a teacher spoke to him. He was just… nice. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt something other than anxiety take root inside me. It was a dangerous, hopeful little seed of a crush, and I knew, with absolute certainty, that it was going to ruin my life.

My crush was, predictably, ruining my life. Every “Hi” from Nick in form class sent a ridiculous jolt through my system. I found myself watching him constantly—the way he’d chew on the end of his pen when he was thinking, the crinkles that formed by his eyes when he smiled. It was pathetic, and I needed a distraction.

The distraction came from an unlikely source: Mr. Ajayi, my art teacher. He found me hiding in the art room during lunch one day. “You need an outlet, Charlie,” he said, looking at me with his usual kind but firm expression. “Something physical. To get you out of your own head. Have you ever considered a team sport?”

I almost laughed in his face. Me? A team sport? But then he said, “The rugby team needs reserves. You don’t even have to be good. Just show up.”

And my brain, my traitorous, Nick-obsessed brain, supplied a single, compelling image: Nick Nelson in his rugby kit.

So I did it. I signed up.

My first practice was a masterclass in humiliation. I was a collection of flailing limbs and poor coordination. I couldn't catch the ball, I couldn't run without tripping over my own feet, and the one time I was meant to tackle a training pad, I think I bruised my own shoulder more than the foam. Most of the team either ignored me or shot me looks that were a mixture of pity and contempt.

But Nick was different. On the pitch, his easy-going smile was gone, replaced by an intense focus. He was the captain, shouting instructions, encouraging teammates, moving with a power and grace that was mesmerizing. He never looked at me with disdain. In fact, he didn’t seem to look at me at all, too absorbed in the game. It was almost a relief.

After the coach blew the final whistle, I stayed behind, grabbing one of the stray rugby balls. The others were already heading for the changing rooms, their laughter echoing across the muddy field. I just wanted to feel the weight of the ball in my hands, to try and understand the strange shape of it. I tossed it in the air, fumbling the catch. It hit the ground with a dull thud.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

I jumped, spinning around. Nick was standing there, his kit splattered with mud, his hair damp with sweat. He wasn’t smiling, just watching me with that same focused expression from the game.

He walked over, his boots sinking slightly into the soft turf. “You need to spread your fingers more. Give yourself a wider base.”

He gestured for the ball. I picked it up and handed it to him, my hands shaking slightly. He took it, then held it out for me to take back.

“Here, try again.”

I took the ball, trying to arrange my hands the way I thought he meant. My fingers felt awkward and stiff.

“No, like this.” He stepped closer, so close I could feel the heat coming off his body. He reached out, his hands covering mine to reposition my fingers on the textured surface of the ball. His palms were warm and slightly rough against the backs of my hands. His thumb brushed against my thumb.

It was nothing. It was everything.

A sharp, hot current shot up my arm, making the breath catch in my throat. My entire nervous system lit up from that single, fleeting point of contact. The world seemed to narrow to the feeling of his skin against mine, the strength in his fingers as he gently adjusted my grip. He was so close I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. He smelled of rain-soaked grass and clean sweat.

He held the position for a second longer than necessary, his gaze dropping to our hands, before he pulled away. “See? Better grip.”

My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it. I couldn’t form a coherent word. All I could manage was a weak, strangled nod. I stared down at my own hands on the ball, but all I could feel was the ghost of his touch, burning into my skin.

The phantom warmth of his hand lingered for days, a constant, low-level hum under my skin. It made concentrating in class impossible and my attempts at rugby practice even more pathetic. I was walking through the school corridors in a daze, my entire world reorienting itself around brief, accidental moments with Nick Nelson.

The illusion shattered during lunch on Thursday. I was making my way through the crowded canteen, trying to get to the table where my friend Tao was saving me a seat. It required navigating past the Year 11 rugby table, a loud, boisterous island in a sea of noise. Nick was there, laughing at something one of his friends said, and the sight of it made my chest ache with a familiar, hopeless longing. I tried to hurry past, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the rugby team’s new mascot,” a loud voice drawled.

I froze. I didn’t have to look up to know it was Harry Greene. His voice was slick with the kind of casual cruelty he was famous for. A few of the other boys snickered. I felt a hot flush of shame creep up my neck. I just wanted to disappear.

“Leave it, Harry,” another boy muttered, but Harry ignored him.

“Seriously, Nelson,” Harry continued, his voice carrying across the table. “Is he your new project? You gonna teach him how to handle your balls?”

The laughter that followed was sharp and ugly. It was a familiar sound, a weapon I’d had used against me for years. My stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. I braced myself, waiting for Nick’s laugh to join the chorus. It would hurt more than all the others combined. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, my lunch tray feeling impossibly heavy in my trembling hands.

But Nick’s laugh never came.

Instead, there was a sudden, sharp scrape of a chair against the linoleum floor. The laughter died abruptly. I risked opening my eyes.

Nick was on his feet. His easy-going, friendly expression was gone, replaced by something hard and cold I had never seen before. His jaw was tight, and his eyes, usually so warm, were narrowed into a furious glare fixed directly on Harry.

“Shut up, Harry,” Nick said. His voice was low, but it cut through the canteen’s din with chilling authority. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

Harry’s smirk faltered. He looked genuinely surprised, his eyes darting between Nick and me. “What? It was just a joke, mate.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Nick said, taking a half-step forward so he was standing between me and the table. He was a solid wall of protection. “Leave him alone.”

The silence that fell over their table was absolute. The other boys stared, wide-eyed, at the exchange. Harry looked from Nick’s furious face to my stunned one, opened his mouth as if to say something else, then seemed to think better of it. He just shrugged, a pathetic attempt to look unbothered, and sank back into his chair.

Nick held his glare for another second before his gaze flickered over to me. For a split second, our eyes met. The anger in his expression softened into something else, something I couldn’t decipher—concern, maybe even apology. Then he turned, grabbed his bag from his chair, and walked out of the canteen without another word, leaving his friends and a profoundly shaken me in his wake. I stood there, rooted to the spot, my heart hammering not with fear, but with a dizzying, overwhelming wave of gratitude that felt dangerously close to love.