AUTHOR'S NOTE

Oh, my God, I'm writing Niff.

Forgive me.

Steph

Jeff's always had a thing for footballers. He suspects it's the pads-and-really-really-tight-pants-and-potential-jock-strap-thing that did it for him, but he never really looked too much into it. When his dad took him and his five brothers to watch games at the local stadium, they would always cheer and discuss tactics, and Jeff would always drool and take mental pictures of changing room scenarios.

It's nothing amazing. Just one of those things.

When he was a lowly middle schooler, Nick used to play football. He was a kicker, mainly because the bigger boys told him that the kicker was the smallest guy and therefore the weed should do it, but Nick loved it. The team ended up protecting him from the evils of middle school because he was the smallest and therefore also baby brother. It worked.

When his parents told him he was smart and moved him to Dalton so he could make the most of this apparent intelligence, he left his team behind with a teary farewell. Dalton, though, already had a kicker they weren't willing to switch anyone with, and so Nick had no purpose. That was okay, though, because he didn't really mind.

Apparently, somehow the school team were made aware of his past kicker-ness, and always had him in mind, but from afar, like Hawkeye or something equally as creepy.

Nick knew nothing about this. Nothing at all.

So when a tall, intimidating-looking guy walks up to him while he studies for a test in the library, flanked by two wingmen and not wearing a blazer, Nick was perfectly within his rights to freak the fuck out.

"'Sup," the ogre greets him with a semi-intelligible grunt.

Nick whimpers and clutches harder onto his History textbook.

The mythical monster chuckles like he moves mountains with his laughter alone, and sits down on the chair across from Nick, whose trying really, really, really hard not to do anything stupid, like wet himself.

"Please don't hurt me," he whines, and damn it, he sounds like a child, but oh, God, they really were going to hurt him.

The thing raises an eyebrow. "We're not gonna beat you up," he says.

Nick's fingers flex around the text book. "Oh."

"We have a proposition for you," he goes on to say.

Nick's eyebrow raises despite his better judgement. "Oh?"

"Yeah," the mountain troll agrees. "Oh."

Three days later, Jeff's wandering down the corridor with his Maths classroom, humming to himself and wondering if Blaine will own up to the stash of rainbow sherbet he has locked away in his bathroom cabinet, because Jeff really likes that stuff, even if it is a bit addictive and he develops a tendency to sing fifteen minutes of The Beach Boys afterwards. He tightens his grip on his shoulder bag, even if it does hurt his hands sometimes because he has all these badges on it that say Respect The Rainbow and I Heart Unicorns on it. In fact, he's so caught up in his thoughts that he almost runs into Wes.

And that is not A Thing You Do when you want to live to tomorrow.

Jeff immediately backs up and flushes a bright red, throwing his hands up in desperation. "I'm sorry!" he wails. "I didn't see you because I was thinking about Blaine's bathroom and unicorns and please don't make me sing Spice Girls!"

Wes blinks. "Um."

Jeff blinks too, and hastily shoves his hands into his pockets. "That didn't happen."

Wes blinks again. "Sure."

They stare each other down for a few more moments until David materializes - and God, that will never stop being weird and freaky, it's like David and Wes can Apparate to each other - and stares at them both.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

Wes blinks again. "I don't know," he replies slowly, shaking his head. "Jeff's trying to pull Jedi mind tricks on me."

"Are they working?" Jeff asks hopefully.

They both stare at him with that horrible glare they only do when you screw up in a performance and Wes is only this far from throwing a chair and shoving his gavel down your throat.

"Right," Jeff says.

"Actually," David says, like he just remembered, the sly bastard, "I was looking for you. There're some strange rumors flying around, I wondered if you'd heard or not."

"'Bout?" Jeff asks nonchalantly, because it's doubtful he hasn't. He's the Warbler's honorary Gossiping Old Lady, hello, he starts most of the gossip flying around the faculty.

"Nick's on the football team," Wes says, and Jeff's mouth hits the floor as the world flips inside-out.

No. He did not.

Nick's actually getting changed in their room - because he has to share with Jeff, mainly because no one else will, and for a good reason; Nick's not sure if Jeff knows what tidy is - with the door closed when Jeff comes barging in to gape at him.

"Um," Nick says, because he had the door closed and now he's standing semi-naked and being gawped at, what is his life. "Can I help you?"

Jeff doesn't actually reply.

That may be drool on his chin.

Nick frowns and gathers his shirt to his chest, staring at his text book and wondering if he'll ever pass the History test. "Jeff," he says testily, "knock."

Jeff's eyes dart up to his, and Nick raises an eyebrow.

Jeff swallows and shuts his mouth. "Football."

"What?"

"Football."

"What about football? You have words, Jeff, use them."

Jeff flaps his hands about in a motherly shushing gesture. "You. Football. Team. What."

"Oh." Nick stares with some surprise down at his jersey on the floor. Luckily, they don't keep the pads in the rooms, they have space in the changing rooms for that, but he still has his pants on, halfway to changing back into his uniform. The strip's navy blue with red piping, and he's actually got his name on the back of number thirty-six, because he's a sentimental sap like that. "Well, yeah," he tries awkwardly, "they needed a kicker, because the old one got hit by a seven-foot guy built like the Great Wall of China and snapped seven ribs and a finger, and heard about my escapades at my old school." A horrible thought crosses his mind and he panics for a moment. "Wait, do you have a problem with me on the team? Oh, God, is this something we should've discussed? Because, you know, we've talked about how communication in a relationship is important, but-"

Jeff makes a noise, something that's half way between a growl and a whine as he drops his bag on the floor and stares at Nick's legs like he's about to attack them like a starving cannibal with violent tendencies.

"Oh," Nick blurts stupidly. He drops his school shirt. "Lock the door."

Jeff doesn't appear to have heard him at all, just prowls forward and licks his lips, pink, shiny, wet tongue and oh, God, when was the last time he had it in his mouth or on him or in him, it must've been this morning or something like that, something ages ago because-

-Jeff launches at him and their mouths find the other like Wes and David do, and why is Nick thinking about them at a time like this, because it's heat and sparks and wet and slick and rough and more-

-Jeff pulls his tongue out from behind Nick's teeth long enough to mumble, "you taste like sweat," into Nick's mouth.

Nick shudders slightly. "First practice today," he murmurs back, "just, God, we need-"

Jeff runs his hands down Nick's pants and purrs slightly, and that really shouldn't be hot, but Nick has wacked-up morals where Jeff is concerned. "Fine by me," he whispers, and they tumble in a tangle of writhing limbs onto the nearest bed.

Nick feels the History text book judging him from his desk the entire time.

Not his fault George Washington never got any.

The football team aren't exactly surprised when, a week later, the Warblers come and watch their practice. In a way, it's sort of comforting for the two different ends of the school to get together and support one another, and Wes, David and the coach are seen at the end discussing possible half-time entertainment options, like Blaine said Kurt's school did when they went to watch.

They also aren't surprised to see a tall, blond Warbler wrapped up in a navy-blue Varsity jersey with a large thirty-six on the back of it jog up to their newest kicker and snog him six ways to Sunday.

The Warblers don't mind. They've seen worse.

Blaine and Kurt play killer Truth-or-Dare.