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thatsmutaccount · 25 days ago

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The crow and the jock

Cross posted on ao3

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Chapter 1: Just an ordinary day

SUMMARY: Donovan Crawford is a 43 year old single man, a high school teacher who just wants to have a normal school day and avoid having any problem, hanging out with his friends and colleagues and helping his students achieve their goals.

Timothy McArthur is a 19 year old jock from the school lacrosse team with just one goal in mind: win over his crush and live happily ever after with him!

The problem? His crush is none other than his literature professor, mr. Crawford, whom he fondly calls "mr. Crow", way older than him, definitely not interested and have we already mentioned he is his teacher?

Now in his last semester of his senior year, Timothy is ready to do whatever it takes to go out of the studentzone and finally have the man of his dream. And Donovan? He obviously refuse to let the kid ruin both of their lives with such a stupid idea.

But between carnivals, field trips, lacrosse matches and the school play maybe something it's starting to shift for the strict professor

*******

Author's warning: The story you are about to read has as its focus the relationship and romance between a teacher and his student. All characters are over 18 (Tim was held back a year) and everything that will happen between them is consensual. I do not, in any way, shape or form, approve of this kind of behavior in real life and it's not my intention to romanticize this kind of relationship. All of this is all right because it's fiction, I would never approve of any of this in real life, just the thought makes me sick. The characters behavior is to be interpreted as an over exaggeration, a way to laugh and bring a smile on your face. Tim's attitude might come out a bit as obsessive, but again it's all made for laugh. Again:in real life please respect boundaries and know that if someone says no it means no.

Also, please remember that English is not my first language and that the following is not an accurate representation of how a high school works. I basically made it a blend between my experience as an European and what I saw in the movies and read in fanfiction, so don't blame me XP

If any of this triggers you please don't read. Always keep an eye out for the tags, I will add them as the story goes on, also I will put warnings in the author's note at the beginning of each chapter. There will be smut only in the last chapter of this fic, so it's a long time coming.

*******

The bell rang, and Donovan Crawford lowered the book from which he was reading a passage to the class, intent on listening enraptured by it, and then walked over to his desk, put it down and leaned over it, his arms at his side, a calm smile on his face: “All right, class, and with that, today's lesson is over. For next week: find a passage that you liked from the list of books we compiled together last week, I want an analysis of it and your comment on why it stuck with you so much. And having said that have a good weekend.”

The sound of chairs being moved officially announced the end of class as the students moved on and, chatting among themselves, left, all politely saying goodbye to him. Donovan waved them off one by one before grabbing his planner and a pen and marking the homework assignment. After jotting it down, the teacher cast a glance out the window and took a deep breath as he felt the warmth of the sun's rays warming his legs. He got up, stretched lazily, similar to a giant cat, and walked over to the window, taking in the view of the school garden and lingering over the blossoming trees. Spring seemed to be early that year, and soon coming to school fully dressed would be a nightmare: already that same day, because of the heat, the man had had to take off his jacket and pull up his sleeves, showing off his dark-hair-covered forearms in the middle of class, eliciting mild giggles from some female students, which he promptly ignored -- in addition to the ever-curious glance of the class members who discreetly tried to stretch their necks toward the inside of his forearm.

Donovan liked his work, and he also appreciated his students, believing them to be smart kids who had the potential to do great things, and when they failed he was ready to support them as best as he could. One thing he did not appreciate, however, were the clear looks of appreciation and comments he sometimes overheard in the hallways about him that always generated a slight redness in his neck area. Of course, it was nice to know that, at forty-three years old, his looks continued to be a source of appreciation: average height, broad shoulders, untrained physique, in fact he even had a slight belly - but a regular diet and a healthy lifestyle pattern meant that he did not put on too much weight - , black hair - which in middle school had earned him the nickname "little crow,” due in part to the assonance of the first part of his last name with the word “crow” - usually kept short but which nonetheless went everywhere because of his habit of running his hands through it when he was tired and thoughtful, well-groomed sideburns, full cheeks with dimples and frown lines on the sides of his lips and eyes, a sign of his tendency to smile so often. His choice of clothing usually consisted of a pair of smart pants, a usually white shirt, and a jacket that served, in his opinion, to give him a more professional appearance.

He was, in short, the picture of the professor, something he was more than comfortable with; after all, the kids were supposed to see him as an authority figure, someone with whom they were not supposed to get overly familiar but whose role was to be respected and not taken lightly. Of course, this image, the result of hours spent in front of the mirror and consultations with a whole range of friends and colleagues, had gone to hell within a few years, as he had discovered, due both to the fact that he seemed a few years younger than he was - causing the students to take some liberties with him at times, especially if it was among the first times they had met him - , but mostly because of his friendly, almost paternal nature and the way he explained topics. More than one parent, during their conversations, had come to compliment him, reporting how their children were always enthusiastic about taking his classes and how, when he approached a topic, he was always not only patient, but that he explained it in such a way that the kids ended up finding the topic compelling and inciting them to find out more on their own.

This obviously pleased him, but what he had not taken into account in his approach was that from admiration to crush was a short step, and so, before he knew it, he had found himself the subject of languid glances and dreamy sighs from a good portion of his students. Suffice it to say that, for ten years now, every Valentine's Day they would fill his desk with presents, chocolates and cards, which had, in their words when confronted about it, the purpose of “expressing their appreciation” toward him and his lessons, but behind which Donovan could easily discern more or less open declarations of love.

Whenever this happened the teacher felt himself dying inside from embarrassment, but he managed to maintain his self-control and gently but firmly nipped any hopes in the bud with a direct “oh, thank you so much, you are really great students. It's like receiving a courtesy valentine from my little cousins, it's really very sweet. You are such good kids, thank you so much.”

Seeing their crushed expressions when they were “student-zoned” made his heart clench, making him feel guilty, but fortunately it allowed him to get away scot-free, pointing out how, with him, there would never be anything beyond a professor-student relationship and that it was better for them to focus on other, far more achievable goals.

Even as he openly destroyed their hopes and dreams, he could not, however, tell them to stop having a crush on him, causing the broken-hearted students to console themselves by continuing to watch him from afar, casting melancholy glances at him or commenting under their breath appreciations of his physique and sighing when he addressed them politely.

Distracted as he was, Donovan did not even hear the classroom door creak open and the attempts at plodding footsteps behind him - clearly useless because of the owner's size and less-than-discreet movements - until two large, calloused hands, which could very well have been mistaken for baseball gloves, closed over his eyes and a cheerful, deep voice exclaimed gleefully, “Guess who?”

Instantly, the man stiffened and turned away, jerking the stranger away from him, his face on fire, before sighing and bringing a hand to his forehead as he took to massaging his temples, which were already throbbing from an increasingly close headache, before murmuring a tired, “Good morning, Timothy.”

Standing still, a bright expression on his face covered by a faint dark stubble, stood a young senior, a broad smile standing out against his dark skin, his black hair covered by a baseball cap with the front turned to the back. The young man was not very tall, perhaps barely 5'7, but his broad shoulders and muscular build more than made up for it. He wore low riding jeans, ruined sneakers covered in mud and grass patches, and the school lacrosse team's red and white varsity jacket, left open over a dark T-shirt with an old print of an alt-rock band.

The young man chuckled cheerfully, before exclaiming, ��Come on, Mr. Crow, what is this cold welcome? Does this seem to you the best way to welcome your best student? I'm hurt! - He crossed his arms over his chest and puffed out his cheeks like a child who was having a tantrum - And here I saw you so down and thought I'd come to cheer you up. How heartless of you! You are so mean, Mr. Crow, so mean!”

He looked as if he was about to burst into tears, his lower lip quivering, but the hurt expression quickly disappeared and the young man threw himself at him, hugging him tightly, his face once again open in a wide smile, “Ah, no way, it's no use: I can't stay mad at my Mr. Crow! You're too cool.”

As soon as he felt the jock's hands going a little too far down his back brushing against his butt finally Donovan recoiled and jerked him away from himself, his face red this time from anger as well as embarrassment: “'Do you even consider it appropriate to hug me, Timothy!? What's all this familiarity, I'm still your teacher!”

Unfortunately, as with everything else, Donovan had exceptions who did not know the meaning of the word “no.” Timothy McArthur - or “little Tim” as he was ironically known to the rest of the school - was one of these exceptions.

The senior student had fallen in love with him, according to the boy himself, from the first moment he saw him, and, when he was 16, on Valentine's Day he had shown up during the lunch break in his classroom dressed to the nines in a tuxedo and dress shirt - and the ever-present baseball cap with the visor turned - flowers and chocolates in hand and his teammates behind him with a stereo blaring the pop song of the moment and a banner that read in large, red and pink letters “Be my Valentine, Mr. Crow!” He even got down on his knees in front of the whole school proclaiming his undying love for him.

And that is how Timothy McArthur, rising star of the lacrosse team, came out in front of the whole school, including students, teachers, janitors, secretaries, and even a confused principal, who rushed all the way from her office to see what all the fuss was about.

Donovan had to blow off any pretense of kindness and had openly rejected him with a flat “no,” listing all the reasons why it was unthinkable that he would accept the other's confession, reiterating that not in a million years would he ever consider him as a possible partner.

Severe, icy, and heartless? Definitely, but it was also the only way, in the professor's opinion, to nip in the bud whatever unhealthy ideas the jock might have.

Timothy's devastated expression and the disapproving looks from the rest of the team - as well as a less-than-pleasant talk with the principal in which he had to defend himself several times by reiterating that he would never think of the possibility of a relationship with his students - were the cause of the graying of some of his hair, but he pulled himself together thinking that, even then, he had made the right choice and that Timothy would recover from that blunder, realizing in the future that he had done him a great favor by rejecting him.

Oh, how wrong he was.

The following week a more fierce than ever Timothy had shown up in his class, sitting in the front row and spending the entire class diligently taking notes and asking questions. Things went on like this for quite a while, and Donovan by then had put the younger man's declaration behind him, but he had to change his mind when on the next test, where the student scored full marks, the boy, after receiving his paper, jerked out of his seat and then dramatically opened his varsity jacket in front of the rest of the class and an astonished Donovan, thus revealing a T-shirt with a picture of Donovan himself taken from his social media page surrounded by a heart with above it the words: “You scored 100 percent in my heart, would you go on a date with me? “ a wide, proud smile on his face.

Even after that rejection the jock did not give up and gradually became more and more direct and open in his advances, taking advantage of every available excuse and moment to remind him how much he loved him and asking him to go on a date with him, receiving refusal after refusal but never desisting. Anything could be said about young McArthur, but not that he was not persistent.

Years went by and Timothy's attempts, gradually becoming more and more complex and spectacular, had now become something of a daily gag for the school's inhabitants, and not only did the students joke about it but even some of his colleagues teased him about it, asking him with a smirk in the teacher's lounge if young McArthur had finally succeeded in breaking through his icy heart.

The jock broke into an angelic smile, chuckling smugly, “But I love you, Mr. Crow, and trifles like that can't stop true love!”

Donovan shivered and, in a tired voice, repeated those lines he now knew by heart: “First of all, my name is Mr. Crawford...”

“But Mr. Crow suits you much better, with that black hair and brooding air. It gives you a gothic vibe, very sexy.”

“Second, I could never, ever get together with a young boy...”

“I am nineteen years old, legally I am to be considered an adult.”

“Third, you're my student, it wouldn't be right...”

“Bah, it's my senior year, one more semester and I'll get my diploma. I'm just speeding things up, that's all.”

“Fourth, your parents would never accept a relationship between us...”

“But my mother adores you, Mr. Crow! She constantly says you're a man to marry, I'm just putting her words into practice!”

“Fifth, look at me Timothy, I'm almost twenty-five years older than you. I could be your father - he openly ignored the whispered “daddy” that came from the younger man's lips and continued - You can do so much better than me, any boy from this school and beyond would be more than happy to be your boyfriend, go to them.”

“But I don't want 'any guy'! The only one I want is you Mr. Crow, because you are special. I love you.”

Confronted with that statement Donovan felt his blood boil, he straightened his back, a furious expression on his face, he seemed about to burst, but exactly as it came the fury disappeared, and, within a second, the teacher drained out, brought his hands to his forehead, taking to massaging it, and murmured only, “Go to your seat, that class will begin shortly. And the answer is no: I don't want to go out with you.”

Timothy made a scowl, snapped his fingers in frustration at the rejection, and walked to his seat in the first row, sitting down and starting to pull out his things. At that moment, students began to flood in, and Donovan cast a glare in the direction of the lacrosse team members. It was obvious that they had kept everyone else out so that they would be left alone so that Timothy could ask him out, for the umpteenth time, receiving enthusiastic approval from the rest of the class, who now considered the two of them to be on par with characters in their daily soap opera.

He even had to have his own, personal cheerleaders, now....

As Donovan recovered and pulled out his books for the day's topic, the rest of the class took their seats, with quite a few passing by Timothy and patting him comfortingly on the back, muttering “it'll be for the next one, Tim,” “you came close this time, champ,” “don't give up, bro, he's about to give up, I can feel it,” and “just a little more and you'll make it, come on.”

But Timothy was certainly not going to give up, far from it! His mother had certainly not raised a quitter, and the young jock's mind was already working out the next plan to win over his favorite teacher. As he gazed dreamily at him, his pen slid across the notebook, scribbling nonsense sentences and half-ideas on how to convince Mr. Crawford to fall in love with him, scenarios of possible happy futures where they were together crowding his mind.

A faint smile passed over his face: he still had several months to win over Mr. Crow, and next time he was going to succeed, says Timothy McArthur.

*******

A placid calm reigned in the teachers' room as faculty members chatted idly among themselves, some catching up on their energy before the next class, others complaining about their students and the results they were having, and still others correcting the tests they had just taken, the latter with varying levels of resignation on their faces.

At that moment the front door was jerked open only to be forcefully closed again, attracting the attention of the people gathered there who, turning around, saw Donovan Crawford with his back leaning against the door and breathing heavily, as if he had just come back from an encounter with a ghost and had run there on the spot to find refuge.

The professors took to chuckling, some shaking their heads and joking with their colleagues as they resumed their occupations, aware of what had so shaken the literature teacher.

Donovan took one last breath, straightened up, adjusted his jacket and advanced among the various round tables that occupied the area until he was called by a voice that exclaimed, “Yo, Don! Over here!”

He raised his head and saw that the voice came from a young man, perhaps in his early thirties, dirty blond hair and messy beard, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt with the school colors, a whistle tied to a lanyard, and a baseball cap on the table in front of him. He had one hand up and was calling him with lazy gestures, an amused smile on his face. Across from him sat a woman about Donovan's age, her frizzy brown hair framing a heart-shaped face, with makeup that wasn't overdone. The woman's warm brown eyes were busy looking at some papers - class assignments or tests that had just been done judging by the messy spellings that decorated them - but she greeted him anyway by raising her head and throwing him a quick smile, then clicking her red pen and going back to the assignments.

Donovan sat down and let out a blatant sigh, dropping his messenger bag beside him and running a hand over his face to chase away traces of fatigue. The man chuckled and handed him a can, “Here, I saved it for you.”

“Thanks Jim, you're a lifesaver,” murmured the man, opening it with a satisfied ‘tssss’ and then taking a sip with a lost expression.

“So... were you running away from your admirer today too?” the blond teased him, chuckling and lazily resting his face on his hand, giving him a meaningful look.

An annoyed expression passed over the colleague's face, “You have hardly anything to joke about. I had finished class and was on my way here when I heard him calling me at the top of his lungs in the corridors. I only had to glance over my shoulder to see that he had the expression of when he has one of his plans in mind. At that point I didn't even waste time thinking about it and sprinted to get here. And he followed me, continuing to call my name! My heart is still pounding, I am thankful that students are not allowed in here, otherwise there would be no place in this whole damn school where I would be safe from Timothy fucking McArthur.”

Jim chuckled again, before crossing his arms behind his head. He always found it amusing to watch the strange dance between his friend and his best player; it brightened his otherwise so dull days. He also had to admit that part of him, deep, deep down, felt a certain sympathy for the young man and his wacky attempts to win over his older colleague, and maybe, just maybe, he wanted him to succeed in winning over Donovan. So much determination had to be rewarded in his opinion, but he would never, ever admit it out loud. It would have cost him his job, that's for sure.

Therefore, the man continued, “Come on, what do you mean ‘I just noticed his expression’? What do you expect him to do, he's just a boy.”

Donovan glared at him, “Do you remember what happened the last time he came to talk to me in the hallway with that expression?”

The other man shook his head but it was the woman who answered, “He's talking about the time he got the school band members to hide in the lockers and then suddenly jump out and start playing while Timothy was making a sung declaration - she put down the paper she was correcting on the table and added thoughtfully - I still wonder how they managed to sneak bass tubas and drums in there and get out without any trouble and without any of us teachers noticing...”

Jim burst out laughing boisterously at the memory, “That's right! Gee, I forgot, old Jenkins was absolutely furious - and chuckled at the memory of the principal's livid face - Do you think he had another plan like that in mind?”

“With him you never know, I wouldn't be surprised if he went to the robotics club folks and asked them to do a drone show that would end with yet another declaration of love for me.”

“Of course you can't say he's not determined. Honestly, with a charisma like that and such stubbornness he could do anything. That kid scares me...”

“Yeah... Anyway, isn't there something you could do, Jim? After all, he's a member of your team, isn't he?”

The school coach raised his hands in defense, “Hey, don't take it out on me, man. I remind you that I tried that years ago. Shortly after the whole thing started, remember? You had asked me to set the record straight with him about how things were, and I, in my office, told him 'either you stop this obsession with Mr. Crawford or you get off the team, I'll give you a week to think about it.' I was convinced he would throw in the towel, but instead, three days later, he walked into my office and left his uniform on my desk. I still remember his words, 'coach, I thank you for all the opportunities you have given me, and I'm sorry if I get you and the team in trouble this way, but I can't give up on Mr. Crow. It's not that simple. Just know that always, if I am forced to choose between Mr. Crow and something else, I will always choose Mr. Crow. I'm sorry again. Have a good day, coach'. I have never seen someone more determined than that, it left me speechless, literally! And then, to make matters worse, as soon as the guys on the team heard that Tim had left the squad, two-thirds of them went on strike threatening to leave the team too if I didn't re-integrate him. As you can see, I tried.”

Donovan leaned his head defeatedly against the table and took a deep sigh, “I know, Jim, I know. It's just so frustrating. That guy just doesn't get it that if he keeps this up he's going to get me and himself in trouble.”

“Why are you complaining so much? I mean: he's in his last semester now, just a few more months and it will all be over and you won't see him again, right? Or if you do see him again, he won't be your student anymore, so there will be nothing weird about it.”

Donovan turned his head toward the woman who was now staring at him with genuine curiosity, “Maria, it's not that simple. I'm afraid that the closer the end of the year gets the more desperate and extreme his attempts will become, unbelievable as it may seem. I can already feel all the future headaches...”

The woman merely shook her head, swinging her frizzy hair, “Suit yourself... Anyway, James and I have to go. There are some things we need to discuss with the principal about the seniors' field trip.”

“Where are you taking them?”

The coach stood up and pulled his cap down over his head, whistle in hand, throwing him a smile, “There's this little town a few hours away by bus that's attached to an old pre-Columbian settlement that's still well preserved. Besides having an excellent interactive museum it also has a lot of very nice nature walks that you can do, with or without a guided tour. It's perfect for everyone; I bet the kids will like it. Are you really sure you don't want to join us? There is still time to become a chaperone, the more the merrier, in my opinion”

“Nah, thanks, I'll pass this year, I think it's better that way. Send me a lot of pictures though, will you?”

Maria smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly, “Come on and cheer up, don't beat yourself up. Also you'd better get ready, if I'm not mistaken you have drama class this afternoon, right?”

“Don't get me started on that. Sigh... Now go though, come on. I don't want to keep you any longer.”

The three said their goodbyes one last time and Jim and Maria went out, checking some papers and discussing the schedule, thus leaving the man alone.

Donovan cast a glance outside and sighed, before taking out his computer and some papers and starting to correct his homeworks, already dreading what awaited him that afternoon.

*******

The school auditorium was well stocked, with a large stage, comfortable seats and excellent acoustics, not to mention a lighting and microphone system that was the envy of all the other schools in the area. In short, it was a dream for any theater teacher, and for a long time, ever since he had taken on the role of liaison for the theater group, Donovan had been happy with what had been made available to him.

It was his own little kingdom where nothing and no one could ever disturb him ... at least until a few years earlier.

The man entered and huffed as his eyes scanned the area. Some of the boys were already on stage rehearsing pieces under the direction of his deputy, Professor Guerrero, a young woman who had taken over as biology teacher a few years earlier and who, despite the nervousness given by her young age, showed that she had all the makings of an excellent teacher. Besides them, many of the kids were lazily sitting on the audience couches, often with cell phones in their hands or headphones in their ears, and a few could be glimpsed backstage, busy talking under their breath with friends, exchanging meaningful glances and half giggles. Then there were a few sound and lighting technicians in the back of the room, consulting with each other near the control panel, making sure that none of the actors had broken any of their precious equipment.

It seemed like a perfectly peaceful environment, with nothing out of the ordinary, if you didn't take into account....

Donovan heard the quick footsteps of someone approaching and then a heavy weight jumping on his back as an all too familiar voice whispered excitedly in his ear, “Mr. Crow! You've finally arrived.”

With a sigh that he was sure was heard throughout the whole room, Donovan pulled Tim's arms off of him and turned to look at the jock with a furrowed brow. The athlete looked up at him, bubbling with glee, as he always did when he saw him, shifting back and forth on the soles of his feet, waiting for his commands.

It was strange to think that someone so obviously made for sports as Timothy McArthur would be interested in theater, but the athlete had proven to be, if not an expert, at least intrigued by the theatrical world, to the point that he had joined the group, never getting any significant roles but always ending up being part of the ensemble and being one of the handymen who moved weights and sets here and there between scene changes. But the real reason he had joined the group was, as one could imagine, Donovan's presence, and even in those instances he did not back down, taking advantage of it to snap whenever the teacher needed something and flirting shamelessly with him - still famous was when, a year before, they had brought in a show that was an anthology of some of Shakespear's best pieces reinterpreted in a modern key, and one day, walking into rehearsal Donovan had found all the lights off then suddenly turned on pointing to Tim, standing on the famous balcony of “Romeo and Juliet,” destroying the beloved monologue by adopting an unedited version written by the student himself; to this day, Donovan still wondered how he had persuaded the technicians to assist him, although he imagined some kind of bribe was somehow in play involving new equipment or tickets to the latest sci-fi film to be released that weekend in theaters.

Donovan crossed his arms in front of his chest and merely muttered through clenched teeth so as not to disturb the actors, “Do you need anything, Timothy?”

The other shook his head, “Nah, Mr. Crow, I was just waiting for you, that's all. I was worried because I didn't see you earlier, I was afraid something might have happened to you.”

“It's literally five minutes between the teacher's lounge and the auditorium, what on earth could have happened to me?”

“Oh, I don't know, you're the one who's late. Poor Miss Guerrero had to step in to stop the kids from lashing out and leaving, believing the class had been cancelled.”

The man bit the inside of his cheek guilty, to prevent his expression from betraying his discomfort at those words. He finally sighed and merely patted the student's shoulder, “Thank you for telling me, I will apologize for my tardiness. I am now going to assist Miss Guerrero.”

The young man brightened up at the teacher's words of praise and almost pranced back to some of his friends, who, as always, had been attentively watching their every move, while the man went to take his seat in the front rows.

He stood next to his colleague, who greeted him with a grateful expression, clearly in distress, and exclaimed in a loud voice so that everyone could hear him, “ All right, I apologize for being late, I was just finishing checking some notes I had taken on the script and didn't see the time! I would say let's not waste any time, therefore, and get started, thank you Miss Guerrero for looking after the students. Now, I want you to get ready with the fourth scene, the one on page nine. Cindy, remember what we said about the hands, and Miguel, spell it out, they need to hear you all the way to the back row. All right, set the scene.”

Immediately there was a general shuffle as, under the authoritative guidance of the teacher, the kids hurriedly took their places on the stage and backstage and the sets were placed, the leads looking focused as they repeated their lines ready to go on stage. Meanwhile, Donovan sat down next to the young black-haired woman, who let out a ragged sigh.

“Hey, Sofia, thanks so much for looking after them.”

She gave him a tired smile, “No problem, and besides, I'm a teacher too, I should know how to keep the kids in check by now, right?”

“You're right, I'm sorry... But I also want to thank you for being able to prevent a riot. From what I was told they were all going to leave if you hadn't taken over the reins.”

She shook her head, “You say that, but I'm not the one to be thanked. They were all going to leave if Tim hadn't stepped in.”

Donovan's eyes widened, “Tim? You mean Timothy McArthur? What does he have to do with this now?”

“Well, some were already at the door and I didn't know what to say to make them stay that he started talking, saying that they were ungrateful, that they had been chosen for a reason, and that the role assigned to them was a show of trust on our part, whereby we said they were mature enough to be there. He then added that if they really gave up for so little, they were not worthy to stand on that stage and act, and that if they walked out the door they might as well not show up the next day, because other people would be chosen to take their place, far more worthy than they were. After his words it was clear that no one wanted to go out anymore, and I took the opportunity to start with some rehearsals. So, as you can see: it's all thanks to Tim.”

Donovan assumed a thoughtful look as he pondered the woman's words. Effectively if there had been no jock all the actors would have left, he knew how indolent they could be, especially if there were delays - any excuse was good for ditching, especially at that time of year when the end-of-year performance was still a long way off. Timothy had played on their pride, prodding them and knowing how no one would back down from his challenging words. However, the student's words were also a contradiction of meaning: Timothy was the understudy of one of the main characters; he would only have had to gain if the others had left, and instead he had urged them to stay there. None of the others present would perhaps have done so....

Engrossed as he was in his thoughts, he realized with a couple of seconds delay that the curtain had opened and the actors had entered the stage, starting to act. He banished those thoughts to the back of his mind to think about them later and concentrated on the rehearsal, failing, however, entirely to drown out that little voice repeating Timothy's praise and his help.

*******

“Good job, boys, now five minutes break and then it's back to the field. Come on , you animals!”

The coach's words were greeted with relief by the team as they approached the benches and took to drinking and cooling off, chatting and complimenting each other on the work they had just accomplished on the field. Timothy removed his helmet and wiped a towel over his face, then grabbed one of the small bottles and downed greedy gulps of water. As he was busy drinking someone came up and slapped him on the ass, followed by, “Nice job on the field, little Tim. That last play was championship-worthy.”

The young man turned and flashed a smile at the shaved-headed young man who sat on the bench across from him, “Thank you, captain. I hope we can repeat that for the next game.”

Yeah, don't worry, what's the big deal, anyway? We have nothing to fear from those losers anyway,” another voice interrupted them, this time belonging to a young man with a mohawk.

Within seconds a half-dozen people found themselves discussing practice and upcoming games, laughing boisterously and hurling playful insults and curt comments at each other. Tim chuckled at a joke and then took to staring into the distance with a lost look.

Noticing him, the young man with the shaved head, Mike, frowned and threw the towel at him, “Oi, earth to little Tim? I say, are you there?”

The jock, brought back down to earth by the sweat-dripping towel that had slapped him full in the face, sputtered and cast a glare at his teammates, who giggled at the scene, before replying, “Yes, captain. I was just ... lost in thought, that's all”

“Oh, lost in thought about your future husband?” one of the teammates mocked him, throwing himself at him, supporting himself on his shoulder and bringing a hand to his forehead as if he was on the verge of fainting.

“Hey, Timmy, are you already thinking about the kiss you're going to give each other at the altar?” another one added, leaning on the opposite shoulder and taking up an imitation of a kiss toward the shorter one.

The whole team erupted in uncontrolled laughter, including Tim, who took a step back, almost threatening to drop the other two on top of each other, exclaiming loudly, “Laugh, laugh all you want: but we'll see in the end who's laughing! Mr. Crow will be mine someday, and when that wedding happens I'll save you some front-row seats, that's for sure.”

“Bah, what you see in an old man like that, I just don't know,” muttered one of the boys sitting on the bench sipping from his flask and catching his eye.

“Old? Old, you say? Have you seen him, Erickson! Sure, Mr. Crow is over forty but he sure looks good. I'd like to see you at that age with a body like his! Those strong arms, his chest peeking out through his shirt on hot days, and when he bends down to pick something up or leans against the desk, pulling his back slightly back...” a dreamy expression passed over the student's face, clearly making the rest of the team uncomfortable, as they knew that at the moment thoughts that were anything but chaste were going through their teammate's mind.

Tim was abruptly brought back down to earth when he heard Erickson mutter, “You're making such a big deal out of this, so you simply want to fuck him, that's all? Bah, and I thought who knew what...”

The expression on the young man's face changed instantly, turning to stone. He reached over and completely poured the icy water from his water bottle over the other man's head, causing him to sputter and curse out loud.

“McArthur, have you gone crazy all of a sudden?! What the fuck has gotten into you, asshole?”

“It's not that simple.”

Silence fell as everyone pointed their eyes to Timothy, a determined light shining in his dark eyes, “I don't like Mr. Crow just because of his looks. He is kind, patient, strong in a way you cannot see. He is always ready to help his students, even in their most difficult times, and he never gives up, no matter how tough the situation may be. He is special, he makes me feel safe, and I just have to look at him to be happy again, even after a rough day. Is he quite older than me? Definitely. Do I find him good-looking? Sure. Is that the only reason I am interested in him? Absolutely not! And I am ready to pick a fight with anyone who dares to say otherwise or says anything wrong about him, am I clear?”

The rest of the team looked at him wordlessly. It had always been something of a joke to them, Tim's crush on the professor, but it was the first time they had seen him so fired up. A bit uneasy they apologized, Erickson first, awkwardly shifting their heads, unable to sustain his fierce stare. Fortunately, they were distracted from that awkward situation by the sharp whistle followed by the coach roaring, “Come on, ladies, you've had enough rest! Now back on the field, move!”

The players hurried to put their pads back on and return to practice, leaving only Jim on the sidelines, whose gaze lingered on Timothy for a couple of seconds. Sighing, he shook his head: he had heard them, of course, it was difficult when none of them had any idea what it meant to speak quietly, and he had to admit that even to him the young man's statement had elicited a shudder, as intense and sincere as it was.

“My dear Don, you've really found yourself a tough nut to crack,” he muttered as he adjusted his visor, then cleared his throat and took to shouting directions to his players, thus restarting practice.

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