Chapter Text
It's almost too cold to be playing football outside. The players' breaths hang sharp and white in the air and their faces are wet with sweat or drizzle or both. Teenage boys in uniforms pushing each other around, strands of wet hair clinging to their foreheads, grass stains on their knees, and the air smells like fall. It's the same every year and it never fails to make his chest tighten, a quiet hitch that never makes it as far as an audible breath.
"Okay guys, two lines behind White and Jackson, let's go!" The Coach Voice rings across the field, commanding attention. He learned from his mentor back in college, who reminds him of Beiste, if she were half her actual size and an ex-Olympic field hockey player, that the whistle should be reserved for serious situations. He does carry one, but it means "stop what you're doing right now" and he is careful not to use it too often. Boys are can ignore pretty much anything, if it happens even once without immediate consequence - years of eating pizza on the balcony at two a.m while the fire alarm blares (not his fault that his idiot neighbors fell asleep while cooking again) prove that he is no different. So he just makes sure not to do anything that he's not prepared to follow through to the bitter end, and it seems to work okay. The players are forming two fairly orderly lines, the few stragglers at least realizing that they're out of place. He smiles to himself as his boys run through their drills in order, without being shouted at once. He's taught them well.
Dave sticks around on the field until all the players have left for the locker room. He likes to stay back and watch, it gives him a slightly better idea of whatever craziness is going on in their teenage heads. It also offers them a low key chance to approach him. Usually there will be a guy taking his time cleaning up equipment, or fiddling with a headband, or retying his shoelaces, or any excuse to stay behind and talk to the coach without actually having to go and find him and ask for his time. It's ridiculous the way they'll put their 16-year-old selves in his hands, for doing nothing at all except being a few years older than them and trying to teach them how to play football. He is pretty sure he doesn't deserve it, but he sure as hell tries. If you want to get all philosophical about it, he's got things to make right. But usually he doesn't think about that, he just looks at them, so impossibly young - babies, really, children in six foot bodies. He knows people are scared of them, but he can't really see it. Most of the time he just wants to give them a hug.
He doesn't, though, because come on, he's the gay football coach. Though he isn't explicitly out to the kids (and isn't that a guilt trip for another day), and he doesn't really date or anything, there is no way someone doesn't know. Lima isn't that big, and though it's been years...it's a matter of time. He must have played against some of their older brothers. So, yeah, he doesn't touch them ever and he stays far, far away from the showers. It's a reasonable precaution, but it still makes him sad. He never appreciated how hard it must have been for Beiste, avoiding any risk of seeing too much without drawing attention to the fact that there's anything to avoid, but he's thankful now that he played for her. It gives him a sort of model for how to organize things. If the kids question it, they don't do it where he can hear.
John Jackson is tall, blond, and thin in a way that is probably just a phase. He looks like he should be clumsy, and he moves like he expects himself to be, until he loses himself in the game and becomes thoughtlessly graceful. He hides in big hoodies and headsets, bad hair and worse posture, and Dave's been watching him all year, trying to draw him out. It's not really working. But today... John is not waiting for him, not exactly, but he's walking aimlessly like he's trying to decide between the bleachers and the locker room. Dave sighs. One more try.
"John!" He stops, turns without quite meeting Dave's eyes.
"Great job on the running drills today. How's your knee?" John gives him a half shrug.
"Okay, I guess. It doesn't hurt. I mean, it's...I don't know, I wanna play but the knee...um. I've been thinking about quitting the football team." It all comes out in a mumbled rush so quick Dave isn't sure he heard correctly. He looks at the curtain of hair. Shit. He doesn't want to screw this up, doesn't want to fail this kid, and he's pretty sure he is.
"Okay, first of all you know it's totally up to you if you want to play or not. But I have to say, I would really miss having you on my team this year. You're more talented than you think, John, and you've got a good head for it. So if there's anything I can do to help you make it work, I want you to let me know."
Dave shouldn't be the nervous one, but hey, he's pretty new at this. This is probably his chance to give a kid someone to talk to. He really wants to be that one who makes a difference, but he remembers all too well the ineffectual adults who tried to get through to him at his worst, and he fears that Jackson will have to fight his own way out of whatever this is. Damn, why does it have to be so hard.
"If you're injured you need to tell me any time it hurts too much and you can stop. Any time, and I'll never hold it against you, okay? I know you're a hard worker and I trust you with that."
John smiles a little, but it's a rueful smile, the smile of a guy who is touched by the effort but also pretty sure his problem can't be fixed.
"Yeah, I know. I guess I'll give it another shot."
He shrugs again and wanders off towards the locker room. The other guys are probably almost gone by now. Dave will go do some paperwork, give John some time, and then he can come back and lock up.
It's not like anyone is waiting for him at home, anyway. He sighs, imagining in a flash another life, one where he's eating dinner with his husband every night (and where did that come from, since when does he want to get married) instead of with his father once a week. His imaginary husband looks a lot like Josh Hutcherson, apparently, and he wears a suit to work. He's taken off his jacket and tie, settling in comfortably in Dave's kitchen in rolled up shirt sleeves and suspenders and...
Wow. Someone really needs to get a grip and fill out this damn form.
He enters the classroom carrying a stack of graded tests, three textbooks including one college-level one the size and weight of the smallest plates he'll deign to use in the gym, and a couple of binders. With the help of a student, one of the pretty geeky girls who doesn't know yet that she's destined to break a dozen science majors' hearts in college, he gets through the door and dumps it all on his desk with a loud thump.
"Thank you, Sophia." He smiles at her, then wonders if he smiled too much, if she has a crush on him, if the other students will think she's sucking up. Oh well.
"Good morning, everyone." A mumbled chorus of "Good morning, Mr. Karofsky". He may never get used to that.
"As you can see, I've got your tests graded and ready. No, you won't get them back quite yet" - six hands drop from their raised positions - "as usual, yes, I know you want to see your grades, but there are a few things I want to go over while I still have a part of your attention. Now, as a class you did really well, but there are a few concepts, starting with this function here..." He turns to the board and starts sketching a coordinate system.
He thinks he's doing okay with classroom management. It's not fair, but it helps being physically intimidating. He knows a few of the girls resented him for it when they were student teaching, especially the young-looking ones who were constantly asked if they had a hall pass, and he understands. He does get some authority essentially for free, so at least he tries to use it for good. Like right now, Jayden White is throwing bits of paper at the boy in front of him, who is obviously trying to ignore it. They both seem convinced that he is not only blind but stupid, which should probably go without saying, since he's their algebra teacher.
That must have been his most uncomfortable realization on the way to becoming a teacher. He'd assumed that so many things were simply invisible to adults, but he'd been wrong. He saw so much. And that meant that his teachers must have seen, too, and then chosen not to.
"Jayden! Paper should stay on your desk, in one piece, please. Thank you."
Jayden looks up at him, still surprised to be called on it even though it's about the fiftieth time Dave's done so, and he doesn't want to think about what happens in his other classes to make him so confident. There are a few snickers from nearby desks, which Jayden shuts down with his best co-captain-of-the-football-team glare. Still, he puts his hands on his desk and Dave doesn't see any more flying objects for the ten minutes that are left of the class. Score one for Mr. Karofsky, disciplinarian extraordinaire.
The next week, he makes a point to ask Jackson to stay after practice. John is a pretty cool kid, and he reminds him a bit of himself at 17, except smarter and with fewer anger management issues. He just wishes he knew what was bothering him, because he gets the feeling that it might be more than the usual stressed out teenage angst. And what is that anyway, except a catch-all term for the things they can't imagine telling him about?
"I understand. I know what the pressure is like."
John snorts. "I really don't think you do".
A smile tugs at the corner of Dave's mouth. "You'd be surprised. I know it's hard to believe, but I did actually go through high school myself, not that long ago."
"Yeah, but you were probably like the 2010 version of Jay or something, right? I mean, no offense, but..."
"You mean I was a big guy in a letterman jacket, intimidating freshmen in the hallways for fun?"
"Oh my God...I can't even imagine that, but yes. And, like, you probably dated a cheerleader and ran for prom king and stuff".
They're having a serious conversation here, but this is too good. A puff of laughter escapes and he runs his fingers through his hair.
"You have no idea. But that's a really long story that I probably shouldn't be telling my students."
"Like people have boundaries in this place anyway. I think Ms. Pillsbury was actually telling us about her sex life the other day. It was kind of metaphorical or something, but still."
"Thats...that's actually really disturbing. Did you know, she used to work at my old high school? And in retrospect, considering how much I knew about her private life back then...I completely believe you. I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"Yeah, thanks, I'll live. But man, she's got to be, like, forty."
"No comment."
John smiles at that. When he gets up to leave, Dave thinks maybe the weight on his shoulders seems a little lighter.
"Okay, coach. I'd better go change or I'll miss my ride."
"Okay. See you tomorrow, John."
Dave stares at his back as he walks away.
Is it just him, or is there something...nah, he must just be projecting. His gaydar is shit, always was, and using it on his student is probably crossing some kind of line. Still, he can't help wondering.
He goes to work. He has trigonometry first, which sucks because most of the students are still half asleep, algebra II, and his favorite, honors calculus, then after lunch it's all P.E until football practice. It's a good schedule, but he wonders sometimes, what on earth made him do this, why he has to spend so much of his time with a bunch of kids who clearly wish they were anywhere else.
He guesses the reward is when he can make them forget that they're supposed hate it.
He talks to Jackson on the bleachers most days, partly to give him someone to talk to and partly to help him avoid the crowd in the locker room, just in case that's part of his problem. He's increasingly sure that it is, and no seventeen year old boy full of feelings he doesn't want to be having should need to go through that, ever. Especially not if Dave can help it by giving him an excuse for ten minutes. Strangely enough, the rest of the team don't give him a hard time about it. It helps that John is clearly their best player. Most of them are also a little in awe of the fact that he's good enough to be thinking about college football, the rest of them aware that they're really only good enough for a just-for-fun team. He passes it off as a mentoring thing, helping him with recruiting, planning strategies. Sometimes they do a couple of extra drills, just the two of them.
Then he goes home, cooks dinner for one, and spends the evening watching old superhero movies or something. He's probably kind of lonely, but no more than he deserves. He hangs out with his old friends sometimes, one on one, but he didn't really keep too many of them after his senior year personality makeover. Most of the ones he did keep were smart enough to get the hell out of here, anyway.
Some weekends he drives down to Columbus to see his friends from college, which translates to getting shitfaced with the two guys he still loves like brothers, even after they've slept with each other in every disastrous configuration. It's where he gets his, like, three percent of the casual sex that a single gay guy in his late twenties ought to be having. It's glorious, and it's not nearly enough. It's also incredibly hard to remember that the man grinding on the dance floor is the same one who will, in less than 48 hours, walk into a classroom in conservative teacher clothes. He tries to imagine how it would look to his students, their math teacher drunkenly pulling his decidedly unmusical friends into a karaoke bar where they will do their wingmanly duty and embarrass themselves so he can sing a silly love song and charm the stupidly tight pants off some beautiful man he's only just met. He can't do it, and that's probably a good sign that he's not turning into Will Schuester. Knock on wood.
Fuck his rules about touching. He puts his hand on John's shoulder and bends down sideways, trying to catch his eyes from below. If he's wrong about this, it will be awkward forever, but he's almost completely sure... "Hey. Hey, kiddo, look at me". John lifts his head a fraction, just enough to see his football coach all up in his face, staring at him like he's really hoping he has telepathic powers.
"I know. I know, okay? But John, you have to be the one to say it."
Okay, so he's not wrong.
Dave holds his breath with him, because he's done this before, but never from this perspective. He's never been the one that someone was afraid to tell. The one that someone is putting their faith in against hope, just because he talks to him on the bleachers after football practice and maybe because he's the only teacher who actually tries to stop them from calling each other fags during class. He suddenly wishes he had been more forthcoming about his own life. Maybe then this would be a little easier on John, if Dave had found a way to mention an ex-boyfriend or his short stint as a PFLAG leader. Then again, maybe it would make it more intimidating. Fear of being hated is one thing, but he won't underestimate the fear of not being good enough for what's supposed to be your people.
John draws a few ragged breaths, and oh, Dave knows. Knows how it feels to have walked around with this bomb on the tip of his tongue, unsecured, and just trying to gather up the courage to set it off. Having no idea what the world will look like when the dust clears, just hoping that it's somehow going to be better, doubting that it can possibly be worse. Still being deadly scared that it might. John's hands are visibly shaking with adrenaline.
"I -" Okay, he's speaking, that's a good start. God, Dave has never rooted so hard for this kid. For any kid. His hand is still on John's shoulder, and he doesn't dare to move a muscle.
"I'm - " Almost there. The silence is deafening and he wishes there was something he could do to make this easier. Come on, just say it, he finds himself thinking, I already know. Is he as convinced as Dave once was that nobody could ever guess? He has to admit, the kid is good at hiding. Better than he was. He hears John taking another deep breath, gathering momentum, trying to force himself to just do it already, get it over with, he can see the change in him as he figures out it's too late to turn back now. And then he just goes for it, like the superstar Dave always knew he was.
"I'm gay".
Obviously nobody's around or they'd never be having this conversation, so Dave puts his arms around him and gives him the biggest hug he's probably ever given. He can feel tears coming on, despite the grin on his face, and they must look ridiculous, a gigantic kid in football gear all wrapped up in his even bigger coach, both of them crying.
"I'm so proud of you," he says over John's shaking shoulder. "I knew you could do it."
John pulls away, wet-faced and confused.
"You really don't care?"
"I really don't care. I kind of already knew, actually. But I'm so freaking impressed, I can't even tell you." He smiles, holding up his hand. "Can I get a fist bump from my bravest and most awesome quarterback?"
John manages a wobbly smile at that, and gives him a tiny, God-my-teacher-is-such-a-geek bump.
"Wait, how could you tell?" Dave can hear the fear in his voice, and the questions he's not asking. What did I miss, where's the leak, can everybody see it, when is the world coming down on my head?
"Hey, relax. You're not being obvious. But you know the saying, it takes one to know one? I didn't come out until the end of my senior year, and I played football and hockey. I know most of the tricks in the gay jock handbook. Also, I can see when a kid is terrified of the locker room, and I was pretty sure you weren't being bullied, so..."
Clearly he's not bad at the stealth thing himself, because John is staring at him in obvious disbelief, shaking his head slowly.
"No way."
"Way. I would show you the secret handshake, but I don't know if you're quite ready yet. Same time tomorrow?"
Like every Wednesday, he walks into his childhood home and is met by the smell of his father's cooking. It's still weird to him that his dad is such a decent cook. His mom never was, but she still insisted on trying. Since their long-overdue divorce, the quality of food in Paul Karofsky's house has actually improved by quite a lot, but today must be Appreciate your Questionable Culinary Heritage Day or something. He can smell kielbasa and cabbage before he even opens the door.
"Hey, Dave, come on in. Food's almost ready."
"Thanks, Dad. I brought dessert, want me to put it in the fridge for now?"
"Sure. Grab me a beer while you're at it, will you?"
He takes two, opens both and hands one to his dad. Then he drops down on a kitchen chair, startling when it creaks under the sudden weight, and gulps down about half of it.
"Rough day? I would say I'm sorry, but I think of it as a kind of poetic justice that you get to deal with teenagers all day."
Dave considers tossing back an easy reply, but instead he puts down the beer and lowers his voice a little.
"My quarterback came out to me this afternoon."
Paul stops moving.
"I think it was his first time, to anybody. Christ, he's seventeen."
"That must have brought up some memories. Did you know it was gonna happen?"
"I- I guess I did. I definitely suspected. Been there, done that, you know? I just didn't think he'd have the guts to do it this soon. He's such a great kid, Dad, so brave, and he doesn't even know it yet."
His father turns around from the stove to face him. He's wearing the awful apron that Uncle Mark got him for Christmas two years ago. It's red, says "Caution, extremely hot" in big letters on the chest, and is splattered with old stains.
"Huh, that reminds me of another boy I used to know. Now why don't you help me set the table?"
Dave can't believe that ten years ago, they were sitting in this kitchen, in these actual chairs, and he was the shaking, sweating kid choking on two syllables. In a way though, he always knew that had to happen.
Maybe what he really can't believe is that he got to come back.