Chapter Text
For the most part, Nick would describe himself as a responsible person. He didn't drink until he was of age, he always came home before curfew, he followed all of his team rules to a T and he even made his bed every single morning.
Yet he still managed to find himself in a strange hotel room with the drummer of a band he went to see on a whim with his teammates. The band was a bit too emo for him if he's honest. They were the screaming, crying, and hip thrusting about emotions sort of performers and Nick's never been particularly into that sort of thing, but he did find himself watching the band's drummer with rapt attention.
What can he say— he likes a man who can keep a beat.
"You should know," Nick said between kisses, mouth fluttering to the man's pulse point, then his larynx, "I'm transgender. Will that be a problem?" He always had to ask, that was one of the more unfortunate things about being transgender— the big reveal always had to happen before anything less he be accused of baiting the other person or you know— possibly getting murdered. Like he said, he's a responsible person.
The drummer laughed, "No, no— not at all. I can't really… wow. You're amazing," he tangled those slender, talented fingers in Nick's hair, tugging him toward the bed. Nick fell onto his back and rolled the two of them over, knee forcing the drummer's legs apart. Laughing, the drummer said, "And you do not belong at a concert like that."
"Not grunge enough for you?" Teased Nick, biting into his bottom lip, staring at this beautiful stranger through his lashes.
The drummer caressed his face, thumb dipping into his mouth. Nick sucked the digit against his tongue and smiled down at him, he couldn't help himself. The drummer was something out of his wettest dreams. Dark, curly black hair that fell in a trendy mullet around ears that stuck out a bit too much, glacier blue eyes blown out with lust, and a faerie like appearance that absolutely worked for Nick. Perhaps it was the curse of the bisexual that had Nick going after men who looked a bit like girls and girls who looked a bit like men. He swung very hard in both directions and never quite understood people who had definite gender preferences; Nick loved everyone and everything all the time.
"Too sweet," the drummer whispered, "C'mon, sweetheart. Let me take care of you…"
Nick was never one for one night stands, he followed too many rules and was too much of a hopeless romantic for them. The few he had in uni left him gutted and raw in a way he didn't quite understand. But perhaps the hopeless nature of his romanticism is what led him to open up to the drummer in the first place, a flutter of hope that this would go somewhere beyond the walls of this hotel room. He was so much Nick's type it wasn't even funny and while he undressed, he saw the best hits of their future life together playing behind his eyes.
Tonight, mind boggling sex. Tomorrow, phone number exchanges and a promise to meet again. Next month, drummer boy will be at Nick's rugby match, the month after that, they have another night of mind boggling sex at drummer boy's next tour stop, half a year from now— they go official, a year from now, vacation together, a year after that— engaged.
Drummer boy's hands cradled Nick's hips carefully, "God, you're gorgeous," he whispered.
Nick preened. Most of the time when he fucked men, he usually had a strap-on. Gay men fell in one of two directions— they either didn't mind that he had a vagina because he looked cis enough on the outside to make up for it so long as he had a strap-on and would fuck them (which he would), or they didn't care about what Nick has going on.
Drummer boy doesn't seem to care much. They're just two men having sex. Nick sank down on his cock all at once— he had a pretty one. Shorter but thicker, fitting perfectly in the sheath of Nick's cunt as if they were made for one another. The drummer gasped, writhed and Nick clenched around him to show him exactly what he planned for tonight.
It was easily some of the best sex of Nick's entire life, and really, he should've known that was a sign this wouldn't go anywhere. Like, it was a bit ludicrous, right? Grunge, emo drummers do not go after pro rugby players, that'd be too ridiculous— too comical.
But Nick wished.
He hoped.
He fucked like it was the last time he'd ever get the opportunity, perhaps because he knew even then that this would never happen again.
And in the morning, drummer boy was gone with nothing more than a note scribbled onto the hotel's memo pad.
Had to leave out to catch the tour bus. Catch you next time xx —Charlie Spring.
Nick can only find Charlie Spring through a single verified Instagram account. It's him alright, same hair, same ears, same haunting eyes. But it's not a personal profile of any kind. It's all professional shots, tour photos, and magazine covers with careful captions advertising tour dates and ticket sales. Even his stories are pure PR garbage.
Which is sort of unexpected given the whole grunge-garagebandness he had going on. Nick expected a bit more personality, not that he can really talk. After running the Leeds University Rugby Union socials for all of his bachelor's, Nick's own accounts are locked down and private without a single identifying piece of information on the outside. Since he still runs a meme page for the London Irish (that actually landed him a salacious kiss with one of the All Blacks' hookers that ended up on the front page of every Sports rag in Europe for an entire month, thank you very much.), it's just easier to not engage personally.
Except now he has to because he's got a pretty massive issue.
nelson_zzzz: Hey I don't really know if you even check your Insta dms but I literally don't know how else to get in contact with you. Could you call me? My number is XXX-XXX-XXXX
And he waits, mostly because there's decisions that have to be made because Charlies Springs stupid drummer sperm managed to override Nick's IUD.
Or rather, Nick is now a member of the 1% who got knocked up with a perfectly placed, in the right position, not even close to expiring IUD.
6 weeks. Just a little dot in a sack, not even baby shaped yet just… there. Early enough to terminate medically without much fuss at all. It'd be the responsible, logical thing to do.
But Nick's always been sort of… he doesn't know. Whenever he's pictured himself as an adult he's always seen himself as a parent but never with a partner, something he chalks up to having been primarily raised by a single mother and looking up to her more than anyone else in his life. If she could do it all alone— which she did— Nick is just a rugby player, his mum is an entire obstetrician.
An entire obstetrician currently looking at the stack of paperwork Nick left the doctor's office with.
"Nicky," she sighs, "What do you want to do?"
He can't tell whether she's disappointed in him or if she's just worried. With his mum, it's hard to tell because the expressions look too similar on her face. Knitted eyebrows, pursed lips with her tongue poking at the inside of her cheek.
At the very least, she knows not to ask who the other parent is. Nick has mixed feelings about the playboy reputation he's managed to build up with a handful of well placed media stunts and leaning way too into the slutty bisexual stereotype, but the truth is, he hasn't lot of sex and maybe he talks to his mum about his lack of a sex life too much. Keeping secrets from her has never come naturally to him.
"I think I want to keep it. Is that stupid?"
She shoots him a warm look but doesn't reply, which means she's waiting for him to continue.
It's not like he's at the start of his career anymore where everything that happens on the pitch, online, or at events matters. Nick has already won over longtime London Irish fans and drawn new ones in thanks to a LGBTQA+ Campaign the social media team pitched a year after he joined where he waved a little trans flag at a match. It wasn't a full coming out, but it was enough to start a conversation that Nick continues to have around rugby.
Everyone belongs, all rugby takes is drive, patience, and teamwork. Plus some athletic ability, of course. But, he's helped train other transmen and he's been trying to start some outreach programs to help bridge the gap between young trans athletes and professional sports now that things are politically less volatile.
A baby is… sort of a stupid idea all things considered. But he's not the new kid on the team, nor is he the fresh face in the world of rugby. Nick is known and semi-beloved by the community although admitting such a thing feels a bit too egotistic to him. It's the truth though— there's been polls and stuff.
He checks his phone. Charlie hasn't even opened the dm, which probably means he doesn't check it. Nick imagines the account is in the hands of whoever his band's PR manager is.
"When am I ever going to get the chance again?" Nick asks, mostly to himself. "Like if not now, when? It's not like I ever planned to do this with another person in the first place."
"Sweetheart—"
"Obviously I'm going to try and let him know but I'm not really… I don't know. I just don't know."
She draws him into her arms, rubbing up and down his back like she did when he was a small child and not an entire 26-year old man with a rugby career, a huge pot of savings because she never pushed him to move out and truthfully, he's never been home long enough to warrant the ludacrious price of London rent. That, and he's an unapologetic mummy's boy and he sincerely worries about how she'll fare when he eventually moves out.
"There's time," she tells him, breath warm against the side of his head, "To make decisions and try to get in contact. But you really ought to let your team know. I'd hate for something to happen to you and—" her voice goes a bit throaty, "The baby."
The baby makes Nick fully burst into tears because it feels a little too real, and a little too foolish.
During the first few months where Nick was pregnant but not showing yet and stuck in that liminal phase of knowing he was with child yet not quite feeling it, he debated if this was some sort of family curse that he became an active participant in. It took his mum a very long time to be able to tell him why she and his dad divorced, and well— it wasn't like Nick was blind or that naive as a child. He witnessed most of their fights with his ear pressed against the crack between his bedroom door and the floor just in case or from behind walls with David holding his hand with a finger pressed to his lips to keep Nick quiet.
The truth was, his dad wasn't exactly father material. Nick had asked her at one point why she wanted children in the first place and her answer has always stuck with him.
"Because I wanted to be a mum, and I thought your father wanted to be a dad."
Now Nick is debating if it's right to bring a child into this world without a father because he wants to be a parent. Sometimes, he wonders if he's sort of baby trapping Charlie Spring, but he doesn't really want a relationship with him, he wants their child to.
Nick's taste in people has never been great. Imogen, his best friend and current social media manager for the London Irish despite all odds (she'd wanted to work for Sephora for fuck's sake), told him many times that he's a magnet for damaged, "fucking malicious twats that want to dim your light", sorts of people. Nick wished he could refute her claim but she wasn't wrong. Nick's dating track record was messy, somewhat convoluted, and his taste in people tended to fall in the damaged goods category.
For example, when he first started on the London Irish, he was in a relationship so bad his coach and all of the captains at the time had to sit him down for an intervention— not without cause. That girlfriend had been the one who tried and succeeded in putting her fags out on his shoulders and although Nick chalked it up to some fetish thing he didn't enjoy, on the outside it looked…
Who is he kidding? That was abuse, he was just too young and stupid to see it at the time. Not that all of his partners were that bad, but they all had their issues. Nick didn't consider himself the "fixer" type, but well… patterns and all that.
Needless to say, Charlie Spring is probably his type for multiple reasons beyond his elfine features, dark curls, and brilliant eyes; he's the drummer for an emo band that primarily performs songs about sex, drugs, mental health, etc. Nick's spent enough time around musicians to know that even the most wholesome popstars can be into some dangerous activities. He's been to the parties before. He knows.
So he's not dad material, probably.
Nick is though, and he wants this, badly. Badly enough that he goes through all the proper channels to try to get in contact with Charlie Spring. His manager, his bandmates' managers, agents— all of them laugh Nick off for one reason or another or straight up just don't answer the phone.
"Nick mate, you alright?" It's Joerie Spencer. The rest of the team calls him Speedo thanks to an unfortunate photo that went viral four years ago where the whole world found out the head captain of the London Irish is more hung than a stallion, but Nick's always hated the stupid, laddish nicknames the team is prone to coming up with. They're dehumanizing.
"Uhm." Nick comes back to himself little by little. Right, he stepped into the hall to try and call Charlie's manager again just in case. He's trying to do the right thing here, okay? But the right thing is fucking difficult when the other person is impossible to reach. Nick doesn't want himself or his future child to go the rest of their lives wondering and dreaming of what-ifs. The responsible thing is to tell the bastard his stupid perfect cock stuck a soon to be perfect baby into Nick's— "I'm pregnant," he blurts.
Joerie blinks but doesn't recoil away in terror like Nick expected. Joerie is one of those extra straight lads who is absolutely women obsessed, and by women obsessed, completely and utterly infatuated by his wife, Aoife. He even carries her boudoir nudies in his wallet.
Okay, so maybe telling the straightest guy on his team he's knocked up isn't one of Nick's finest social moves, but it's not like it's some secret he can keep forever. He's already talked to the team manager about leave and all that— other jobs he can do until he's too pregnant to be useful because he's not quite ready to go vanish into some cottage by the sea to deal with the next nine months of his life.
Joerie's eyes, so dark it's impossible to tell where his pupil ends and his iris begins, narrow into dangerous slits, "Do I need to kill someone?"
"What? No— I mean maybe— no! No. Definitely not, Coach would lose it if you did that, team kind of needs you."
"Team kind of needs you too," his expression softens a little, "Fuck me. Is this a congratulations or condolences moment?"
"I-I don't know. Both?"
"Wanted?"
"In a way."
"Happy?"
Nick smiles a little, "Yeah, happy."
Joerie smiles back, exposing the gap between his top teeth, "Aoife's gonna be thrilled, full warning. Who's the lucky pappy?"
Explaining the stupid one night stand is more humiliating than anything Nick's ever been through because he's always been responsible. Never in his life has he done something so innately foolish and against the grain and never has he faced a consequence so severe as a literal child growing inside his body. But, by the end of his explanation, Joerie sort of stands back with this bewildered look on his face.
And then he whispers, a touch too delighted considering what Nick's revealed, "Team baby. Oh my God, Team Baby!"
nelson_zzzz: it's a girl btw. just thought maybe you'd want to know?
nelson_zzzz: i know you don't read these, hell, i bet you have some fancy manager that filters these out and only sorts by verified accounts and brand deals
nelson_zzzz: sometimes i wonder if i'd get a response if i used the london irish account but imogen would blow a fucking gasket if i did that.
nelson_zzzz: the note you left was kind of pompous by the way. who the hell writes xx after a one night stand and then ditches? do you do that a lot, find some poor bastard to screw over in the crowd?? thought that trend died in the noughts
nelson_zzzz: like drummers aren't even that bloody famous. all anyone pays attention to is the main singer in the first place
nelson_zzzz: i really liked you too, that's the worst part. i knew how this would end and i believed something good could come out of it anyway
nelson_zzzz: i mean i am getting something good, but i meant with you.
nelson_zzzz: stupid, right?
nelson_zzzz: i bet you're the kind of person who never wants kids, and i guess i am kind of sorry that you're going to have one, but if you messaged me back at all, we could've talked about it.
nelson_zzzz: whether or not you're here, she's going to be so loved. she's got 22 uncles who already adore her. so i guess if you want to be around, this has become a scott pilgrim thing where you'll have to fight every player of my rugby team.
Nick's new job since he can't be Fly-Half while any type of pregnant but especially third trimester, waiting to go into labor literally any day at this point (and God, let it be soon, his back is killing him and he's afraid his feet will never look normal again.), is working the social media page. It's been a big hit with their fans— so has being pregnant, weirdly. #TeamBaby has taken off in such a weird way, although Nick is genuinely touched that other people are now just as excited as he is about his baby.
"Nick," Imogen presses, not for the first time, "I really think you ought to have a sit."
"Im," Nick fiddles with his phone, taking a nice, long panoramic shot of the stadium. The season just ended and Nick's been editing this cute end of season video for literal weeks now and he's recently got all the footage he wants and figured out a new editing app and all he needs is a trending sound and it's good to go. He thanks his uni years for prepping him in the world of virality. "I'm fine."
"Can we check in, please?"
Nick rolls his eyes and turns his phone off before he faces her, hand fluttering to his belly. He didn't show very much for the longest time but after month six he went from looking like he sort of let himself go and developed a bit of a beer belly to looking very, very pregnant. He sort of hoped the incredible amount of baby weight he's gained would've evened things out a bit but no… he's not so lucky. He's just round and chunky and very, very miserable.
Imogen chews on her thumbnail, painted pink with a chrome effect for the summer. "I'm allowed to fret, you made me Godmum."
"Over the baby, not me."
"Well, luckily for you both, I have enough fretting to cover everyone. C'mon, how are you feeling—"
"Like I want this baby out of me?" Nick shifts his weight between his legs, leaning into the breeze that races through the stadium seats, "It's just been the usual braxton hicks and the last time my mum checked, I'm still only two centimeters along."
Imogen cringes a little, nose wrinkling, "I can't believe you let your mum do that."
"She's literally an obstetrician!"
"Yeah, but didn't you say your fanny is all— oh nevermind, not important," she waves whatever she was about to say off smartly, "Please sit with me for a second. I want to enjoy a quiet stadium without worrying about catching good B-roll."
Nick huffs and— the strangest thing happens. The baby kicks him and he feels something sort of snap but inside him? He draws his hand over where she kicked and—
"Your water broke," Imogen blurts.
"Fuck, is it bad?" Nick can't exactly see anything below the breast right now.
"It's not exactly great, is it, okay— okay, don't panic. We've got this. We've totally got this!"
"Im, you're the only one panicking."
"I said don't panic!"
Nick bites back a smile and nods, grateful he didn't sit down because if he managed to sit and get comfortable, getting back up would've been a total ordeal. That's when he actually feels himself leaking. Is it bad that he kind of wanted that ridiculous, movie gush? Instead, it just sort of feels as if he's slowly pissing himself.
Philomène Spring Nelson is born on June 21st on a sunny afternoon in the back Imogen's cute, baby pink countryman. Nick blames kegels, and Imogen blames work. Nick promises to cover getting her car detailed (or a entirely new interior, if he's honest), but she won't have it.
"It's kind of a story we can tell her later when she has a bratty phase? Oh, don't talk back to me young lady, your dad had you in the back of my car and I can put you back there again if you don't— Oh Nick, she's beautiful."
She is beautiful. Pink, covered in gray birth gunk and squalling, Nick thinks Philomène is the most perfect thing in the entire universe.
She has Charlie's hair.
And his ears.
And what seems to be his eyebrows although Nick might be making that up.
Nick takes an entire year off to acclimate to life postpartum, enjoy his baby, and figure out what the hell he's going to do next.
For the most part, he just fits Philomène into his life. Once he can get away with baby wearing, she goes everywhere with him. Around the house when he's stress cleaning, in the kitchen when he's cooking, in the back garden when he's working on the flower beds, on his morning walks. When he's cleared to go back to the gym, he brings her there too.
It's not easy at all, and Nick sort of knew that going in, but it also feels… right. Philomène being in his life suddenly makes everything make much more sense to him. Not that he feels like he was waitng his whole life to have a baby, but just that she fits as if she was always meant to be in his life.
He didn't make the wrong decision. In fact, he's absolutely, 100% sure that he made the right one because he cannot imagine living his life without his daughter in it.
What starts getting to him though is the fact that Charlie Spring is going to miss all of it. Her first words, her first steps, her first day of school. The other day, she actually looked at Nick and started giggling at him, big, brown baby eyes wide and curious with wonder and elation; her first real laugh. Obviously he's biased, but Philomène is perfect in every sense of the word and Charlie just… doesn't even know.
He makes cute kids though.
Nick sometimes jokes in his own head that if he ever wanted another, he could probably find out where Charlie's band is touring and just show up, although he's not sure how he'd react if he actually saw him again. Sometimes, Nick just wants him, other times, when postpartum gets the better of him, he wants to strangle him for not answering a single message; for leaving that bullshit note; for not being around to see the perfect child they have together.
After spending many evenings scrolling idly through Tiktok, and many days in the gym working on getting his body back in order, Nick gets an idea that he runs by Imogen.
"I want to do it on the team's account because it could be a good opportunity for family engagement— not that Philomène's face will be in any marketing material, but you know what I mean."
"And you really think Baby Daddy will see?"
"Hah, no," Nick laughs dryly. He'd tried a few more times to get in contact with Charlie but he had no luck. He even got desperate enough to send an invitation to Philomène's first birthday to his management office but that got returned unopened and yes Nick did in fact cry so hard he threw up until his mum reminded him Philomène wouldn't even remember her first birthday and so long as Nick didn't make a fuss, probably wouldn't care about only having one dad in the first place.
Nick's managed to accept that now, but it took two entire years of being a parent before he could swallow that specific pill.
"But," he continues, "Everyone knows that I had a baby and this could be a quick nod to the fact that I'm coming back this season."
Imogen's face lights up, "People will theorize about your return— oh Nick, you're a fucking genius sometimes."
He balks, "Sometimes!?"
"I didn't stutter. Go on then, make your little meme video with your daughter."
Nick sniffs a little, "She's going to want you to do her hair if she sees you."
Imogen cocks her head to the side, waggling her phone in the air. She still won't give Nick the password to the London Irish's official pages, but Nick's fingerprint still unlocks her phone, so it's a fair enough trade off.
One of the more interesting aspects of having a child that Nick didn't consider was how said child would get on with a rugby team, and honestly? It's a bit incredible.
One two year old has the power to make a bunch of testosterone-addled meatheads fall to their knees, pitch their voices up, and force them into gentleness. Philomène has every single player on the team wrapped around her little finger, and it's obvious as to why.
Joerie, Graves, Lou, and Patrick all lay in various positions on the hallway floor of the office, trying to catch her attention. Philomène giggles, running between all of them and giggling louder when they groan and protest the fact that she won't stop for them. Nick waits until she turns her back to him before he begins recording— he's very strict about what the team is and isn't allowed to post about her on social media. Her face is not to appear in anything. But the back of her head is fair game, as is blurring out her face or covering her somehow. The last thing he needs is for some rugby superfan to drag his daughter into something— Nick would lose his fucking shit.
"Where's daddy?" Joerie asks.
Philomène turns in a little half circle, "What? Where?"
Nick stops recording and squats down, opening his arms up, "Philly."
"Daddy!" She shrieks, throwing both arms in the air. The lads all coo and ooh and aah because they're all saps. Nick wraps his arms around her and scoops her into the air, delighting in her deep belly laughs as he tosses her up and catches her again.
Graves mutters, "How am I ever going to convince Hila?"
"When you retire?" Patrick snorts. "You've already got four, you greedy bastard."
"Do you seriously want another baby?" Nick blurts, juggling Philomène onto his hip while he works on the video. Graves has four kids already— his oldest just started secondary school and his middle isn't far behind, but his youngest, his twins, are barely in nursery school. Hila's far braver than Nick is. He's been over to their house before and as good as those kids are, they're still kids and they're chaotic little hurricanes that destroy everything in their paths before giving hugs and kisses.
As it turns out, Nick isn't the only person in the world with a one night stand baby. Far from it, actually. He writes on the video: "If you were at Slam Dunk a couple years ago, your daughter turned two this summer ✨" and slaps on the trending audio along with a weird video effect all the other ones he saw had. He decides to be vague on purpose on the off chance someone decides to try and put two and two too closely together, but with enough detail so that if the video so happens to fall across Charlie's feed, maybe he'll put two-and-two together himself.
"Funny?" Philomène sniffs, thwacking her head against his chest, making grabby hands for Imogen's phone.
Nick holds his phone away from her because he can see the stickiness on her fingers, "Nothing, baby. Nothing— Oi, what did you lot give her?"
Patrick turns crimson.
"Patrick—"
"I only gave her two jammy dodgers!"
"You're spoiling her."
Graves sits up and points at Nick's chest, "Oi, it's our job to spoil her. She's Team Baby."
Philomène giggles and Nick sighs through his nose. He didn't really predict that his entire team would be so… interested in Phil as a concept. Like, she's his baby and obviously Nick is completely and utterly obsessed with her because she's his and getting to watch her experience the world for the very first time has been the single, greatest thing he's ever gotten to do.
But, he didn't think he'd have this much support. Sometimes, he just doesn't know what to do with it all. Nick fully prepared for this to be the end of his professional rugby career and yet…
Yet it's not. It's just different now and not in a bad way. The best of Nick's two worlds are perfectly aligned in the middle and he couldn't be happier.