Work Text:
—
Jerome distinctly remembers the first time his otherwise transphobic teammates gendered him correctly.
At the time, they weren't his teammates. It was the start of a new school year, and Jerome was a baby-faced fifteen year old – barely a month on his illegally required testosterone – determined to join his high school's all-boys soccer team. This tended to be met with mockery or concern, nearly everyone around him telling him not to sign up. So, of course, he signed up.
For the most part, it was to play the sport he enjoyed playing, but he'd be lying if he said the urge to prove everyone wrong was not a large factor in why he showed up to tryouts. And God, did he prove those idiots wrong! He completely wiped the floor with every smarmy prick who thought they'd automatically win against someone they perceived to be a girl. Honestly, the look of defeat on each of their faces was more satisfying than when he told he got on the team.
So, Jerome's teammates gendered him correctly.
It wasn't the most satisfying acceptance, though. While some of his teammates came around to being genuinely accepting of him, most of them barely tolerated it. There was one common theme amongst almost all of their views, though: Jerome was only a man, because a girl couldn't play that good.
It was an itchy kind of uncomfortable that Jerome felt deep inside his skin, only being safe from transphobia because he was shielded by a thick layer of typical teenage boy misogyny. He couldn't exactly fight back against their ideals and say that a girl could totally be better than them, because it would just confirm to them that Jerome was a girl.
The ideals of his teammates also caused a certain expectation of Jerome's performance. Under no circumstances could be "play like a girl" – whatever that meant – or else he would only confirm the worst suspicions his teammates. He couldn't just play on par with his teammates, he would have to consistently beat them. This only made Jerome more stressed for gym tomorrow.
Jerome shouldn't be this stressed about gym class, but he was. Those expectations of how he should perform in soccer games carried over to anything sports related in general, which included gym, and included their yearly mile run. He couldn't falter now, because he couldn't lose their respect.
He remembers what it was like before he earned their respect, stuck in lockerrooms with people who hated his very existence while he just tried to get through the tryouts. He remembers he teasing, the shoving, the poking at his binder. He remembers his ears being full of the whispers of she and her and people trying to figure out what his name was before he got it changed.
It was a deeply humiliating time, and he had never been more determined to prove someone wrong. The only side effect to that mindset was that he couldn't stop proving them wrong, because then he'd be proving them right. It became a continuous cycle of needing to be better and better, much better than any of his teammates ever needed to be, just to earn his spot alongside them. He grips the sides of the bathroom sink and takes a deep breath – he would prove them wrong again.
A knock on the door brings Jerome back down to reality. His spiral of thoughts are stopped, and he remembers where he was – in Monty's bathroom, safe from prying eyes and glaring looks. He blinks twice to try and force the stress headache out of his head, thought it barely helped, and opens the door to see Monty, concerned etched onto her face.
"Dude, you've been in there forever," she says, her tone more concerned than her words were annoyed. Jerome just sighs and shrugs, muttering a half-hearted apology.
Monty gives her wheelchair a little push forwards, but not so much that it hits Jerome's feet. He gets the hint, opening the door further and letting her enter the bathroom with him.
"Is tomorrow stressing you out?" Monty asks, almost rhetorically, because she knew the answer. It was just the structure of the conversation to ask.
Jerome is quiet for a second, before he silently nods, and then sits on the edge of the bathtub to be at eye-level with Monty.
"I just want to play sports, man," his voice is quiet. With every proceeding word, it gets louder, angrier. "I don't wanna have to– to have the best performance in the world every single time just to be considered for my team!"
He pinches the bridge of his nose, "if I play with the guys, I'm not manly enough for them, and they treat me like a fragile little thing that'll be broken, but if I play with the girls, I'm too manly, and I'll end up hurting all of them!"
He rests his elbows on his knees and hides his face in his hands, his voice reverting back to just a whisper. "I can't win. It feels easier to just stop playing at this point."
"Don't stop playing!" Monty sounded offended at the implication that he would. "Jesus christ, are you stupid?"
Jerome looks up from his hands and sadly chuckles.
"Maybe I am. Just a little."
"Well, don't be stupid this time," she continues, voice shifting from annoyance to determination. "'Cause you're a damn good player, and they're just sorry little shits who are too caught up with things that don't matter to notice you're the best on the team."
Jerome wipes the cloudiness out of his eyes, murmuring a quiet "yeah". Then, he processes Monty's words further, and smiles to himself, sitting up and declaring more confidently, "yeah! Yeah, I'm good at this! Damn bro, you should be the coach. You give good pep talks."
Monty laughs a little to herself, "a trans girl in a wheelchair being the coach for her trans boyfriend's soccer team? I think your teammates would die."
"Hey, maybe thats for the best. I'll be the best player by default!"
Jerome takes another deep breath, because despite the reassurance he was good, he still somewhat felt like he wasn't good enough.
"Come on," Monty's voice softens once again, knowing that her words don't cut deep enough to remove the roots of his insecurities. "You gotta eat before tomorrow. You ain't gonna be the one dipshit who doesn't eat before running and then passes out halfway through."
"Yeah, I'd hate to be that guy," Jerome stands, stretching his arms above his head briefly. "I'll make us dinner."
—
"You got this. You got this."
Jerome was back to staring into his reflection, though he was now in the otherwise empty boys bathroom that lead into the changing room where his entire grade was getting dressed. He'd always found respit in getting changed in the bathrooms, away from prying eyes – innocently curious and disgusting malicious – asking what was on his chest. Trans tape that barely matched his skin colour was glaringly obvious from across the changing room, and people had their questions.
"You did this last year. You'll do it again this year. But better," he mutters to himself, staring so intensely into his own eyes he doesn't even process the bathroom door opening.
"Aw man, you finally snapped?"
Jerome jumps a little at the sudden voice, but when he turns around, its just Buggs with that shit-eating grin he always seemed to have, and a now very flustered Ted just by his side.
"'Cause I thought that'd take another year."
"I'm hyping myself up. Something a bonehead like yourself doesn't need to do, because your ego is too big," Jerome scoffs, and then his eyes drift to Ted, whos awkwardly glancing away. "Hey, Ted."
"Hi," he mutters back. Jerome immediately understands what his deal was, taking several strides closer, which only made Ted more flustered.
"'C'mon dude!" he leans down an inch or two to be more eye-level with Ted, which was a useless feat when he wasn't meeting eyes with him. "We're all guys here, don't get so embarrassed just cause I'm trans!"
"It's not because you're trans!" Ted looks at Jerome as he defends himself, before he burns a brighter red and then looks away again, his voice basically a whisper now. "You must understand, I ger this with every kind of attractive guy I see, because I'm a mess."
"Kind of? Ouch."
Before Ted could defend himself again, Jerome turns around to grab his tanktop out of his duffle bag. "Why aren't you two losers changed anyway? The run starts in ten minutes."
"We came through here to skive off," Buggs explains, leaning against a wall between two stalls. "This ways the easiest route to the bleachers without getting caught."
Ted nods, mirroring his stance, "its a tradition to skip running the mile."
"A tradition?" Jerome chuckles out the question, pulling the tanktop on. "You've only known each other a year."
"That's how traditions start!" Ted playfully defends, a lot more put together now that he wasn't staring at his boyfriend's best friend being shirtless.
"A tradition that you'll only be able to do for one more year."
"I don't know, Buggs might be held back a year," Ted mutters.
"Hey!!" Buggs teasingly smacks Ted's upper arm, who giggles in response. "I ain't failing shit!"
"Yeah, we get it. You're very smart," Jerome rolls his eyes, leaning down to pick up his duffel bag. "Why'd you come through the bathroom anyway?"
Buggs points to the windows above the mirrors.
"Lets us get out of the changing rooms without being super obvious."
"Can you fit through there?" Jerome stares at Buggs with a faux concerned voice as he slings the bag over his shoulder,
"Oh, bite me."
Jerome grins, "hey man, no flirting with me in front of your boyfriend. Thats just bad manners."
"Why not?" Buggs hooks one arm around Ted's waist, and the other around Jerome's shoulders, pulling them both to his sides, "I think we'd make a pretty good polycule."
"I don't know if Monty would be very approving of that," Ted murmurs.
Buggs rolls his eyes and very dramatically sighs, "I guess." He looks at Jerome, "where is she anyway?"
"She'd probably be in the girls changing rooms, right?" Ted suggest, looking to Jerome for comment.
"Eh, she doesn't do gym, so she was lucky enough to dodge all the shit about changing rooms." Jerome thought it was a relatively tame comment, but he watches Buggs' face turn angry very quickly. For a moment, he thought he was going to comment on Jerome needing to fight to be in the boys changing rooms, but then–
"What? No fair! Why does she get to sit out of gym!"
"I fear sitting is all she can do," Ted says softly.
"Oh." Buggs pauses, before his arm comes around Jerome's shoulders once again. "Nevermind that!" Jerome snickers, but is cut off when Buggs gives his chest a few affirming pounds with the palm of his hand. "You're gonna do great!"
"You'll do really good!" Ted says softly. He wasn't used to this sort of hyping up, so he just gives Jerome a little thumbs up from the side.
"Exactly! And I know ya will, because I trained you well!"
Jerome laughs, a little confused, "you have never trained me."
"I chased you once! That counts!" Buggs sounded almost offended at the implication that it didn't count.
That catches Ted's attention, "wait what–"
"Don't worry about it" is all the explanation Buggs would give, letting go of Jerome and taking Ted's hand. "We better head out before everyone's around and spots us. Good luck man!"
Jerome nods, gunning for the door into the wider changing room so he wouldn't get further distracted by watching Buggs squeeze himself out of a window, "seeya. Have fun making out, losers!"
The bathroom door closes behind Jerome, and with that, he is alone again. He tries to shake away self-doubt that crept into every crevice of his brain when he wasn't preoccupied with something else, hanging his bag on a peg and making his way to the track.
—
Of course, Jerome is in the first group to run, and he could feel every single pair of eyes pierce through him.
It shouldn't be this serious to him. Between all of his insecurity and doubt, he remembers that this was just gym class at the end of the day, and then he feels stupid. Their times wouldn't even be kept preserved on any sort of professional record, but the social status aspect was enough for Jerome to start losing sleep. If he even came in third place, his ability to play soccer would be doubted, and his team would finally have a good enough reason to kick him out of the spot he fought so hard for.
But that wouldn't happen, he assures himself, only half-listening to the teacher listing off the rules. It wouldn't happen because he was going to get first, and he was going to prove everybody who even looked at him funny wrong. Jerome was running the millisecond he hears the word go.
It wasn't nerve-wracking when his competitors consistently stayed on the same pace as him, because he knew he was put up against those in the same vague athletic class. It was an even flow of dipping in and out of first place, but Jerome wouldn't let that effect his performance. He is eyes-ahead focused, not looking to his competitors nor anyone who may be watching. They didn't exist to him, because then he would get too caught up in his head, and he would falter. That couldn't happen – it wouldn't.
Jerome was a bit too focused on staying out of his head to keep track of his time, but he did soon notice that it wasn't a constant neck-and-neck between him and his competitors. There was nobody in front of him, nor was there anybody beside him. He wasn't about to turn around to see how far behind they were, so he keeps looking forward and lets that sense of pride of being in first fuel himself to run a little further.
Even when his legs grew tired, he did not slow down. A part of him knew he should start to pace himself, to slow down a little bit like everyone else was doing so he didn't get exhausted at the last minute and go from first to last in a heartbeat. Equally, he did not want to risk resting and end up behind. So, he runs on.
Jerome runs. And he runs and he runs. He runs even when he knows he should jog, he runs even when he could feel the muscles burn in his legs. Yes. he was pushing himself, he knew that, but the satisfaction of winning was going to counteract any physical consequences he would have tomorrow. He runs, and then he sees the finish line, and he somehow runs faster
Finally, finally, the days of stress fall off his shoulders as he steps over that line, because he won. Someone called out his time, five minutes something something seconds. He didn't care about the time, because he won. With shaking legs, he looks back, and second place was a couple yards behind him, and he grins to himself through his pants. The moment he's excused, he darts straight to where Monty was sitting.
"I am not walking tomorrow," Jerome murmurs as he approaches Monty, and his legs give out the second he allows them too, falling beside his girlfriend and resting his head on her lap. "I refuse. I'm riding with you everywhere."
Monty chuckles, playing with his hair lightly, "I guess you can, since you did so well."
Jerome sighs, still struggling to catch his breath, "thank you."
"'Course," Monty leans down and gives his forehead a little kiss. Though, her face immediately scrunches up at the slightest contact. "Jesus, you're sweaty. You're showering when you get home."
"I will, I will. Just… lemme rest for a moment," Jerome murmurs, leaning more into Monty's hands. He sighs happily, grinning with his eyes closed. Paired with his head in Monty's lap, he looked like a content dog, "I showed those assholes."
"You really did. I told you so, dumbass."
Jerome chuckles, opening one eye to peak up at her, "you did. Thanks, for being my hypewoman."
"Anytime," Monty smiles down to him, wiping his forehead with her sleeve and giving him another little kiss, once she wasn't immediately disgusted by.