Chapter Text
As far as you’re concerned, school is for two things: the first is sports, and the second is education. Making friends is not on the list. Yet, as you walk through the halls of U.A. High School, all these people you don’t know seem to think you owe them time or attention. You understand to some degree why your teammates gravitate to you and hover around during lunch and the passing period, and you can tolerate them because you need them for your success. But they bring others—their girlfriends, their groupies, their pot dealers—and you couldn’t be less interested.
You’re not here for clout. You’re here to show your father that you can do what he couldn’t without using an ounce of his fame, fortune, or training. The old man fell just short of glory in the NFL, brushing the holy grail of the Superbowl with just the tips of his fingers before fumbling his chance against the one man who outclassed him, and you’ve been carrying that burden your whole life. You were supposed to be his perfect son, a quarterback to uphold his legacy. Instead, you’re the star player on both the soccer and basketball teams, and you’re coming close to beating records in track and field as well. You’re set up for a full ride to any university of your choice, and it looks like going pro is in your cards. Best of all, you haven’t touched a football since middle school.
High school is full of people who do little more than get in your way. At best, they’re white noise in the backdrop of your thoughts, and at worst, they’re annoying distractions, plaguing you with their petty dramas and useless small talk. You spend most of your days focused on your school work and going over your training in your mind, planning the best ways to get better, to strengthen your game, to reach the top. Nothing catches your eye outside of that.
Until the faithful day you collide with some goth kid in the hallway.
You’re running errands for the athletic director as his student aid, which is cumbersome but miles better than sitting in a giant study hall with the slackers and the class clowns. You round a corner a little fast, anxious to get back to your work so you can get it all done before practice. The guy slams into you with an oof! and a scattering of school newspapers. You topple backwards onto your ass.
It takes you a moment to get your bearings straight. You blink up at him, stunned. The guy felt like a brick wall, but you wouldn’t guess it by looking at him. He’s shorter than you by inches, and his hunched posture makes him seem even smaller. His physique is hidden under a loose, frayed black T-shirt. Any muscles on his arms are downplayed by a long-sleeved fishnet undershirt that hooks around his middle fingers. A dark, well-worn beanie holds a curtain of black hair with stylized red streaks in his face, and behind his hair, his eyes are shadowed and darkened even more with a thick ring of smudged black eyeliner. But his irises pop. He’s wearing what you assume to be bright, blood-red color contacts, so that his eyes seem to glow under the darkness of his hair and make-up. He stares down at you, motionless, and it takes a second for you to realize that he’s just as stunned as you are. You straighten up, and his mouth closes with a click.
“Sorry, man,” he says, and he offers you a hand. You let him help you to your feet, mostly to get another feel for his body, just to see if you’re thinking too much into it. There’s a subtle power in his biceps. The fishnets curl just briefly around the muscle. Bizarre.
You stare at him as he bends down to pick up his pile of newspapers. From this angle, his loose black shirt melds with his baggy black cargo pants, and his body is lost in all of the black fabric. You don’t even think to help him gather his stuff. By the time it crosses your mind, he’s already standing back up and shooting you a smoldering glare.
“Do you work out?” you ask.
“Why do you care?” he bites back. Maybe you’re seeing things, but his teeth seem slightly pointed. Does he sharpen them? He has enough piercings to suggest he’s into body modification. A silver ring curls around his lower lip. It draws your eyes to his mouth.
“Do you do sports?” you ask.
“Do I look like I do sports?”
“Maybe you should.”
He stares at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. It’s not ridiculous. He just knocked you down without trying. That solid stance would be great for defense. Granted, you weren’t trying not to get knocked down, but you suspect he could probably body you pretty well even if you were expecting him. You stare back at him, waiting for a reply.
“...No,” he says. “Thanks. Um. Bye.”
He turns and scuttles down the hall. You think for a moment about following him and making your case more persuasively, but you have too much homework to do and too little time to do it. It’s not like you won’t be able to spot him in a crowd again if you wanted to.