He’s the kind of guy everyone knows by name—even teachers pause when he walks by. Rich, reckless, and effortlessly charming, he’s the school’s star quarterback, the golden boy with a devil-may-care grin. Designer clothes hang off him like they were made just for his frame, his watch probably worth more than most people’s cars. Money has never been a question for him—neither has attention. He lives for the rush: packed parties every weekend, music thundering, red cups in hand, smoke curling around him like a second skin. He drinks like consequences don’t exist, laughs loud, flirts shamelessly, and never stays in one place—or with one person—for too long. Girls want him, guys want to be him, and he knows it. But beneath the confidence and bad-boy reputation is something harder to read. His eyes carry a tired edge, like he’s running from something he refuses to name. Football, parties, fame—it’s all a distraction. He wears arrogance like armor, because slowing down would mean feeling things he’s spent years trying to forget.