Speed

Chapter 17 (Ryan's POV)

Back in sophomore year, high school was my kingdom, and as captain of the football team, I felt like I was living every teen movie cliché in real life. The halls were filled with the constant buzz of energy, the mingling scents of cafeteria food and gym sweat, and the unspoken social hierarchies that seemed as solid as the lockers lining the walls. It was in this whirlwind of adolescent chaos that I first saw Zac. He was impossible to miss, not because he demanded attention—he didn't—but because of the quiet air of contentment that surrounded him, making him stand out like a calm eye in a perpetual storm. He carried his guitar case with a sense of reverence, a band kid through and through, navigating the crowded corridors with an ease that belied his freshman status.

Our first meeting wasn't anything spectacular, no dramatic event that threw us together. It was simpler, more mundane, and yet it marked the beginning of something significant. I was on my way to practice, the weight of the upcoming game pressing down on me like a physical burden, when I saw him sitting alone in the courtyard, his fingers dancing over the strings of his guitar, coaxing out a melody that cut through the noise of the world around us.

Drawn to the music, I found myself veering off my path, captivated. I stood there for a moment, listening, until he looked up, his expression open and curious, not at all intimidated by my jock status or the letterman jacket that felt like armor most days.

"Hey," I said, the greeting feeling inadequate for the moment but not knowing what else to offer.

"Hey," he replied, his voice holding a note of welcome. "You're Ryan, right? Quarterback?"

I nodded, surprised that he knew who I was. "Yeah, that's me. And you're Zac, the new freshman everyone's been talking about. Guitar prodigy or something?"

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Prodigy might be stretching it, but I do alright."

That was it, our grand introduction. No earth-shattering revelations, just a shared moment that felt surprisingly comfortable. I asked if I could sit, and he shrugged, a gesture of assent that felt like a door opening.

We talked about mundane things at first—classes, teachers, the relentless rhythm of high school life. But as the conversation deepened, delving into our passions—his for music, mine for football—I was struck by the realization that beneath the surface, we weren't so different. We both sought excellence, pushed ourselves to be better, driven by a love for what we did.

Reflecting on those high school days, not all memories shine bright. There were moments shadowed by the harsher realities of adolescence, times when the corridors that echoed with laughter and chatter also reverberated with words and actions meant to wound. Zac, with his quiet demeanor and passion for music, sometimes found himself the target of those looking to assert their own fragile dominance through the belittlement of others.

I remember witnessing it firsthand, a knot of students surrounding Zac by his locker, their words sharp, their laughter cruel. They mocked his dedication to music, tossed around his guitar case as if it were nothing more than a toy. Zac stood there, a mixture of defiance and resignation in his eyes, trying to shield his guitar with his body, his voice barely above a whisper as he asked for it back.

I stood a little way off, my fists clenched at my sides, anger boiling within me at the scene unfolding. Part of me wanted to step in, to use my status as the football captain to put an end to it. But another part held me back—a fear of crossing the unspoken lines that divided our social world, of becoming a target myself, or worse, of somehow diminishing Zac's strength in his own eyes.

So, I stayed silent, an observer to the bullying, and that silence weighed heavily on me. It was a choice I made, one that I would come to regret, the memory of it lingering like a shadow. After the crowd dispersed, leaving Zac to collect his scattered music sheets and dignity, I approached him, my words of consolation feeling hollow even as I spoke them.