Chapter 3: The Golden Boy
1121 Words
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Brian Carter was the kind of guy people remembered.
It wasn’t just his looks, though the headlines loved those: “The Face of a Future Pro,” “Model Genes: When Beauty and Talent Collide.” With his dark, tousled hair, sun-kissed skin, and eyes that smoldered even when he was half-asleep, he looked like he’d stepped out of a high-end magazine—and he had, more than once.
But it wasn’t just that.
Brian had charisma that made crowds lean in. Swagger that didn’t need permission. The kind of presence that turned heads before he even said a word. He was captain of the football team, had scouts drooling by sophomore year, and the entire student body of Greenwich High wrapped around his finger.
He was effortless.
And he hated effort.
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“Morning, superstar,” his mother called as he strolled into the marble-and-glass kitchen of their Bel Air-style estate.
Giselle Marquette, fashion icon, movie goddess, red-carpet royalty, sat in a silk robe sipping green tea and scrolling through a script on her iPad.
Across from her, Logan Carter—Super Bowl MVP, sports commentator, and walking legacy—grunted over protein pancakes.
“Sleep in?” his dad asked.
Brian grabbed an apple. “I’m seventeen. Sleeping is half my personality.”
“Not if you want to play at USC,” Logan said. “Discipline builds champions.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “And breakfast builds abs, right?”
“You’ve got your mother’s sass,” Logan muttered, smiling faintly.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Giselle replied, winking at Brian. “Be home for dinner. Family photo shoot at 7. And Ella has a recital this weekend, don’t forget.”
Brian gave a mock salute. “Got it.”
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His black Jaguar F-Type purred down the driveway like a predator ready to hunt. At sixteen, his dad had bought it for him. Not because Brian asked—but because “the press will expect it.”
Greenwich High’s gates opened like a red carpet.
Girls waved. Boys envied. Teachers smiled too long. Brian parked in his usual spot—right by the front steps, where everyone could see.
And then the other car pulled in.
A matte black beast with butterfly doors and engine growl that made the parking lot fall silent.
Heads turned.
Brian watched as the doors rose and out stepped the new kid.
Tall, lean, black hoodie, sharp jawline, calm like smoke. Zen walked with hands in his pockets, gaze low, but every step was confident. Dangerous. Like he didn’t need to prove anything.
Jeremy Bardot, Brian’s best friend and vice-captain, whistled. “Okay, who is that?”
“The transfer,” Brian said, trying to sound bored.
“The one who schooled Harmon in Physics?”
“The one.”
Jeremy smirked. “He looks like trouble.”
“He looks like he thinks he’s better than me,” Brian muttered.
“Oh, don’t be sensitive. You’re Brian Carter. You're the best.”
“Exactly. And I don’t like it when people forget that.”
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Classes blurred.
Brian could usually coast through his mornings with charm and muscle memory. Teachers gave him too many chances. Girls passed him answers. Guys rode his wave.
But today, there was static.
In Economics, Zen corrected a graph that Brian hadn’t even understood. In English, he finished the poetry analysis before Brian opened the book. In Advanced PE, he beat the seniors in obstacle drills without even taking off his hoodie.
“He’s showing off,” Brian told Jeremy at lunch.
Jeremy shrugged. “Or he’s just... smarter.”
Brian scowled. “I don’t like him.”
Skylar, sitting nearby, leaned over and whispered. “You just don’t like that someone finally outshines you.”
“He doesn’t outshine me,” Brian snapped.
“Then why are you twitching?” she teased.
Brian didn’t answer.
He was twitching.
Because Zen had barely spoken ten words to him all day.
Because Zen had walked past him like he wasn’t royalty.
Because every time Zen moved, people watched.
And every time he looked at Zen... his stomach did this weird flip. Like gravity had shifted slightly off-center.
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At practice, Coach yelled. “Brian! You’re running plays like a drunk duck!”
The team laughed, but Brian’s fists clenched.
He wasn’t bad. He was distracted.
Because Zen had been invited to scrimmage with the basketball team today. Because Brian could see him from the field—so fluid - so effortless. So damn good.
“You okay?” Jeremy asked as they hit the showers.
Brian slammed his locker. “No.”
“You want to fight him or kiss him?” Jeremy joked.
Brian froze.
Jeremy blinked. “I was kidding.”
“I’m not,” Brian muttered.
Jeremy stared. “Wait. You like him?”
“I don’t like him. I’m just... confused.”
“Oh, bro,” Jeremy said, shaking his head. “You’re catching feelings for the enemy.”
“He’s not the enemy,” Brian said, suddenly serious. “He’s a mirror.”
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That night, Brian sat in his room, music off, lights low.
His i********: was flooded with photos of him—fan accounts, modeling gigs, and magazine covers. Perfection, curated and glossy.
But in all those photos, he looked alone.
He scrolled further. Then paused.
Someone had uploaded a slow-motion clip of Zen doing a three-point turn in basketball.
The caption read: “Greenwich has a new king.”
And all Brian could think was—what if he wasn’t the king anymore?
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Downstairs, Ella, his ten-year-old sister, knocked on the door.
“Bri?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, come in.”
She peeked in. “Are you okay?”
He smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re being quiet. You’re never quiet.”
He patted the bed. She jumped up beside him.
“You know the new boy?” she asked.
Brian’s stomach tensed. “Yeah?”
“He’s cool. He helped me in the hallway when I dropped my books.”
Brian blinked. “He talked to you?”
“He smiled too. He has a beautiful smile.”
Brian didn’t answer.
Ella tilted her head. “Are you jealous?”
He laughed. “No.”
“You kind of sound jealous.”
He tugged her hair gently. “Go to bed.”
But when she left, the silence was louder than before.
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Brian Carter didn’t get jealous.
He didn’t get insecure.
He didn’t lose.
But somehow, Zen Egan was making him feel all three.
And he hadn’t even learned the truth yet.
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- Writer
