Jim stepped through the high school gates, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He felt as if he were carrying the static electricity of the car ride on his skin. Squaring his shoulders, he adjusted his blazer and smoothed his hair, desperate to reclaim the persona of the "Golden Boy."
Inside the classroom, the atmosphere shifted immediately. As the Class Representative and Leader of Devotion, Jim was a figure of authority. He marched to the front of the room, and the chaotic morning chatter died down.
"Let us center ourselves for morning devotion," Jim announced, his voice projecting a stability he didn't feel.
He led the class through a scripture reading and a prayer. For those ten minutes, Jim felt safe. Here, he was the mapmaker; he was the one in control. He spoke of steadfastness and avoiding the snares of the world, his eyes closed tightly so he wouldn't have to see the inquisitive faces of his peers.
Once the session ended and the teacher had yet to arrive, Jim's best friend, Jared, leaned over from the next desk. Jared was the school's primary source of gossip—a trait Jim usually discouraged but now found himself unable to ignore.
"Hey, Jim, did you hear the buzz from the University next door?" Jared whispered, his eyes wide with excitement.
Jim opened a textbook, trying to look busy. "I don't keep up with university news, Jared. We have our own exams to worry about."
"No, but this guy is a legend already," Jared persisted. "Apparently, a new student just joined their rugby team. Rumor is he's a beast on the field—fly-half—but off the field, he's incredibly easy-going. And the girls? Man, they're losing their minds. They say he's the most handsome guy to walk onto that campus in a decade."
Jim's hand froze on the page of his book. A cold dread settled in his stomach.
"Is that so?" Jim asked, his voice sounding thin to his own ears. "What's his name?"
"Mauwa Gene," Jared replied, leaning back with a whistle. "Cool name, right? Even the guys are talking about his stats. Everyone wants to see him play this weekend."
Jim stared at the printed words in his book, but they refused to make sense. He didn't reveal a thing. He didn't mention that the "legend" was currently sleeping five feet away from him, or that he had just spent twenty minutes in a suffocatingly silent car with him.
He was floored by how quickly Mauwa had permeated the world outside their home. At the Oliver residence, Mauwa was a "distraction" and an intruder. At school, he was a celebrity. It felt as if the walls Jim was trying to build were being dismantled by the very people he led in prayer.
"Jim? You okay?" Jared asked, noticing his friend's sudden pallor. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," Jim snapped, a little too quickly. He looked toward the door and saw a group of girls from the senior class huddled together, giggling over a photo on a phone. He knew instinctively what—or who—they were looking at.
The rest of the morning was a slow, agonizing torture. Jim sat through Advanced Mathematics and English Literature, but the sanctuary of the classroom had been breached.
In Math, while the teacher scrawled complex calculus on the board, Jim heard the girls behind him whispering. They weren't discussing derivatives; they were discussing the "University God."
"Did you see the post on the Uni's sports page?" one whispered. "He's in a training jersey. His arms are... oh my god."
Jim's grip on his pen tightened until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to turn around and rebuke them—to tell them that vanity was a hollow pursuit—but he knew he couldn't speak without his voice shaking. Every mention of Mauwa's "sculpted" frame felt like a hot brand on Jim's memory, dragging him back to the image of Mauwa standing naked in their shared room.
Between periods, the hallways were no better. At the lockers, he overheard a group of junior boys debating the rugby team's chances.
"They say Gene is a tactical genius," one boy said, throwing a crumpled paper ball into a bin. "Fastest fly-half they've recruited in years. We should go watch the University practice after school."
Jim felt a wave of nausea. Mauwa was everywhere. He was the ghost in the machine, the name on every lip, the invisible presence making Jim's leadership feel like a sham. How could Jim lead these people in devotion when his own mind was a battlefield?
By the time lunch arrived, Jim felt frayed. He sat at his usual table with the other prefects, but even there, the conversation drifted toward the newcomer. It seemed the proximity of the high school to the University made Mauwa the local "main character," and Jim was being forced into a supporting role he never asked for.
"It's just hype," Jim suddenly interjected, interrupting a girl named Sarah who was praising Mauwa's 'aesthetic' Instagram profile.
The table went silent. Sarah blinked in surprise. "What do you mean, Jim? You haven't even seen him."
"People are obsessed with outward appearances," Jim said, his voice hard and judgmental, channeling his father's pulpit tone. "A person's worth isn't found in a rugby jersey or a handsome face. We should be focusing on our character, not on some... University student who plays a violent sport."
Jared looked at Jim with concern. "Whoa, Jim. Calm down. It's just talk. You're acting like the guy personally offended you."
Jim felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He realized he was overreacting, revealing too much of the irritation that was rotting inside him. He stood up, his tray rattling.
"I have to go to the library," he lied, his heart racing. "I have a lot of... independent study to catch up on."
As he walked away, he could feel their eyes on his back. He wasn't the Golden Boy today; he was a man on the edge. He stepped out into the courtyard, the sun blinding him, and his eyes immediately drifted toward the high fence that separated the high school from the University grounds. Somewhere over there, Mauwa was probably laughing, easy-going and adored, while Jim was suffocating under the weight of a secret he couldn't even name.
He spotted a girl sitting alone on a stone bench under a jacaranda tree—Lydia, a quiet, pretty girl from his Bible study group.
Jim made a beeline for the jacaranda tree, his footsteps heavy with a mix of righteous duty and desperate avoidance. Lydia was the perfect person to talk to right now—steady, predictable, and deeply rooted in the same faith that felt like it was slipping through Jim's fingers.
"Lydia," he said, his voice regaining its usual composed, pastoral tone as he approached.
She looked up, a small, shy smile lighting up her face. "Oh, hello, Jim. I didn't expect to see you out here during lunch. I thought you'd be in the library."
"I needed a moment of quiet," Jim lied easily, sitting on the edge of the stone bench. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper—the prayer request she had submitted during morning devotion. "I wanted to talk to you about the request you handed over. About your grandmother's health. I've been meditating on it, and I wanted to offer some specific scriptures for you to read."
Lydia's eyes softened, touched by his attention to detail. "That's so thoughtful of you, Jim. Most people just read the name and move on, but you really care."
As they began to discuss the verses, Jim felt a wave of relief. This was his world. This was where he belonged—discussing grace, faith, and healing. The noise of the school, the whispers about rugby, and the haunting image of Mauwa began to recede.
But the peace was shattered by a sudden, booming cheer from the University fields just beyond the high fence.
"Wow, sounds like the training session is going well," Lydia remarked, her gaze drifting toward the fence. "Have you heard about the new player everyone is talking about? My brother is at the University, and he says the atmosphere on campus has completely changed since that guy—Mauwa, I think?—arrived."
Jim felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. Even Lydia. Even here, under the jacaranda tree, discussing a grandmother's illness, the name Mauwa found a way to bleed in.
"I'm sure it's just sensationalism," Jim said, his voice clipped. "People are always looking for a new idol to worship."
"I don't know," Lydia said thoughtfully. "My brother says he's actually quite kind. He helped a group of freshmen move their gear yesterday without being asked. It's rare to find someone that talented who isn't arrogant."
Jim couldn't take it anymore. The "kindness" Lydia described felt like another layer of the trap Mauwa was weaving around him. It was easier when he could frame Mauwa as a "distraction" or "vulgar," but hearing that the world saw him as a hero made Jim feel like the villain of his own story.
Before he could respond, a group of boys from the rugby team sprinted past the bench, shouting to one another.
"Hey, Jim! We're heading to the fence to catch the last ten minutes of the Uni's practice! Apparently, Gene is doing some incredible kicking drills!" one of them yelled.
The momentum was too much. The entire school was being pulled toward the fence, toward the spectacle, toward him.
Jim stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over Lydia's water bottle. "I have to go, Lydia. I just remembered a... meeting with the Principal."
"Oh, okay," Lydia said, looking confused by his sudden exit. "Thank you for the scriptures, Jim."
Jim didn't hear her. He was walking in the opposite direction of the fence, his heart thundering. He realized now that talking to Lydia about prayer wasn't enough. The "Golden Boy" persona was being suffocated by the shadow of the "Rugby God." If he didn't find a way to anchor himself to a "normal" life.