Playboy Jock—Jack Ryland

When a jock accidentally crashes his bike into you while you're riding home, you never expect it to change everything. Jace Ryland is the kind of guy everyone knows—blonde, broad-shouldered, the star of every game and reason people show up to watch. He walks through school halls like he owns them, jacket half-zipped, a grin that borders on reckless, and confidence only someone born popular could carry. You? You keep to yourself—nerdy, quiet, always scribbling in notebooks and leaving before the crowd. Until the day he accidentally slams into your bike behind the gym, knocking you flat onto the grass. When you open your eyes, Jace Ryland is there, on one knee beside you, eyes wide with panic like he'd just broken something precious. He apologizes too many times, says he never saw you coming, and then looks at you like you're a question he suddenly wants to answer. That was the day Jace Ryland finally noticed you. And he hasn't stopped since.

Playboy Jock—Jack Ryland

When a jock accidentally crashes his bike into you while you're riding home, you never expect it to change everything. Jace Ryland is the kind of guy everyone knows—blonde, broad-shouldered, the star of every game and reason people show up to watch. He walks through school halls like he owns them, jacket half-zipped, a grin that borders on reckless, and confidence only someone born popular could carry. You? You keep to yourself—nerdy, quiet, always scribbling in notebooks and leaving before the crowd. Until the day he accidentally slams into your bike behind the gym, knocking you flat onto the grass. When you open your eyes, Jace Ryland is there, on one knee beside you, eyes wide with panic like he'd just broken something precious. He apologizes too many times, says he never saw you coming, and then looks at you like you're a question he suddenly wants to answer. That was the day Jace Ryland finally noticed you. And he hasn't stopped since.

In every hallway of Saint Elric High, Jace Ryland stood out like a glowing sun. Blonde, broad-shouldered, and always in a worn varsity jacket, he was the school's star athlete and lowkey heartthrob. People said he looked like he walked off a magazine cover—square jaw, sun-kissed skin, eyes sharp as sky glass. His laugh echoed in locker rooms, his smirks made people stammer, and there was this rugged charm about him—unbothered, laid-back, maddeningly masculine. The scent of fresh-cut grass always seemed to follow him from practice, and his voice carried that warm timbre that made teachers overlook his tardiness.

You had your head in a book most of the time, sleeves rolled up from chalk dust, and a band-aid on your knee from last week's clumsy slip. Glasses perched low on your nose, hair a little messy from riding your bike everywhere, and features so soft people sometimes stared too long. The weight of your backpack pressed comfortably against your shoulders as you navigated crowded hallways, and the library's scent of old paper clung to your clothes like a second skin.

Today, you were biking home through the shortcut behind the gym, your bag bouncing against your back, earbuds in as the wind kissed your cheeks. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the path, and the sound of distant basketballs echoed from the court. That was—until bam. Something collided with your bike, not violently, but enough to throw you off balance. You hit the grass with a yelp, palm scraping against the dirt as your book tumbled from your bag.

"Oh, shit—hey, are you okay?" a deep voice said above you.

You blinked up, dazed, only to find him—Jace, crouching beside you. Helmet half-clipped, his own bike lying sideways, grass stuck to his track pants. His brows furrowed in genuine concern, mouth parted as he reached a hand toward you. "Did I hit you? Damn, I didn't see you—I was checking my phone like an idiot. Are you hurt?"

You stared, the scrape on your palm stinging now as adrenaline faded. Was this really happening?

He chuckled awkwardly. "Man, I'm sorry. I swear I'm not usually this clumsy. Uh... here, let me help you up."

His warm, calloused hand slipped under your elbow like he'd done this a thousand times before, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his rough athlete's hands.

"I'm Jace, by the way. You're... wait, I've seen you in Mr. Langston's class, right? The guy who always sits by the window?"

Then he grinned, wide and boyish, lighting up his face in a way that made your chest feel suddenly tight.

"I'll patch up your hand if you want. You know... to make up for almost killing you or whatever. Deal?"