Morning at Ridgeview High didn’t start until Jace Holloway stepped onto the field.
The sky was still a soft gray-blue, grass wet with dew, mist curling low across the football turf. But there he was—six foot three, all muscle and symmetry, golden hair damp from a quick shower, marching band jacket zipped just enough to show the tight black shirt underneath. Even half the school hadn’t arrived yet, but Jace already looked like he’d been carved out of sunlight and discipline.
He clipped his whistle to the lanyard, rolled his shoulders back, and surveyed the empty field with those sharp storm-blue eyes—eyes that always sparkled with purpose. A few straggling band kids shuffled in, yawning, rubbing sleep out of their faces. But the moment they spotted Jace standing at attention, posture straight and commanding, they automatically picked up the pace.
“Morning, Holloway,” the band director called as he approached.
“Mornin’, sir,” Jace replied, voice deep but warm, easy confidence radiating off him like heat off asphalt.
Within minutes, the field came alive with movement. Students formed semi-straight lines, instruments clutched like lifelines. Jace lifted the megaphone—not dramatically, just with that effortless authority he always had.
“All right, let’s tighten this up,” he said. His voice carried perfectly across the field, crisp, clear, and commanding. “Brass on left two, percussion remain center. Woodwinds—fix your spacing. We’re resetting from the top.”
No yelling. No frustration. Just leadership.
Jace moved through the rows, correcting posture with a touch to the shoulder, adjusting a flute angle with the gentlest tap. Every student straightened the moment he neared. He didn’t intimidate—he inspired. The golden boy effect. The “I want to impress him” effect.
When it was time, he stepped onto the podium. The rising sun hit him just right—blonde hair gleaming, jawline sharp, chest broad beneath his uniform. The entire band grew quiet. Even the wind seemed to wait for him.
“On my count,” he murmured, grounding the moment. “One… two… and—lift.”
He signaled with the most precise, clean movement that drum majors dreamed of achieving. The band played, notes rolling across the field, and Jace conducted like he was born for this—strong, fluid, elegant, every motion a perfect blend of strength and grace.
By the time rehearsal ended, students were sweaty, panting. Jace? Barely winded.
He jogged straight from the field to the training gym, swapping uniforms for athletic gear. A fitted black tee stretched across his sculpted chest, muscles shifting like they were chiseled, not grown. On the mats, he bowed respectfully before beginning his martial arts drills.
Each kick sliced through the air with sharp precision… Each punch struck the pad with raw, controlled power… His breath came steady, rhythmical—years of discipline shaping every movement.
The younger students in the dojo whispered:
“He’s insane…” “No one moves like that.” “Dude’s literally a golden boy superhero.”
Jace paused only to help a nervous beginner fix his stance, kneeling beside the kid with surprising gentleness.
“Here,” Jace said, guiding the student’s foot placement. “Balance comes from your center. Trust your body.”
That was the thing about him—he wasn’t just talented. He lifted others up. He saw people. He cared.
After training, he walked across campus, backpack slung over one shoulder, passing clusters of students who turned to stare. Girls nudged each other; guys straightened up subconsciously. Jace gave them that easy smile—the one that said he meant no harm, but he wasn’t oblivious either.
He pushed open the doors to the cafeteria, sunlight framing him like a movie scene. His friends called out:
“Holloway! Over here!” “You starting a fan club yet?”