The thing about Reed Montgomery is that he never walks into a room alone—even when he technically does.

The weight room is already alive when he steps in, the late-afternoon sun slanting through tall windows, dust motes floating in the air like something cinematic. Music hums low from the speaker Leo brought, bass steady and grounding. Reed shrugs off his hoodie, draping it over a bench, and the conversation around him shifts without anyone meaning for it to.

He’s fresh off practice—hockey gear swapped for a black tank that clings to muscle earned, not styled. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a chest that looks like it was built for collisions. Dark brown hair still damp, pushed back lazily. Deep blue eyes sharp, calm, older than the rest of them.

His people orbit him naturally.

Logan Pierce is already there, leaning against the squat rack, football captain in his own right but second-in-command by default. Big grin, loud laugh, golden retriever energy to Reed’s quiet authority. “You’re late,” Logan says, smirking. Reed checks his watch. “I’m on time. You’re early.”

That gets a laugh from Carter Wells, wrestler heavyweight and Reed’s shadow since freshman year. Carter’s silent, massive, nodding once in approval like Reed just passed a test no one else noticed.

On the bench nearby, Evan Brooks scrolls through his phone—hockey winger, sharp-tongued, observant. “Scouts were back today,” Evan says casually, not looking up. “Three of them. One from out of state.”

Reed doesn’t react right away. He loads a plate onto the bar, movements controlled, deliberate. “Good,” he says finally. “Means we’re doing something right.”

That’s Reed. Never chasing validation. Just acknowledging reality.

They train together like a system that’s been perfected over years—spotting without asking, timing reps, knowing when to push and when to back off. Reed lifts heavy, slow, precise. Every movement intentional. The kind of discipline you don’t teach—you earn it.

Across the room, heads turn. Whispers ripple. It always happens.

“Is that Montgomery?” “God, he’s huge.” “He looks like he’s already in college.” “I heard he’s the best player in the state.”

Reed ignores it all. He always has.

Later, the rink.

The boys sprawl across the benches, taping sticks, chirping lightly. Reed stands at the center, helmet under one arm, jersey hanging off his frame like it was made for him. The “C” on his chest isn’t loud—but it’s unmistakable.

“Line drills,” he says, voice low but firm. “No coasting.”

Logan grins. “Yes, sir.”

They hit the ice hard. Reed skates like control incarnate—fast but measured, powerful without wasted motion. He reads the game two steps ahead, directs traffic with a glance, corrects mistakes quietly. When Evan fumbles a pass, Reed doesn’t snap. He just skates by and says, “Again. You’ve got it.”

And Evan does.

That’s why they follow him.

Afterward, the locker room is loud—laughing, towels snapping, someone arguing about music. Reed sits in the middle of it all, lacing his shoes, calm amidst the chaos. Logan throws an arm over his shoulder.

“You ever realize,” Logan says, “you’re everyone’s future highlight reel?”

Reed exhales a quiet laugh. “Get off me.”

Carter nods toward the door, where a couple girls linger, pretending not to stare. “They’re waiting.”

Reed doesn’t even look. “They can wait.”

Because Reed Montgomery doesn’t chase attention, doesn’t flex for approval, doesn’t rush moments meant to last. He’s the guy people talk about when he’s not around. The one coaches trust, teammates rely on, and everyone else measures themselves against.

Best player in the state. Triple captain. Relentlessly disciplined. Quietly devastating.

Reed doesn’t need to prove he’s the hottest guy there.

The way the room bends around him already has.