Rhys Nelson || Gentle Jock

Rainwater still clung to the pavement outside Westbridge Sixth Form College, leaving the entire campus smelling faintly of wet concrete and fresh grass. Students crowded near the front entrance in noisy groups, blazers slightly untidy, conversations blending into one loud mess of laughter, gossip, complaints about unfinished coursework, and arguments over weekend rugby scores.

Westbridge had the sort of reputation people either admired or absolutely hated.

Strong academics. Competitive sports teams. Too many posh kids. Too many expectations.

The halls were lined with trophy cabinets and faded graduation photos from years ago, while posters for upcoming rugby matches, theatre productions, and student elections covered nearly every wall.

You adjusted the strap of your bag slightly as you walked through the corridor, trying not to look as nervous as you actually felt.

Being the new student halfway through term already felt socially doomed.

People glanced at you as you passed. Not necessarily in a cruel way — just curious enough to make your chest tighten a bit. A few whispered quietly to each other before quickly looking away once noticed.

The woman in the office had already warned you earlier.

"Most students here have known each other for years. Give it time."

That didn’t exactly make you feel better.

You followed the printed timetable in your hands until you finally reached your homeroom classroom near the second floor. Voices spilled loudly from behind the door before you’d even stepped inside.

The moment you entered, the room noticeably quieted for about two seconds.

Just enough to feel painfully awkward.

Then conversations slowly picked back up again.

Some students barely cared. Others stared openly. A few offered polite smiles before returning to their mates.

Near the back window sat a group of boys that immediately stood out from everyone else.

Mostly rugby lads.

Loud. Comfortable. Like they owned the room without even trying.

One of them sat leaned back lazily in his chair near the window, messy dark hair falling over tired eyes while a red rugby jacket hung loosely off his shoulders. Silver earrings caught the dull classroom light whenever he moved.

Rhys Nelson.

Even before transferring here, you’d already heard his name from random students chatting in the corridor earlier that morning.

"That’s Rhys." "Rugby captain." "He’s weirdly nice for someone popular."

Beside him sat another boy practically incapable of sitting still.

Sam.

He was loudly arguing about rugby statistics while balancing his chair dangerously on two legs, his blazer completely untidy and tie hanging loose around his neck. His energy filled half the classroom without effort.

“You are actually blind if you think Eastbury’s defence was decent last Friday,” Sam scoffed dramatically. “Absolute joke of a match.”

“Mate, you say that every week,” another voice replied.

Jake.

Unlike Sam’s chaotic energy, Jake carried himself rougher — louder in a sharper way. His sleeves were rolled carelessly to his elbows, rugby tape still wrapped loosely around one wrist from practice. He looked like the type to shove his mates into lockers affectionately and start fights over sports without thinking twice about it.

“Because every week they play like rubbish,” Jake muttered. “Could’ve scored twice more if Rhys stopped passing.”

Rhys barely reacted.

“You missed an open goal,” he said flatly.

“That was tactical.”

“That was tragic.”

A few people nearby laughed.

Sitting slightly off to the side was Callum, headphones resting around his neck while he lazily tapped his fingers against the desk to music only he could hear. Compared to the others, he seemed calmer — still social, still clearly part of the rugby group, but nowhere near as overwhelming.

“You lot argue like divorced parents,” Callum sighed without looking up from his notebook.

“Shut up,” Sam and Jake replied at the exact same time.

Callum looked genuinely offended.

“See? Toxic environment.”

Despite all the noise around him, Rhys himself looked oddly detached from it all. He spun a pen lazily between his fingers while listening to his friends argue, looking tired in a comfortable sort of way, like someone who’d rather be literally anywhere else this early in the morning.

Then the teacher cleared her throat.

“Right, slight seating changes today.”

A chorus of complaints immediately filled the room.

“Oh, come on—” “You’re joking.” “Miss, seriously?”

“Quiet.”

Papers shuffled.

Names were called one by one until finally—

“Ah, right — our transfer student.” She looked toward you briefly. “You can sit beside Rhys.”

Almost every head turned again.

Sam immediately leaned forward in interest.

“Ohhh, new person.”

Jake glanced over too, quick and judgemental.

“Mid-term transfer? Rough.”

Callum at least offered a small polite smile before going back to doodling something in his notebook.

Rhys looked up as well.

For a brief moment, his expression softened with curiosity before he straightened slightly in his seat, moving his bag off the empty chair beside him without being asked.

“Over here,” he said quietly.

Unlike the others staring openly, he didn’t look judgemental. If anything, he looked almost nervous for you.

As you sat down, the classroom noise slowly resumed around you.

“People here are a bit loud at first,” Rhys muttered under his breath with a small smile. “You sort of get used to it eventually.”

“Speak for yourself,” Callum said from nearby. “I’m lovely.”

“You threw a rugby ball at my head yesterday,” Sam replied.

“That was affection.”

Rhys huffed a quiet laugh before glancing back toward you again — longer this time.

“You transferred mid-term, yeah?” he asked. “That honestly sounds awful.”

There was something unexpectedly genuine in his tone.

Not pity. Not forced politeness. Just... interest.

Before you could answer properly, Sam suddenly shouted across the room again.

“Rhys! Practice after school — don’t bail on us again!”

Rhys groaned dramatically without looking away from you.

“I disappeared for one practice.”

“You vanished for three hours!” Jake added loudly.

“I was asleep!”

“That’s what old people say,” Sam snorted.

A few people laughed.

Rhys shook his head before looking back towards you, slightly embarrassed now.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “They act like I committed a federal crime or something.”

“You kind of did,” Jake replied.

For some reason, despite being one of the most recognisable people in school, Rhys seemed far more comfortable talking to you quietly than shouting across the room with everyone else.

Then his eyes flickered down briefly toward the notebook in your hands.

“You draw?”

His voice sounded softer suddenly.

“Your doodles look proper good, by the way.”