Prologue
Nick Nelson is golden.
A name that glows beneath stadium lights, whispered between pints and pulses of music, carved into the bones of a legacy still being written. Captain of the rugby team, second year in, a king among men, the kind of guy who doesn’t chase moments—moments chase him. The pitch is his kingdom, the night his playground, and the world bends to make room when he walks through a crowd.
Beer flows like liquid gold, laughter spills like a melody only he knows the tune to, and kisses? Kisses are easy. Effortless. A currency he never runs out of. The future? A distant blur, as weightless as a breath of wind. Classes are placeholders, lectures just noise, another thing to forget in the morning light.
What matters is now. The myth, the name, the way people watch him—awed, wanting, envious. The way guys linger in his shadow, wishing they could be him. The way girls lean in close, breathless, waiting. The way his name isn’t just a name—it’s a crown, a legacy, a promise.
As long as he is Nick Nelson, nothing else matters.
He has a legacy, at least.
And isn't that enough? A name that lingers in locker room echoes, painted in sweat and victory, stitched into jerseys and murmured in admiration. Nick Nelson—the golden boy, the captain, the one who never stumbles, never falters, never questions. He has built himself with calloused hands and aching muscles, carved out a place beyond the reach of mediocrity, far away from the suffocating weight of ordinary lives.
He has outrun the expectations of childhood, has shaken off the mundane like dust from his cleats. He has found freedom in the roar of the crowd, in the sharp burn of a sprint down the field, in the way his name is shouted like a battle cry. If he’s lucky—and luck, it seems, has always favored him—he won’t just be semi-pro-lucky. He’ll be pro-pro. He’ll take this game and stretch it into forever.
And if people are going to glorify him, who is he to stop them? Let them chant, let them chase, let them dream of being him. He has the friends, the fans, the fame. He has it all, and if he doesn't, he’ll take it. There is no room for self-reflection when the world reflects him back with admiration. He is Nick Nelson. That should be enough.
Sure, the world still demands its price. Annoyances like classes, professors droning in dimly lit halls, papers that need to be written, equations that need solving. He doesn’t want to be here, trapped in desks and textbooks when the field is where he thrives. But even a king must bow to the rules if he wants to keep his crown. And so he goes, half-listening, half-dreaming of the next game, the next match, the next night out where he is untouchable.
It’s all so tedious, all so dull. But it’s the cost of the life he has built, the life he deserves. And really, what is a little boredom when the world is already in his hands?
Nick Nelson is golden.
At least, that’s what they say. That’s what the world sees—the boy who moves like he owns the space around him, who wears confidence like a second skin, who grins at girls and takes their laughter as a promise, only to forget their names by morning. His name is sung from the stands, whispered in hallways, carved into the fabric of college life like it’s always been there, like it always will be.
And yet.
There’s something missing. A hollow space between his ribs, an ache that no amount of sweat or celebration can drown out. He wakes up and the mask slides on as easily as muscle memory. A practiced smile, a calculated laugh, a perfect performance. He walks the halls with grace, lets his friends clap him on the back, lets the world admire him like he’s untouchable. But when the floodlights dim and the echoes die down, when the adrenaline fades and he’s left with nothing but the weight of his own thoughts—then he feels it. The emptiness. The quiet. The exhaustion of carrying a life that isn’t entirely his.
It should be enough. He has the fans, the fame, the fortune. He is Nick Nelson, after all, the golden boy who never stumbles, never hesitates. He is following the path carved for him by his father, by his brother, by the generations before him who have dreamed in rugby and bled for the game. And he’s good at it. He could go pro. Not just semi-pro lucky—real lucky. The kind of success that solidifies a name forever, that makes his father proud, that proves he is exactly what they all expect him to be.
So why does it feel like he’s locked inside a castle of his own making, where the torches have all burned out, leaving nothing but cold stone and shadows?
He should be grateful. He tells himself this every day. He has the money, the admiration, the easy way out. He can pay nerds to do his homework, throw a flirt and a grin at professors who will bend the rules for him, skate by on charm and reputation. And yet, it all tastes bitter. His mother always told him to be kind, to be good, so why does he feel like a king ruling over a kingdom he never asked for? A dictator instead of a leader, a name instead of a person?
Golden, but tarnished. Metal, but rusted.
There is Nick Nelson, the one they all know, the one they glorify, the one who exists for them. And then there is the other Nick Nelson, the one who hides beneath bones and skin, tucked away deep inside his own skeleton. The one who wonders—if the world ever saw him as he truly was—would they still cheer his name?
Nick Nelson doesn’t even know what lies beneath his own skin.
Beneath the muscle, beneath the armor, beneath the legend they have all built for him. He would like to believe he is kind, that beneath the roar of the crowd and the weight of expectation, there is something softer, something good. But when he looks at himself—not in mirrors, but in the silence between moments—he sees something else entirely.
He sees the boy who moves through hallways like he owns them, who shoves others aside without a second thought, who sneers at the quiet kids with pronoun pins, who takes up space and demands attention and cuts the line at bars because waiting is for people who don’t carry the weight of a name like his. And yet, he doesn’t want to be this way. No one forces him. No one tells him to be cruel, to be sharp-edged, to be untouchable. But still, something unseen tugs at him, pulling him forward like a leash wrapped tight around his throat.
Maybe the leash belongs to fate. Maybe to rugby. Maybe to the tangled knot of fame and fear and expectations so heavy he can hardly breathe. Whatever it is, it tightens with every passing day, with every whispered name, with every cheer, with every reminder that he is Nick Nelson—and that means something. That means never stumbling. Never breaking. Never being less.
And so, if he is golden, then golden he will stay.
Except, a part of him has always loved silver instead. A part of him has always longed for something quieter, something softer. A life where he doesn’t have to be this. Where he isn’t a rugby lad with a legacy to uphold, but something else—someone better. Someone gentler, someone kinder, someone free.
But maybe that life isn’t in the cards for him.
For he's always been bad at poker, and he doesn’t know if he’s willing to gamble.
Nick Nelson has always known the path carved for him.
It is set in stone, paved with expectations, lined with the approving nods of his father, his brother, his teammates. Rugby is his future—it has always been his future. He could go pro, carry the weight of his surname into something greater, something lasting. Maybe, if he’s lucky, even repair the fracture between himself and his mother, build something real with her again.
And yet, when he looks down this road, this golden, gilded road, it feels empty.
Rugby is great. Rugby is fine. But it is not what he wants. If only he knew what he wanted.
Academics? A joke. Something he cheats his way through, letting others do the work for him, coasting on charm, on intimidation, on sheer force of presence. He doesn’t care about classes, about studying, about anything beyond the next game, the next drink, the next night out. If he doesn't have rugby, what does he have? The only alternative is dropping out, but even then—for what? There’s nothing waiting for him outside of this path, nothing but uncertainty, nothing but the terrifying question of who he is beyond the tackles, beyond the sweat, beyond the cheers.
He could be the rugby lad. He could be the jock who shoves and sneers and takes what he wants. He could be the boy who cheats and coasts and lets people fear him enough to hand him his diploma without effort. He could keep playing this part, keep wearing the mask, keep pretending that the golden life is one he wants.
But he’s always liked silver more than gold.
The silver road is not as polished, not as pure. It is uncertain, unsteady, his. A path where he studies because he wants to, where he finds something that sparks inside him beyond a ball and a whistle. A path where he doesn’t wake up sore every morning, bruised from tackles, exhausted from pretending. A path where he is softer, kinder, where his life belongs to him rather than the people who crafted it for him.
And for the first time, he touches silver instead of gold—when a boy with curls and dimples stumbles into him in the campus café, a gasp catching in his throat as warm coffee spills down his chest, burning his skin and heating up his heart.
Yet suddenly, Nick isn’t golden. Not in this moment. Not under the weight of expectation or admiration or performance.
He’s just Nick.
But who is Nick if not golden?