Zack’s POV
I’m standing in the Nguyen family kitchen, contemplating the possibility that the human soul is, in fact, just a bundle of nerves and hair follicles. The scientific evidence is right in front of me: a 14-year-old, five-foot-three sparkplug in neon swim shorts and a tank top, standing on tiptoe to reach the cereal box above the fridge. His hair sticks up at the back in a way that defies both gravity and product. Alex Nguyen is a walking, talking violation of the laws of physics and, apparently, also the Geneva Conventions—at least when it comes to Street Fighter.
He doesn’t notice me yet. Or he pretends not to. It’s hard to tell with Alex; everything he does seems to have three layers of irony baked in. He’s Derek’s kid brother, which should make him off-limits in a sort of unspoken bro code way. Not that there’s an official rulebook for this. If there were, it would be stored next to the PlayStation controllers and written in a combination of locker room banter and existential panic.
But let’s rewind: It’s Saturday. Derek invited the whole football squad over to his house for an all-day FIFA tournament, which was a bold move considering how his mom still calls us “the boys” like we’re all in second grade. By 2 p.m., the rest of the team has descended into the basement den, where the faint aroma of socks and pizza boxes has reached critical mass. I, Captain of the Football Team, Future All-State, Zack-Who’s-Taller-Than-Your-Dad, am on kitchen duty. Mostly because I lost a bet to Derek about who could name more Dragon Ball Z characters in under a minute. (The answer, apparently, is Alex. But he’s not even playing. He’s just…always listening.)
I clear my throat, still watching the spectacle of Alex standing on a rickety chair to reach the top shelf. He’s all elbows and sharp angles, with the kind of confidence that only comes from never having lost a debate. His glasses slide down his nose as he grabs the box and hops down, landing with a soft thump and a flash of bony, bare feet on tile.
He glances over. “You here to steal the good cereal, or just standing there because you forgot how doors work?”
I grin, trying to play it cool, even though my face feels roughly the temperature of the sun. “Depends. Are you hiding the Cocoa Puffs somewhere?”
Alex gives me a look like he’s just caught me in a logical fallacy. “You’re way too tall to be afraid of the top shelf, Zack. Besides, those are strictly for people under 5’6” and with at least one chess trophy.”
He shakes the box at me for emphasis. It rattles ominously. He’s daring me to argue, and I want to, just for the sake of watching the way he tilts his head when he’s about to serve up some scathing sarcasm.
“You don’t even eat cereal,” I say, because I’ve seen him have leftover pho for breakfast and call it “culinary superiority.”
Alex shrugs. “I eat cereal when it’s an emergency. Or when I need to carbo-load before beating Derek at Mario Kart.”
He hops onto the counter like it’s nothing and sits, legs swinging, sockless feet dangling, one arm hugging the cereal box. There’s a faint tan line on his ankle and a bandaid on one toe. He looks like he belongs in a Miyazaki movie, or maybe an anime about sarcastic geniuses who solve crimes in their pajamas.
“So, you’re the legendary Zack, huh?” he says, squinting at me over his glasses. “Captain of everything, breaker of hearts, bane of substitute teachers.”
I laugh, because it’s the only defense I’ve got. “You left out champion of Dragon Ball Z trivia.”
Alex’s mouth curls into a grin so sharp it could cut glass. “Original Dragon Ball is better. Funnier, more creative. Less yelling.”
Blasphemy. “Okay, first of all, you take that back. The Frieza saga is the pinnacle of animation history.”
“Yeah, if you like watching two guys scream at each other for five episodes straight. Original Dragon Ball has Bulma pulling a gun on people and Goku not knowing what a girl is. It’s peak comedy. You can’t compete.”
I find myself actually enjoying this. Most of the time, when people talk to me about anime, they’re just listing off fight scenes. Alex is actually debating me. He’s a worthy opponent, and not just because he’s got the chess trophies to prove it.
I lean back against the counter, pretending to consider. “You make a compelling argument. But, like, have you even seen the Cell games?”
He gives a theatrical sigh. “Seen them? Dude, I could recite the entire speech Gohan gives before he goes Super Saiyan 2. In Japanese. With subtitles.”
I want to say something clever, but my brain is stuck on the fact that his bare feet are right in my line of vision, and I have no idea why that’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. They’re small, but not kid-small. Strong swimmer’s feet—callused at the heels, narrow at the toes, with a little divot at the arch. There’s something weirdly intimate about noticing that, but I can’t help it.
“So what do you do, Zack, besides sports?” he asks, interrupting my train of thought. “Or do you just…work out and make straight A’s and sleep on a bed of protein bars?”
I smirk. “I play games, too, you know. I’m not just a dumb jock.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Prove it.”
And just like that, we’re in the living room, him perched cross-legged on the rug, Street Fighter already loading up on the PS5. He hands me a controller, his fingers brushing mine just long enough to send a jolt up my arm. His hands are small but quick, and his wrists have these little veins that stand out when he’s focused.
“Ready to get rekt?” he says, a little too sweetly.
The first round, I pick Ryu because I’m predictable and secretly hope that Alex will go easy on me. He picks Chun-Li and immediately unleashes a hurricane of kicks I have no answer for. The next thing I know, I’m staring at the screen in shock as my health bar drops to zero.
He claps, once, with a flourish. “And the crowd goes wild! The mighty Zack, defeated by a humble freshman.”
I try to act wounded. “Rematch. I was distracted.”
“By what? My dazzling strategy, or my devastating height advantage?” He grins. “Wait. Never mind.”
We play three more rounds. I win exactly zero of them. By the end, Derek and the other guys have filtered back in, but they just laugh and start arguing about which football team is actually going to win state. I don’t even care. I’m watching Alex, who’s grinning at me with this impossible mix of smugness and friendliness.
Later, while everyone else is shoveling down pizza and trading stories about the coach’s latest meltdown, Alex slips onto the couch next to me and starts talking about football—actual football strategy. He knows the spread offense, which shouldn’t surprise me, since his brother is a genius at reading plays, but Alex actually cares about the math. He’s diagramming something with a pepperoni on a napkin when I realize he’s been making eye contact with me the whole time, like he’s waiting for me to notice something.
That’s when it hits me. The flutter in my chest. The weird way my face heats up when he laughs, the sudden awareness that I’m hyperventilating when he leans in to explain why zone coverage is a scam invented by cowards.
I have a crush. On Alex. Derek’s brother. Alex who’s almost as short as my little sister, who schools me at video games and makes me question my taste in anime and whose feet are now tucked up under him on the couch like he owns the place.
I’m so, so screwed.
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