THE JOCK.

STATS. 

full name.  nicolas meza prado. 

nicknames.  nick is, in fact, his preferred name. nods at variations thereof with the notable exception of nicky.

date of birth.  13 october. 

place of birth.  odessa, texas, usa.  

current residence.  detroit, michigan, usa. 

languages.  fluent in english and spanish.

education.  has an mba from michigan state. paid for by a sports scholarship, of course.

occupation.  real estate copywriter. 

gender.  cisgender male. he/him. 

orientation.  bisexual. 

marital status.  dating, more often than not.

family.  a father, a mother, and two siblings sandwiching him into a suffocating space stuffed with birth order stereotypes.

PERSONALITY. 

the brief.  in one word, nick is winning. not a moment in his life has been spent without incredible drive, nor with any consideration as to local speed limits. he holds his head high and, in the process, can lose track of the bigger picture as easily as he can paint a new landscape of goals with loaded words and laborious action. whether this is concerning or endearing depends on a lot of factors, but he’s not dead yet, so he can’t be too insufferable. or maybe the team just needs some muscle. that’s probably it.

the good.  nick wants to help people. although he’s a primary proponent of self-love, he leads by example and is eager to learn whatever he can from whoever he can – the dumb jock stereotype didn’t pop up without any strict basis in reality, after all – and he’d sooner exile himself to an athlete’s foot locker than force someone to take a risk he wouldn’t seize first. 

the bad.  nick wants to help people with the absolute outlier of himself. he builds his plans around others, if he has any plans at all, yet has shoved his expectations for everyone above the stratosphere to the point where he feels personally degraded should anyone reject his get-pushed-in-the-pool-to-learn-how-to-swim teaching techniques. he does not deal well with having his opinions ignored in any capacity and nurses grudges as well as anyone with a doctorate in self-centredness would.

the ugly.  nick needs to be needed. being disliked macerates his mind into this mush of desperate people-pleasing, even if he knows the only path to justice is the one paved with potholes. if a friend asked him to jump off a cliff, he’d only ask if they wanted to film him doing a flip on the way down.

APPEARANCE. 

height.   5’9. good posture and a gleaming smile had most intramural coaches thinking otherwise.

build.  athletic, with a mean leanness that puts both his obsessive gym-going in adolescence and overwhelmingly green diet in adulthood on full blast. you know, as if he’s not enthusiastic enough about divulging all the sordid, sweaty

style.  comfort over couture. everything in his closet but his collection of immaculate basketball sneakers is best described as devil-may-care. colours stay neutral and t-shirt graphics stay slightly crude. sleeves must be rolled up regardless of weather and whether he’s even wearing something with long sleeves.

notable features.  jet black hair styled with water and confidence. the uncertain beginnings of a bristly moustache. a tattoo of the number one in a compact collegiate font on his right shoulder blade.

BIOGRAPHY.  content warnings for brief mentions of hazing and injury.

tl;dr.  annoyingly smirky middle child stomps his way into acquiring eldest child syndrome + a humiliating defeat to cap off his last collegiate basketball season, and proceeds to do everything in his power to not become the guy who peaked in school. which actually amounts to just throwing himself into work with little regard for sleep schedule or personal relationships, but a quick winter getaway could help him unwind a little, right? right.

first quarter.  nick’s a good kid, but good isn’t always good enough. his parents drill that lesson into his skull as soon as he’s out the hospital and in the prado household’s singular bedroom. they do it unintentionally, which is how they do a lot of things, but however much he wants to play hercules by hurling his weight around the run-down playground, every time he slices one head off the hydra of approval by joining this club or scoring that letter, another two pop up in its place, born of his brothers’ very existence. the one who came before him is their meal ticket making his way through med school, the one who came after him is already on track to become an accountant, and he’s… good at throwing things in hoops. things being homework, hoops being over trash bins. but he’s always been a good-natured kid, so when he secures a spot on the jv basketball team after trying out as a total joke, he soaks up the sugared electrolytes, the electric sound of applause, and the endless opportunities to sink his energy into something until the end of time. or until 6pm. you know, whenever practice ends.

second quarter.  nick’s a good guy. his parents call him the fun one, which might not be a compliment, but warping any and all descriptors into compliments is how nick’s become something of a casanova and kept his name relatively clear of any scandals. that is, until he semi-consciously continues a secret hazing ritual that results in the severe incapacitation of his fraternity brothers and a wicked hangover that, gasp, results in him ruining the next week’s championship game. then he blows his birthday money on veneers of all kinds to coast through police interviews and changes his course from sports officiating to business administration. then he realises that being impressive is way more important to the status of being good than making a squeaky-clean good impression.

third quarter.  nick’s living the good life. sure, he’s got little to no time for recreation, but he’s strongarmed his way up the corporate ladder and isn’t coming down at any cost. also, he can still toss his assignments in the trash can. he’s got a photocopier now. his friends tell him there’s no place better than blackwood pines, and if only to prove them wrong (and maybe prevent himself from getting hypertension at thirty) nick brings himself and a basketball along for the ride to the rockies.

fourth quarter.  nick’s story may or may not have a good ending. aka this is the part where i’ll put summaries of all super important life-changing in-character events so i don’t lose track of them <3

MISCELLANEOUS. 

radio.  beastie boys. no doubt. oasis. rage against the machine. red hot chili peppers.

potential relationships.

childhood friends.  people who witnessed his evolution from tryhard to hard-ass and has, by some miracle, decided to stick around. nick’s definitely drafted up at least one microsoft word nda regarding his tragic past and its secrecy for these folks. whether or not they unblocked him long enough to read the final document is trivial.

college classmates.  nick may or may not be the reason the general public does not desire a 5’9 brown-eyed man in finance. while not as egoistic as he was in his younger years, his enthusiasm for extra credit was well recorded.

former teammates.  while he never went pro, nick’s played basketball for as long as he’s been alive and was a volunteer coach at a couple of summer camps in his must-join-every-extracurricular-ever-or-perish days. whether you knew him as the point guard of your dreams or the gatorade purist of your nightmares, nick was sure to make games interesting.

gym sibs.  they stay hungry, they devour, put in the work, put in the hours, et cetera.

former coworkers/clients/employers.  nick’s had a host of less-than-dignified jobs with less-than-humane pay, including but not limited to arcade janitor, junior assistant dishwasher at a fast food joint, and human directional.

current coworkers/clients/employers.  being a real estate agent isn’t much more dignified when you get to the cold calling, door-slamming phase, but at least nick gets to do it in a fancy suit! and maybe you want to do things in a fancy suit too. or own a beautiful home in the suburbs with so much fluorescent lighting you’ll never think of going to the hospital again.

flings.  nick commits to everything except for relationships. go figure. he’s never lied about what he wants out of a night or two, but he has driven off way more than two dates by insulting their interior decorating skills during pillow talk.