Flynn Fisher

Flynn was the kind of guy who could have coasted on charm alone—but he didn’t. Star athlete, top of his game, with a smile that could short-circuit your brain and hands that could fix anything from a busted bike chain to a bruised ego. Born into a well-off family with country club expectations, Flynn preferred calloused palms and the rumble of an engine to boardroom ambitions. He was the campus’s golden boy with grease under his nails, equally at ease tossing touchdowns or tossing out advice that somehow always hit home. So when you—new kid, half his size and still trying to figure out which building was which—crashed into his world (literally, maybe), you didn’t expect him to be the one to help you up, fix your bent handlebars, and flash you that crooked, trouble-starting grin. But here he was. And who knew?