Only one if we don't beat California
I'll post them at the end of the season, but for next season, I'll keep them up to date per game like you and Caesar do.
Invictus
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Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7223
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
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Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7223
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
Season VI | Episode 2 - Nine in the Afternoon
The second half of the Syracuse-Clemson game continued to replay in Zane's head long after the final whistle had blown.
He sat alone in his condo, leaning back in his office chair as film from the game played on the monitor in front of him. The room was dimly lit except for the glow of the screen, which cast shifting shadows across the walls.
Empty pages from a notebook sat beside him, littered with route concepts, defensive coverages, and observations he had scribbled down throughout the season. Usually film study brought him some level of comfort. It was one of the few places where football made sense. Every mistake had a reason. Every success could be traced back to preparation.
Tonight, however, the film only made him angry.
The Syracuse offense had entered halftime down just a touchdown against Clemson. Considering the disparity in talent between the two programs, it should have felt encouraging. Instead, it felt like a missed opportunity.
As another possession played out on the screen, Zane rubbed a hand across his face.
"What the hell happened?" he muttered to himself.
The answer was obvious. The offense had simply stopped functioning.
Ajani had spent most of the second half fighting for his life behind an offensive line that had struggled all season long. Clemson's defensive front had done exactly what everyone expected them to do - dominate the line of scrimmage and force Syracuse into uncomfortable situations. The frustrating part wasn't that Clemson had been better.
It was that none of it had been surprising. The signs had been there all year.
Zane watched another interception unfold on the screen. The ball sailed into coverage. The Clemson defender stepped underneath it.
Easy.
He immediately clicked back and replayed it. Then again. Then once more.
His jaw tightened. "Four interceptions," he said quietly.
The number sounded even worse out loud.
When Ajani had first arrived at Syracuse, Zane had convinced himself that experience mattered. The quarterback's mechanics had never been particularly polished. During training camp there had been days where balls sailed high over receivers' heads or arrived late enough to invite contact. Even then, Zane had assumed that a veteran college quarterback understood parts of the game that younger players simply couldn't appreciate yet.
Now he wasn't so sure. Malik had looked better.
Much better.
At the time, Zane had ignored that reality because he trusted the coaching staff.
Looking back, he wasn't certain that trust had been rewarded.
He stared at the paused screen. The feeling sitting in his chest wasn't anger anymore.
It was exhaustion.
He was tired of empty possessions. Tired of missed opportunities. Tired of watching games slip away because the offense couldn't capitalize on moments that mattered. Most of all, he was tired of feeling like he was wasting time.
The realization made him uncomfortable.
Every time Tyson texted him about transfer portal evaluations, NIL projections, and growing interest from other schools, a wave of guilt followed shortly afterward. Syracuse had given him an opportunity when he needed one. Coach Brown had believed in him. The locker room was filled with teammates he genuinely cared about.
Thinking about leaving felt like betrayal. Yet every Saturday made it harder to ignore reality.
He was tired of hoping they could become bowl eligible. Now the season had come down to beating Cal the following week just to secure six wins.
That wasn't the future he had envisioned when he committed.
His phone buzzed against the desk. The vibration pulled him from his thoughts.
Tyson Rashford. Zane stared at the name for a second before answering.
"What's up?"
The response came immediately.
"Zane Jones, my favorite future millionaire."
Zane laughed despite himself. Tyson always sounded like he had just won the lottery.
"You say that every time you call."
"And one day soon, I'll be right."
Zane shook his head. Tyson didn't waste much time on pleasantries.
He launched directly into a discussion about the growing number of opportunities emerging around Zane's eventual transfer.
Zane listened for a minute before cutting him off.
"You know, maybe I'm not even leaving."
Tyson laughed.
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm serious," Zane said. "I'm trying to focus on finishing the season."
"And that's exactly why you hired me."
Zane leaned back in his chair. He ran his hand through his hair, making a mental note that he’s due for a retwist soon.
Tyson continued.
"My job is to focus on what's next while you're focused on football."
That answer was difficult to argue with.
Zane sighed. "Alright. Go ahead."
Tyson cleared his throat.
"Here's where things stand." Zane listened carefully.
"You've become a massive name regionally. Pennsylvania knows you. New York knows you. The Northeast knows you."
Tyson paused. "But nationally?" His voice lowered slightly.
"You're not quite there yet."
Zane nodded to himself. The assessment felt fair. Despite the ridiculous statistics he was putting up, Syracuse hadn't exactly become must-watch television. Most of the country wasn't staying up to watch Syracuse fight for bowl eligibility.
Tyson continued.
"You haven't had enough opportunities on the national stage. Not yet."
Zane glanced back toward the paused Clemson film.
The opportunities they had received hadn't exactly gone well.
"That being said," Tyson continued, "everybody knows you're a player."
The confidence returned to his voice.
"I've been very careful about avoiding any tampering nonsense. I'm following every intermediary rule exactly how it's supposed to be followed."
"Good."
"But let's just say a lot of Power Four programs are interested in understanding your future plans."
Zane sat forward slightly. Tyson wasn't prone to exaggeration. If he was saying that, it meant something.
"How interested?"
Tyson laughed again.
"Interested enough that you're going to have your pick."
Zane remained silent.
"You keep playing like this, get nominated for the Biletnikoff, maybe take home the Shaun Alexander Award over Chris Henry Jr., and you're talking about being one of the hottest names in the portal."
Zane blinked.
Awards. The thought felt almost foreign. He had spent so much of the season worrying about Syracuse's struggles that he hadn't even considered the individual accolades piling up around him.
The silence stretched. Eventually Tyson spoke again.
"So."
Zane leaned back. "So?"
"Any schools I should be paying special attention to?"
Immediately, Michigan appeared in his mind. The image arrived without warning. Bryce Underwood. The Big House. The Wolverines' resurgence under Glenn Schumann.
A legitimate contender in the Big Ten.
But beneath all of that football logic sat another reason. One he didn't particularly want to examine too closely. Bianca.
The thought alone made his stomach tighten. He hated how quickly his mind went there. Hated how easily it happened. After everything that had changed between them, she still found ways to appear in his thoughts when he least expected it.
Zane forced himself to look beyond that. Beyond Michigan. Beyond Bianca. Beyond whatever emotional baggage still lingered.
When he finally spoke, his answer was measured.
"I think I'm looking at the Big Ten or the SEC."
Tyson hummed approvingly.
"No ACC?"
Zane thought about Syracuse. Then he thought about Malik's most recent text message encouraging him to come join the Hurricanes in Miami.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"No ACC."
"Got it."
Tyson sounded pleased. "I'll keep working."
The conversation wound down after that. A few final assurances. A promise to follow up soon. Then the line went dead.
Silence settled back into the condo.
Zane placed his phone on the desk and stared at the paused Clemson game once more. For a long moment, he simply sat there.
The morning air carried a sharp bite that lingered in the lungs, the kind that reminded Bianca that autumn was beginning to surrender to something colder.
She and Katie moved through Michigan's campus at an easy pace, their running shoes tapping rhythmically against the pavement as they wound between towering trees and sprawling Gothic architecture. The sun was only beginning to emerge from behind a dense blanket of clouds, casting streaks of orange light across the stone facades of academic buildings and residence halls. Their breath drifted in pale clouds with every exhale, hanging briefly in the air before dissolving.
For the first time in weeks, Bianca had felt something resembling normalcy.
It hadn't come easily.
Convincing Katie to leave her dorm room had become a challenge that rivaled any workout their coaches could devise. Every invitation had been met with excuses. Every attempt at conversation had been carefully redirected. Eventually Bianca had managed to negotiate a compromise: an early morning run, no questions asked.
Katie had extracted the promise almost immediately.
"No therapist stuff," she had said.
"No therapist stuff," Bianca had agreed.
It had been frustrating, but Bianca had taken what she could get.
Now, jogging beside her friend, Bianca found herself appreciating the silence. Not because she didn't want to talk, but because she was simply grateful Katie was here at all. For the last few weeks, every interaction with her had felt strained and unnatural. Messages went unanswered. Team meetings came and went with Katie contributing little more than the bare minimum. Even when she was physically present, it felt like only a fraction of her had actually arrived.
This morning was different.
Not perfect.
But different.
Their strides remained synchronized as they followed the curve of a sidewalk that wrapped around the athletic district. Bianca focused on the familiar sensations of movement - the steady cadence of her breathing, the burn in her calves, the cool air brushing against the exposed skin of her face. Beside her, Katie remained quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet. There was no tension in it. No expectation.
Just two friends sharing space.
For a brief moment, Bianca allowed herself to believe things might finally be getting better.
They rounded a corner near the athletic facilities and approached what they had informally decided would be the halfway point of their route. The broad staircase leading up to the athletic department came into view, along with a cluster of athletes gathered near its base.
Bianca initially paid them little attention.
A group of hockey players stood scattered around the entrance, most of them dressed in Michigan sweaters and workout gear. Some stretched lazily, pulling knees to their chests or rotating stiff shoulders. Others looked half asleep, clutching water bottles while waiting for whatever miserable early-morning conditioning session awaited them.
It was a completely ordinary scene.
Until Katie stopped.
Bianca took two more strides before realizing she was suddenly alone.
She slowed and turned.
Katie stood motionless in the middle of the sidewalk.
Not tired.
Not catching her breath.
Frozen.
The change was immediate enough to make Bianca's stomach tighten.
Katie's posture had become rigid, every muscle seemingly locked into place. Her eyes were fixed on the group near the staircase with an intensity that bordered on hostility. Bianca followed her line of sight but couldn't determine what exactly had captured her attention. The hockey players continued their conversations, oblivious to the fact that someone was staring at them from across the street.
Bianca walked back toward her slowly.
"Katie?"
No response.
Only after Bianca drew closer did Katie blink.
"Are you okay?"
Katie's jaw tightened. Her gaze never left the group.
"Of course," she said. "Why wouldn't I be?"
The answer came too quickly.
Too rehearsed.
Bianca felt frustration beginning to mingle with her concern.
Over the last several weeks, she had heard every variation of that response imaginable. I'm fine. Just tired. Just stressed. Just sick. Just busy.
Each excuse sounded less convincing than the last.
Before Bianca could stop herself, she reached out and placed a hand gently on Katie's shoulder.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Katie recoiled as though she'd been burned.
"Don't touch me!"
The words exploded out of her.
Several heads from across the street turned briefly before returning to their own conversations.
Bianca immediately withdrew her hand.
For a moment neither woman spoke.
Katie looked almost shocked by her own reaction. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared at the pavement.
Bianca's concern hardened into something firmer.
Enough was enough.
Her eyebrows knitted together as she folded her arms across her chest.
"No," she said firmly. "We're not doing this again."
Katie's eyes flicked upward.
"What?"
"You need to tell me what happened."
Katie shook her head immediately.
"Nothing happened."
The answer came automatically. Too automatically.
"I've just been sick."
Bianca let out a humorless laugh.
"Sick?"
Katie opened her mouth.
Bianca didn't let her continue.
"Katie, I've known you too long for this."
Emotion had begun creeping into her voice despite her best efforts to remain calm.
"You are one of the loudest people I've ever met. You make friends with strangers in grocery stores. You talk during movies. You somehow have enough energy for ten people on three hours of sleep and an iced coffee."
Katie looked away. Bianca stepped closer.
"You don't just become a completely different person overnight."
The words hung between them.
Katie's eyes glistened.
For a split second, Bianca thought she might finally break. Might finally tell her. Instead, Katie looked back toward the hockey players one final time.
The expression on her face wasn't anger. It wasn't fear. It was something worse.
Recognition.
Bianca caught it only briefly before Katie looked away.
That was all she needed. Without another word, Bianca turned and began walking back the way they had come.
Katie stared after her.
"Where are you going?"
Bianca didn't stop.
"We're going back to your dorm."
Katie frowned.
"What?"
"We're getting cleaned up, we're sitting down, and we're having our first real conversation in weeks."
The firmness in Bianca's voice left little room for interpretation. Katie's lips parted as if preparing an argument. Bianca could practically see the excuses lining up in her head.
But when Bianca looked back at her, Katie stopped. Because the expression on Bianca's face made one thing abundantly clear.
This wasn't a negotiation anymore.
And for the first time since all of this had started, Bianca had decided she wasn't going to let Katie hide from her.
Cam practically flew down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time as he descended toward the front door. His gym bag bounced heavily against his shoulder with every hurried stride, the strap digging into his collarbone. For the first time in weeks, there was purpose in his movements. Not the sluggish, half-hearted drifting that had defined most of his days since returning home from Purdue, but actual momentum. He reached the small table beside the front entrance and snatched his keys from the ceramic dish resting there.
From the kitchen, his mother immediately noticed the commotion.
“Where are you going?” Amber called out.
Cam paused just long enough to answer.
“I’m heading to the high school. Gonna get some field work in.”
The response hung in the air for a moment before she replied.
“Just be careful.”
“Yeah, Mom.”
He opened the door and stepped outside before she could continue the conversation.
For once, it wasn't a lie.
Since returning home, Cam had spent most of his days locked inside his room. His life had fallen into an ugly rhythm of sleeping late, drinking too much, playing video games, and doing the bare minimum necessary to remain academically eligible. Every morning he woke up telling himself he would start working again tomorrow. Every night he went to bed disappointed in himself.
The truth was impossible to avoid now.
The transfer portal wasn't some magical reset button. If he wanted another opportunity, somebody would have to believe he was worth taking a chance on. Looking at himself in the mirror lately, he wasn't sure he would have recruited himself.
His body had softened. His conditioning was gone. His confidence had evaporated.
He couldn't keep sitting around waiting for a miracle.
As he slid behind the wheel of his car, he repeated the same thought that had been running through his head all morning.
It's like riding a bike.
Football was still football.
His body would remember.
The drive to Upper St. Clair High School was short and quiet. The roads were mostly empty as he wound through familiar neighborhoods that suddenly felt much smaller than they had before college. The campus came into view a few minutes later, looking almost exactly as it had when he was a student there.
Cam parked beside the practice field and sat for a moment, staring through the windshield.
There had been a time when he felt invincible here. Friday nights. Packed stands. College coaches watching from the sidelines. Reporters asking questions after games.
Now he was back alone, trying to convince himself his football career wasn't already slipping away.
He grabbed his bag and made his way onto the field.
A cool breeze swept across the turf, rustling the trees surrounding the facility. The place was nearly deserted. The silence felt comforting.
Cam dropped his bag near midfield and got to work. The first few stretches felt awful. His hips were tight. His hamstrings felt like they were made of concrete.
His lungs burned far sooner than they should have.
Still, he pushed through it.
He moved into a dynamic warmup routine, gradually building intensity. Within minutes, sweat had begun collecting along his hairline. His breathing grew heavier. His heart rate climbed.
It hurt.
But it felt good, too.
It felt productive.
For the first time in weeks, he felt like he was moving toward something instead of hiding from it.
After finishing his warmup, he reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of orange cones. He began arranging them along the turf for route-running drills, carefully spacing them apart.
He had just finished setting the last cone when movement caught his eye.
A vehicle slowly rolled into the parking lot.
Cam barely paid attention at first.
Parents came and went all the time. Coaches stopped by. Maintenance workers occasionally drove through.
The vehicle crept toward the edge of the practice field before parking a short distance from Cam's own car.
The engine shut off. Nothing happened afterward. No one got out. Cam frowned.
For some reason, the vehicle felt vaguely familiar. He stared at it for several seconds, trying to place where he had seen it before, but the memory refused to surface.
Eventually he shrugged and turned back toward his drill setup.
Then the driver's side door flew open. Cam instinctively looked back.
A tall Black man stepped out.
Long dreadlocks rested against his shoulders. His hands were buried inside the front pocket of a dark sweatshirt. He moved with an unhurried confidence that immediately made Cam uncomfortable.
The man walked toward the field. Toward him.
Cam's pulse quickened.
The stranger crossed the sideline and stopped several feet away. His Timberland boots sank lightly into the turf as he settled into place.
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Cam studied him carefully.
The guy looked rough around the edges, but there was something deliberate about him. Something controlled. Something dangerous.
Finally, Cam cleared his throat.
“Can I help you?”
The man smirked. Not an amused smirk.
The kind that suggested he knew something Cam didn't. He slowly shook his head.
“This motherfucker really has fallen on hard times. Used to be a pretty bright kid from what I remember.”
Cam stiffened immediately.
His jaw tightened.
He puffed out his chest slightly.
“What the hell is that supposed-”
The man raised a hand.
Not aggressively.
Just enough to stop him. And somehow it worked. Cam fell silent. The stranger looked him up and down before speaking again.
“My name is Rasheed Jones.”
The name landed like a brick.
Cam's eyes widened.
“Zane's dad.”
The realization washed over him immediately. The resemblance suddenly became obvious. The eyes. The height. Even the way he carried himself.
Cam blinked several times.
“What do you want from me?”
His voice sounded far less confident than he intended.
“Me and Zane haven't talked in months.”
Rasheed nodded.
“I know.”
The answer came quickly. Matter-of-fact. Certain.
“Then why are you here?”
Rasheed's expression remained unreadable.
“I'm not here about Zane.”
That only confused Cam further. His eyebrows knitted together.
“If you're not here about Zane, then what is this about?”
For the first time, Rasheed took another step forward.
The movement wasn't threatening, but it carried weight nonetheless. The distance between them shrank.
Cam suddenly became aware of how isolated the field was.
How empty the parking lot looked. How quiet the afternoon had become. Rasheed locked eyes with him. The warmth disappeared from his face entirely.
“It seems like you've been spending time with my father's murderer.”
The words hit Cam so hard it felt like the wind had been knocked from his chest.
His mind immediately flashed back to the grocery store.
To the tired-looking man with the bottle of rum.
To Tom.
Rasheed watched the realization unfold across his face.
The breeze swept across the field once more, rustling the practice equipment scattered around them, but neither man moved.
Cam simply stood there frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs as the full gravity of the conversation settled over him. Moments earlier he had been worrying about football, transfer portals, and whether he still had a future in the sport.
Now, standing at midfield beneath a gray Pittsburgh sky, he suddenly found himself pulled into something far bigger - and far more dangerous - than football.[/font]
The second half of the Syracuse-Clemson game continued to replay in Zane's head long after the final whistle had blown.
He sat alone in his condo, leaning back in his office chair as film from the game played on the monitor in front of him. The room was dimly lit except for the glow of the screen, which cast shifting shadows across the walls.
Empty pages from a notebook sat beside him, littered with route concepts, defensive coverages, and observations he had scribbled down throughout the season. Usually film study brought him some level of comfort. It was one of the few places where football made sense. Every mistake had a reason. Every success could be traced back to preparation.
Tonight, however, the film only made him angry.
The Syracuse offense had entered halftime down just a touchdown against Clemson. Considering the disparity in talent between the two programs, it should have felt encouraging. Instead, it felt like a missed opportunity.
As another possession played out on the screen, Zane rubbed a hand across his face.
"What the hell happened?" he muttered to himself.
The answer was obvious. The offense had simply stopped functioning.
Ajani had spent most of the second half fighting for his life behind an offensive line that had struggled all season long. Clemson's defensive front had done exactly what everyone expected them to do - dominate the line of scrimmage and force Syracuse into uncomfortable situations. The frustrating part wasn't that Clemson had been better.
It was that none of it had been surprising. The signs had been there all year.
Zane watched another interception unfold on the screen. The ball sailed into coverage. The Clemson defender stepped underneath it.
Easy.
He immediately clicked back and replayed it. Then again. Then once more.
His jaw tightened. "Four interceptions," he said quietly.
The number sounded even worse out loud.
When Ajani had first arrived at Syracuse, Zane had convinced himself that experience mattered. The quarterback's mechanics had never been particularly polished. During training camp there had been days where balls sailed high over receivers' heads or arrived late enough to invite contact. Even then, Zane had assumed that a veteran college quarterback understood parts of the game that younger players simply couldn't appreciate yet.
Now he wasn't so sure. Malik had looked better.
Much better.
At the time, Zane had ignored that reality because he trusted the coaching staff.
Looking back, he wasn't certain that trust had been rewarded.
He stared at the paused screen. The feeling sitting in his chest wasn't anger anymore.
It was exhaustion.
He was tired of empty possessions. Tired of missed opportunities. Tired of watching games slip away because the offense couldn't capitalize on moments that mattered. Most of all, he was tired of feeling like he was wasting time.
The realization made him uncomfortable.
Every time Tyson texted him about transfer portal evaluations, NIL projections, and growing interest from other schools, a wave of guilt followed shortly afterward. Syracuse had given him an opportunity when he needed one. Coach Brown had believed in him. The locker room was filled with teammates he genuinely cared about.
Thinking about leaving felt like betrayal. Yet every Saturday made it harder to ignore reality.
He was tired of hoping they could become bowl eligible. Now the season had come down to beating Cal the following week just to secure six wins.
That wasn't the future he had envisioned when he committed.
His phone buzzed against the desk. The vibration pulled him from his thoughts.
Tyson Rashford. Zane stared at the name for a second before answering.
"What's up?"
The response came immediately.
"Zane Jones, my favorite future millionaire."
Zane laughed despite himself. Tyson always sounded like he had just won the lottery.
"You say that every time you call."
"And one day soon, I'll be right."
Zane shook his head. Tyson didn't waste much time on pleasantries.
He launched directly into a discussion about the growing number of opportunities emerging around Zane's eventual transfer.
Zane listened for a minute before cutting him off.
"You know, maybe I'm not even leaving."
Tyson laughed.
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm serious," Zane said. "I'm trying to focus on finishing the season."
"And that's exactly why you hired me."
Zane leaned back in his chair. He ran his hand through his hair, making a mental note that he’s due for a retwist soon.
Tyson continued.
"My job is to focus on what's next while you're focused on football."
That answer was difficult to argue with.
Zane sighed. "Alright. Go ahead."
Tyson cleared his throat.
"Here's where things stand." Zane listened carefully.
"You've become a massive name regionally. Pennsylvania knows you. New York knows you. The Northeast knows you."
Tyson paused. "But nationally?" His voice lowered slightly.
"You're not quite there yet."
Zane nodded to himself. The assessment felt fair. Despite the ridiculous statistics he was putting up, Syracuse hadn't exactly become must-watch television. Most of the country wasn't staying up to watch Syracuse fight for bowl eligibility.
Tyson continued.
"You haven't had enough opportunities on the national stage. Not yet."
Zane glanced back toward the paused Clemson film.
The opportunities they had received hadn't exactly gone well.
"That being said," Tyson continued, "everybody knows you're a player."
The confidence returned to his voice.
"I've been very careful about avoiding any tampering nonsense. I'm following every intermediary rule exactly how it's supposed to be followed."
"Good."
"But let's just say a lot of Power Four programs are interested in understanding your future plans."
Zane sat forward slightly. Tyson wasn't prone to exaggeration. If he was saying that, it meant something.
"How interested?"
Tyson laughed again.
"Interested enough that you're going to have your pick."
Zane remained silent.
"You keep playing like this, get nominated for the Biletnikoff, maybe take home the Shaun Alexander Award over Chris Henry Jr., and you're talking about being one of the hottest names in the portal."
Zane blinked.
Awards. The thought felt almost foreign. He had spent so much of the season worrying about Syracuse's struggles that he hadn't even considered the individual accolades piling up around him.
The silence stretched. Eventually Tyson spoke again.
"So."
Zane leaned back. "So?"
"Any schools I should be paying special attention to?"
Immediately, Michigan appeared in his mind. The image arrived without warning. Bryce Underwood. The Big House. The Wolverines' resurgence under Glenn Schumann.
A legitimate contender in the Big Ten.
But beneath all of that football logic sat another reason. One he didn't particularly want to examine too closely. Bianca.
The thought alone made his stomach tighten. He hated how quickly his mind went there. Hated how easily it happened. After everything that had changed between them, she still found ways to appear in his thoughts when he least expected it.
Zane forced himself to look beyond that. Beyond Michigan. Beyond Bianca. Beyond whatever emotional baggage still lingered.
When he finally spoke, his answer was measured.
"I think I'm looking at the Big Ten or the SEC."
Tyson hummed approvingly.
"No ACC?"
Zane thought about Syracuse. Then he thought about Malik's most recent text message encouraging him to come join the Hurricanes in Miami.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"No ACC."
"Got it."
Tyson sounded pleased. "I'll keep working."
The conversation wound down after that. A few final assurances. A promise to follow up soon. Then the line went dead.
Silence settled back into the condo.
Zane placed his phone on the desk and stared at the paused Clemson game once more. For a long moment, he simply sat there.
***
The morning air carried a sharp bite that lingered in the lungs, the kind that reminded Bianca that autumn was beginning to surrender to something colder.
She and Katie moved through Michigan's campus at an easy pace, their running shoes tapping rhythmically against the pavement as they wound between towering trees and sprawling Gothic architecture. The sun was only beginning to emerge from behind a dense blanket of clouds, casting streaks of orange light across the stone facades of academic buildings and residence halls. Their breath drifted in pale clouds with every exhale, hanging briefly in the air before dissolving.
For the first time in weeks, Bianca had felt something resembling normalcy.
It hadn't come easily.
Convincing Katie to leave her dorm room had become a challenge that rivaled any workout their coaches could devise. Every invitation had been met with excuses. Every attempt at conversation had been carefully redirected. Eventually Bianca had managed to negotiate a compromise: an early morning run, no questions asked.
Katie had extracted the promise almost immediately.
"No therapist stuff," she had said.
"No therapist stuff," Bianca had agreed.
It had been frustrating, but Bianca had taken what she could get.
Now, jogging beside her friend, Bianca found herself appreciating the silence. Not because she didn't want to talk, but because she was simply grateful Katie was here at all. For the last few weeks, every interaction with her had felt strained and unnatural. Messages went unanswered. Team meetings came and went with Katie contributing little more than the bare minimum. Even when she was physically present, it felt like only a fraction of her had actually arrived.
This morning was different.
Not perfect.
But different.
Their strides remained synchronized as they followed the curve of a sidewalk that wrapped around the athletic district. Bianca focused on the familiar sensations of movement - the steady cadence of her breathing, the burn in her calves, the cool air brushing against the exposed skin of her face. Beside her, Katie remained quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet. There was no tension in it. No expectation.
Just two friends sharing space.
For a brief moment, Bianca allowed herself to believe things might finally be getting better.
They rounded a corner near the athletic facilities and approached what they had informally decided would be the halfway point of their route. The broad staircase leading up to the athletic department came into view, along with a cluster of athletes gathered near its base.
Bianca initially paid them little attention.
A group of hockey players stood scattered around the entrance, most of them dressed in Michigan sweaters and workout gear. Some stretched lazily, pulling knees to their chests or rotating stiff shoulders. Others looked half asleep, clutching water bottles while waiting for whatever miserable early-morning conditioning session awaited them.
It was a completely ordinary scene.
Until Katie stopped.
Bianca took two more strides before realizing she was suddenly alone.
She slowed and turned.
Katie stood motionless in the middle of the sidewalk.
Not tired.
Not catching her breath.
Frozen.
The change was immediate enough to make Bianca's stomach tighten.
Katie's posture had become rigid, every muscle seemingly locked into place. Her eyes were fixed on the group near the staircase with an intensity that bordered on hostility. Bianca followed her line of sight but couldn't determine what exactly had captured her attention. The hockey players continued their conversations, oblivious to the fact that someone was staring at them from across the street.
Bianca walked back toward her slowly.
"Katie?"
No response.
Only after Bianca drew closer did Katie blink.
"Are you okay?"
Katie's jaw tightened. Her gaze never left the group.
"Of course," she said. "Why wouldn't I be?"
The answer came too quickly.
Too rehearsed.
Bianca felt frustration beginning to mingle with her concern.
Over the last several weeks, she had heard every variation of that response imaginable. I'm fine. Just tired. Just stressed. Just sick. Just busy.
Each excuse sounded less convincing than the last.
Before Bianca could stop herself, she reached out and placed a hand gently on Katie's shoulder.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Katie recoiled as though she'd been burned.
"Don't touch me!"
The words exploded out of her.
Several heads from across the street turned briefly before returning to their own conversations.
Bianca immediately withdrew her hand.
For a moment neither woman spoke.
Katie looked almost shocked by her own reaction. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared at the pavement.
Bianca's concern hardened into something firmer.
Enough was enough.
Her eyebrows knitted together as she folded her arms across her chest.
"No," she said firmly. "We're not doing this again."
Katie's eyes flicked upward.
"What?"
"You need to tell me what happened."
Katie shook her head immediately.
"Nothing happened."
The answer came automatically. Too automatically.
"I've just been sick."
Bianca let out a humorless laugh.
"Sick?"
Katie opened her mouth.
Bianca didn't let her continue.
"Katie, I've known you too long for this."
Emotion had begun creeping into her voice despite her best efforts to remain calm.
"You are one of the loudest people I've ever met. You make friends with strangers in grocery stores. You talk during movies. You somehow have enough energy for ten people on three hours of sleep and an iced coffee."
Katie looked away. Bianca stepped closer.
"You don't just become a completely different person overnight."
The words hung between them.
Katie's eyes glistened.
For a split second, Bianca thought she might finally break. Might finally tell her. Instead, Katie looked back toward the hockey players one final time.
The expression on her face wasn't anger. It wasn't fear. It was something worse.
Recognition.
Bianca caught it only briefly before Katie looked away.
That was all she needed. Without another word, Bianca turned and began walking back the way they had come.
Katie stared after her.
"Where are you going?"
Bianca didn't stop.
"We're going back to your dorm."
Katie frowned.
"What?"
"We're getting cleaned up, we're sitting down, and we're having our first real conversation in weeks."
The firmness in Bianca's voice left little room for interpretation. Katie's lips parted as if preparing an argument. Bianca could practically see the excuses lining up in her head.
But when Bianca looked back at her, Katie stopped. Because the expression on Bianca's face made one thing abundantly clear.
This wasn't a negotiation anymore.
And for the first time since all of this had started, Bianca had decided she wasn't going to let Katie hide from her.
***
Cam practically flew down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time as he descended toward the front door. His gym bag bounced heavily against his shoulder with every hurried stride, the strap digging into his collarbone. For the first time in weeks, there was purpose in his movements. Not the sluggish, half-hearted drifting that had defined most of his days since returning home from Purdue, but actual momentum. He reached the small table beside the front entrance and snatched his keys from the ceramic dish resting there.
From the kitchen, his mother immediately noticed the commotion.
“Where are you going?” Amber called out.
Cam paused just long enough to answer.
“I’m heading to the high school. Gonna get some field work in.”
The response hung in the air for a moment before she replied.
“Just be careful.”
“Yeah, Mom.”
He opened the door and stepped outside before she could continue the conversation.
For once, it wasn't a lie.
Since returning home, Cam had spent most of his days locked inside his room. His life had fallen into an ugly rhythm of sleeping late, drinking too much, playing video games, and doing the bare minimum necessary to remain academically eligible. Every morning he woke up telling himself he would start working again tomorrow. Every night he went to bed disappointed in himself.
The truth was impossible to avoid now.
The transfer portal wasn't some magical reset button. If he wanted another opportunity, somebody would have to believe he was worth taking a chance on. Looking at himself in the mirror lately, he wasn't sure he would have recruited himself.
His body had softened. His conditioning was gone. His confidence had evaporated.
He couldn't keep sitting around waiting for a miracle.
As he slid behind the wheel of his car, he repeated the same thought that had been running through his head all morning.
It's like riding a bike.
Football was still football.
His body would remember.
The drive to Upper St. Clair High School was short and quiet. The roads were mostly empty as he wound through familiar neighborhoods that suddenly felt much smaller than they had before college. The campus came into view a few minutes later, looking almost exactly as it had when he was a student there.
Cam parked beside the practice field and sat for a moment, staring through the windshield.
There had been a time when he felt invincible here. Friday nights. Packed stands. College coaches watching from the sidelines. Reporters asking questions after games.
Now he was back alone, trying to convince himself his football career wasn't already slipping away.
He grabbed his bag and made his way onto the field.
A cool breeze swept across the turf, rustling the trees surrounding the facility. The place was nearly deserted. The silence felt comforting.
Cam dropped his bag near midfield and got to work. The first few stretches felt awful. His hips were tight. His hamstrings felt like they were made of concrete.
His lungs burned far sooner than they should have.
Still, he pushed through it.
He moved into a dynamic warmup routine, gradually building intensity. Within minutes, sweat had begun collecting along his hairline. His breathing grew heavier. His heart rate climbed.
It hurt.
But it felt good, too.
It felt productive.
For the first time in weeks, he felt like he was moving toward something instead of hiding from it.
After finishing his warmup, he reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of orange cones. He began arranging them along the turf for route-running drills, carefully spacing them apart.
He had just finished setting the last cone when movement caught his eye.
A vehicle slowly rolled into the parking lot.
Cam barely paid attention at first.
Parents came and went all the time. Coaches stopped by. Maintenance workers occasionally drove through.
The vehicle crept toward the edge of the practice field before parking a short distance from Cam's own car.
The engine shut off. Nothing happened afterward. No one got out. Cam frowned.
For some reason, the vehicle felt vaguely familiar. He stared at it for several seconds, trying to place where he had seen it before, but the memory refused to surface.
Eventually he shrugged and turned back toward his drill setup.
Then the driver's side door flew open. Cam instinctively looked back.
A tall Black man stepped out.
Long dreadlocks rested against his shoulders. His hands were buried inside the front pocket of a dark sweatshirt. He moved with an unhurried confidence that immediately made Cam uncomfortable.
The man walked toward the field. Toward him.
Cam's pulse quickened.
The stranger crossed the sideline and stopped several feet away. His Timberland boots sank lightly into the turf as he settled into place.
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Cam studied him carefully.
The guy looked rough around the edges, but there was something deliberate about him. Something controlled. Something dangerous.
Finally, Cam cleared his throat.
“Can I help you?”
The man smirked. Not an amused smirk.
The kind that suggested he knew something Cam didn't. He slowly shook his head.
“This motherfucker really has fallen on hard times. Used to be a pretty bright kid from what I remember.”
Cam stiffened immediately.
His jaw tightened.
He puffed out his chest slightly.
“What the hell is that supposed-”
The man raised a hand.
Not aggressively.
Just enough to stop him. And somehow it worked. Cam fell silent. The stranger looked him up and down before speaking again.
“My name is Rasheed Jones.”
The name landed like a brick.
Cam's eyes widened.
“Zane's dad.”
The realization washed over him immediately. The resemblance suddenly became obvious. The eyes. The height. Even the way he carried himself.
Cam blinked several times.
“What do you want from me?”
His voice sounded far less confident than he intended.
“Me and Zane haven't talked in months.”
Rasheed nodded.
“I know.”
The answer came quickly. Matter-of-fact. Certain.
“Then why are you here?”
Rasheed's expression remained unreadable.
“I'm not here about Zane.”
That only confused Cam further. His eyebrows knitted together.
“If you're not here about Zane, then what is this about?”
For the first time, Rasheed took another step forward.
The movement wasn't threatening, but it carried weight nonetheless. The distance between them shrank.
Cam suddenly became aware of how isolated the field was.
How empty the parking lot looked. How quiet the afternoon had become. Rasheed locked eyes with him. The warmth disappeared from his face entirely.
“It seems like you've been spending time with my father's murderer.”
The words hit Cam so hard it felt like the wind had been knocked from his chest.
His mind immediately flashed back to the grocery store.
To the tired-looking man with the bottle of rum.
To Tom.
Rasheed watched the realization unfold across his face.
The breeze swept across the field once more, rustling the practice equipment scattered around them, but neither man moved.
Cam simply stood there frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs as the full gravity of the conversation settled over him. Moments earlier he had been worrying about football, transfer portals, and whether he still had a future in the sport.
Now, standing at midfield beneath a gray Pittsburgh sky, he suddenly found himself pulled into something far bigger - and far more dangerous - than football.[/font]
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
- Posts: 15854
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Invictus
Captain Canada wrote: ↑Today, 11:59But beneath all of that football logic sat another reason. One he didn't particularly want to examine too closely. Bianca.
This nigga a simp. Ain't no way it's that good. Also, ain't he just start something with ol' girl?Katie about to bring down the whole institution of hockey at UMich?