The cemetery had become one of the few places Rasheed found himself returning to without really deciding to.
His truck always seemed to drift in this direction whenever he had nowhere else to be, as though the route had been carved into his subconscious. Since getting out of prison, he had struggled to understand what his life was supposed to look like. Every morning carried the same unanswered question of purpose.
The streets no longer felt like home, but neither did the quiet little house in Upper St. Clair. Every room inside his parents' home reminded him of people who were no longer there. Felix's old recliner sat untouched in the living room. Mary's favorite mug still occupied the same cabinet she had always kept it in.
Sometimes Rasheed would catch himself expecting to hear one of them moving through the house before remembering the silence wasn't temporary anymore. It was permanent. Whenever that emptiness became too much to stomach, he found himself driving here.
He stood before the pair of granite headstones in the cool afternoon air, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket while a gentle breeze stirred through the cemetery. The grass had begun reclaiming its vibrant green as spring continued settling over western Pennsylvania, replacing the dull whites and browns winter had left behind. Fresh bouquets sat scattered among neighboring graves, little splashes of color interrupting the rows of polished stone. Rasheed's eyes settled first on the name engraved into the monument before him.
Felix Jones.
Without thinking, his gaze drifted a few feet to the right.
Mary Jones.
Even now, seeing the two names beside one another twisted something deep inside his chest.
He swallowed hard before slowly releasing a breath through his nose.
Lately, he'd been visiting more and more often. Sometimes he stayed only a few minutes. Other days he found himself talking beneath his breath to two gravestones until the sun started sinking behind the trees. He wasn't even sure what compelled him to keep coming back. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe regret. Maybe it was the simple realization that now they were gone, every conversation he wished he'd had with his father would remain trapped inside his own head forever.
He had spent decades fighting Felix.
Arguing with him and trying to prove him wrong.
Trying to prove himself right.
Now he would give just about anything for one more argument.
Rasheed stepped closer until he stood directly over his father's grave. He reached out almost absentmindedly, resting his rough palm against the cool granite. His fingertips traced the uneven texture carved into the polished stone, feeling every tiny imperfection beneath his skin. He closed his eyes.
Immediately his mind wandered backward. Back to the prison visitation room.
Metal chairs bolted to the concrete and Correctional officers watching every interaction. Felix sitting across from him with the same stern posture he had carried his entire life. Mary beside him, trying - as always -to soften whatever conversation was about to happen. Zane, not quite the man he was today, but still a boy trying to navigate it all.
Rasheed remembered thinking then that it wouldn't be much longer. His release date had finally begun feeling real. He had convinced himself there would still be time to fix everything after he got out. Time to mend things with Felix. Time to become a better son. Time to figure out fatherhood with Zane.
He had assumed time was guaranteed.
Life had proven otherwise.
The crunch of footsteps over gravel broke through his thoughts.
Rasheed opened his eyes.
He slowly looked over his shoulder, watching a woman make her way along the narrow pathway between the graves. She held a bouquet of assorted flowers tightly against her chest with both hands, her pace slow and deliberate, almost hesitant. For a moment, he couldn't quite place her. The afternoon sunlight sat directly behind her, obscuring her features until she moved closer.
His brow furrowed.
Then recognition settled in.
Mariah.
The woman Felix had protected.
The woman whose life had intersected with his family's in the worst possible way.
He hadn't seen her since the hospital. Truthfully, he had never expected to see her again.
She looked healthier than she had that night, the frightening paleness that had clung to her in the emergency room replaced with some color. Still, healing had clearly come at a cost. Exhaustion lingered beneath her eyes, and there was a heaviness to the way she carried herself that no amount of physical recovery could erase. Every careful step seemed measured, as though she feared one wrong movement might shatter whatever fragile balance she had finally managed to rebuild.
When she noticed Rasheed standing there, she slowed even further.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, her voice almost carried away by the breeze. "I was pretty sure nobody would be here."
She looked down awkwardly at the bouquet before meeting his eyes again.
"I didn't mean to intrude."
Rasheed studied her for another second before giving the headstone beneath his hand one final, gentle tap.
"You ain't intrudin'," he replied quietly. He stepped back from the graves. "Take all the time you need."
Mariah searched his face, almost surprised by the answer.
She nodded carefully.
"Thank you."
She walked the remaining few steps until she reached Felix's grave. Kneeling slowly, she placed the bouquet at the base of the headstone with delicate care, taking a moment to straighten the flowers after setting them down. Her fingertips lingered against the stems before she rose back to her feet.
For several long seconds she simply stared at Felix's name.
Then her eyes shifted sideways.
Mary's gravestone.
Her expression softened.
"I never got the chance..." she murmured almost to herself before trailing off.
Silence settled comfortably between them again.
Birds chirped somewhere deeper inside the cemetery while the breeze stirred the newly placed flowers.
Eventually Mariah turned back toward Rasheed.
"I wanted to ask you something."
He raised an eyebrow.
She glanced once more toward the two graves before looking back at him.
"Would it offend you if I kept visiting them?"
The question genuinely caught him off guard. He looked from her to the flowers she had brought, then back toward the names carved into the stone.
After a moment he shrugged.
"It wouldn't offend me."
Mariah seemed to exhale a breath she'd been unconsciously holding.
"I just -" She paused, struggling to find the words. "-I know I wasn't family."
Rasheed stayed quiet.
"But your father," She looked down at Felix's grave again. "He saved my life."
Her voice cracked slightly.
"I don't think I can ever repay that."
Rasheed followed her gaze toward the headstone.
"Nah," he said after a while. "You probably can't."
The answer wasn't cruel, but honest
Another silence settled between them, longer this time.
Mariah clasped her hands together nervously, rubbing one thumb across the back of the other.
Finally she looked back up at him.
"Could we talk?"
Rasheed gave her a slow once-over.
He nodded once.
"Yeah."
He glanced down one final time at his parents' graves before turning away from the headstones.
"Let's talk."
***
The Alabama heat possessed a cruelty that Zane had never truly appreciated until he was forced to compete in it every single day.
Pittsburgh summers had always been humid enough to make a football practice uncomfortable, but they still allowed moments where a breeze rolled through and reminded you the weather had mercy.
Even Syracuse, for all its muggy afternoons during fall camp, couldn't compare to what Tuscaloosa offered.
Alabama's sun seemed determined to beat every ounce of weakness out of anyone foolish enough to step onto the practice field. It didn't simply shine -it pressed down on your shoulders, wrapped around your lungs, and demanded you either adapt or be swallowed whole. By this point in training camp, Zane had stopped fighting it. He accepted the sweat, accepted the dehydration, accepted that every practice would feel like playing football inside an oven. Complaining accomplished nothing. Surviving was simply part of earning the script A on the side of his helmet.
The first practice of the day had stretched toward its conclusion, though no one would have mistaken the ending for a cooldown. Alabama didn't believe in easing players off the field. If anything, the hardest portion of practice always seemed to come when everyone's legs were already heavy. Sweat streamed continuously down Zane's forehead before disappearing into the locs he had tied high on top of his head that morning.
Even then, moisture escaped, dripping from the ends of his hair and splattering against the crimson practice jersey that clung tightly to his shoulders. Every inhale felt thick with humidity, every exhale disappeared into shimmering waves rising off the turf beneath his cleats. His muscles already carried the ache of nearly three hours of drills, install periods, one-on-one battles, and team work, yet everyone understood there was still one final test waiting before Coach Baillou would allow them to leave the field.
Coach Baillou sat calmly near midfield like a man completely unaffected by the conditions surrounding him. Dark aviator sunglasses concealed his eyes while an Alabama bucket hat shaded what little of his face the sunglasses didn't cover. He looked almost comfortable beneath the blistering sun, one leg casually crossed over the other while a whistle rested between his lips. Around him, assistant coaches stood with clipboards tucked against their chests, silently observing a roster full of exhausted athletes preparing for one final challenge. There were no motivational speeches. No dramatic declarations. Alabama's expectations had already been made abundantly clear the day camp opened.
Championship teams finished.
The whistle shrieked through the air.
The entire line exploded forward.
Full-field sprints.
The kind of conditioning that separated conference champions from national champions.
Zane launched himself across the turf, driving his knees violently upward while his arms pumped with every ounce of strength his tired body could still produce. His cleats bit aggressively into the grass as he accelerated, refusing to surrender even the smallest fraction of speed despite the screaming protest coming from his legs. His quads burned with every stride. His calves tightened beneath him. His lungs begged him to ease up, to shorten his stride, to preserve something for the next rep.
He ignored every signal his body sent him.
He didn't give pain the time of day anymore. He ignored it. It wasn't an enemy anymore.
Comfort was.
The goal line rushed toward him.
He crossed it still sprinting through the finish before gradually allowing himself to decelerate, slowing into a controlled jog before finally coming to a walk several yards beyond the end zone. He placed neither hand on his knees nor bent forward searching desperately for oxygen. Instead, he inhaled deeply through his nose, forced himself to regulate his breathing, and slowly turned back toward the rest of the field.
As he caught his breath, an unexpected memory of being back at his first training camp at Syracuse last year surfaced.
Back then, every sprint had turned into an unofficial race between himself, Johntay, and Demetres. Each rep became another opportunity to establish themselves as the fastest athlete on the roster. The three of them constantly chirped at one another before and after every conditioning period, each convinced they'd won even when the margins were microscopic. It had pushed him to improve.
But by the end of that camp?
The challenge had slowly disappeared. He had begun finishing first more often than not.
Eventually, there hadn't been much competition left.
That wasn't the case anymore.
He glanced sideways just in time to see running back Khalid Ramsey slowing to a stop only a few strides behind him, chest rising rhythmically but without panic. Khalid caught Zane's eye for a brief second before giving him the smallest nod, equal parts acknowledgment and challenge.
Right behind Khalid came Jalen Hale.
The wide receiver barely looked fatigued despite matching Zane stride for stride most of the way down the field. Sweat soaked through his jersey just like everyone else's, but his expression remained almost annoyingly composed.
Then Zane spotted Keelon Russell.
His new quarterback crossed the goal line comfortably inside the first ten finishers, breathing hard but remaining upright, refusing to double over or rest his hands on his knees.
Zane couldn't help smiling to himself.
This was different.
Everywhere he looked stood elite athletes who refused to yield even the smallest competitive advantage.
Nobody wanted to finish second.
Nobody wanted to appear tired first.
Nobody wanted to become the guy coaches remembered folding when camp became difficult.
That mentality infected the entire roster.
He slowly turned his head, studying the players gathering near the opposite goal line while everyone prepared for the next repetition. Helmets remained pointed forward. Chests rose and fell steadily. Some players bounced lightly on their toes to keep their legs loose. Others stared straight ahead, mentally preparing themselves for another sprint. Very few words were exchanged.
Zane rolled his shoulders backward and inhaled another slow breath through his nose. Despite the fatigue settling deeper into his body with every passing minute, he welcomed the feeling. It reminded him why he'd transferred. Coach Kiffin hadn't promised comfort when recruiting him. He hadn't tried selling luxury or telling Zane what he wanted to hear. Instead, he had challenged him. Told him there were weaknesses in his game. Told him he wasn't yet the best receiver in college football.
Standing here now, surrounded by players who attacked conditioning with the same hunger they attacked Saturdays, Zane finally understood exactly what Coach Kiffin had been talking about.
This place demanded more.
And for the first time in his football career, he felt like he had found an environment capable of pulling every last ounce of greatness out of him.
The whistle screamed once more.
Without hesitation, every Crimson Tide player exploded off the line again.
***
Cam stood in the middle of his bedroom surrounded by half-filled duffel bags and an open suitcase, the familiar scene stirring memories that felt both recent and impossibly distant. A year earlier he had packed this very room with an entirely different version of himself.
Then, every folded shirt and carefully packed pair of cleats had carried the nervous excitement of a kid heading off to Purdue, hoping he belonged in the chaos of Big Ten football. He had wondered whether he was fast enough, strong enough, disciplined enough to survive a collegiate season against athletes who had all been the best players in their hometowns.
That uncertainty had eaten away at him for weeks before he ever stepped onto campus. Now, standing in the same room, he realized the anxiety felt different. It hadn't disappeared, but it had changed shape.
He wasn't packing for Purdue anymore. He wasn't packing for a Power Four program or the prestige that had once mattered so much to him. T
his time he was heading to Blinn College, an NJCAA school in Brenham, Texas.
It was a world away from Upper St. Clair and just as far removed from West Lafayette. To some people, it would have looked like failure. To Cam, it looked like the first genuine opportunity he'd had in a very long time.
He zipped another compartment shut before glancing around the room, mentally checking through everything he still needed to bring. Blinn's coaches had been honest with him throughout the recruiting process. They hadn't promised him stardom or guaranteed accolades. What they had promised was an opportunity. They believed he could compete immediately, and if he earned it, the starting job was there for the taking. After everything that had happened over the past year, that honesty had meant more than grand promises ever could. He didn't need someone telling him he was destined for greatness. He needed someone willing to let him prove he still belonged on a football field.
His thoughts drifted to one of his final workouts with Zane before the Alabama star had left Pittsburgh. They had been cooling down after another brutal session at the Upper St. Clair gym when Cam had finally told him about Blinn.
"I guess it's kind of taking a step backward," Cam had admitted.
Zane hadn't even hesitated.
"Sometimes you gotta take a step backward before you can jump forward."
It had sounded almost too simple when he'd said it, but the more Cam thought about it, the more those words settled into him. Football careers weren't always straight lines. Sometimes they broke. Sometimes they detoured. Sometimes they forced you to rebuild everything from scratch before you earned another shot. If anyone understood rebuilding, it was probably Zane. Watching him climb from overlooked recruit to Freshman of the Year and then into one of the biggest transfer portal acquisitions in college football had proven that careers weren't defined by where they started.
Cam smiled faintly to himself.
If Cam Newton could come through Blinn College, win the Heisman Trophy, become the number one overall pick, and build an NFL career, then why couldn't Blinn become the launching pad for someone else? He wasn't foolish enough to compare himself directly to one of the greatest college quarterbacks ever, but the path existed. Someone had already proven that junior college didn't have to be the end of the story. Sometimes it was just the beginning of a better one.
That belief had fueled him every morning since accepting the offer. He had thrown himself completely into training with Zane, rebuilding the athleticism he'd lost after everything unraveled at Purdue. The workouts had been relentless, but they had given him purpose. His body had responded. He carried noticeably less weight than when he'd returned home. His conditioning had improved dramatically. More importantly, he no longer dreaded looking in the mirror. The former athlete trapped beneath months of bad decisions had finally begun resembling himself again.
To give himself every possible advantage, he had even opting against heading down to Texas early. He wanted to focus on the last few days of his classwork that was left over from Purdue to make his credits transfer over more seamlessly. It also helped being around his parents for a bit longer, creating a safer environment for him. It wasn't a decision his younger self would have made. Pride probably would've convinced him he didn't need the help. Now he understood there was nothing weak about accepting support when people genuinely wanted to see you succeed.
His progress hadn't erased everything, though.
Some memories refused to loosen their grip.
His hands paused while folding another sweatshirt.
Tom.
The name alone tightened something in his chest.
He had worked tirelessly to steer his thoughts away from everything connected to Tom's death. Some days were easier than others. On bad days, he still found himself glancing over his shoulder whenever he walked through parking lots or entered convenience stores. The encounter outside the grocery store remained burned into his memory with uncomfortable clarity. The towering man leaning against his mother's car. The calm certainty in his voice. The chilling reminder that somebody believed Cam knew who had killed Tom.
He remembered the panic that had consumed him afterward.
The drinking.
The paranoia.
The feeling that every stranger might be following him.
Eventually it had all become too much.
His mind wandered to the night he had stumbled drunkenly onto the Jones family's front porch intending to tell Zane everything. He had rehearsed the conversation in his head a dozen times while walking over, convinced he couldn't carry the burden alone anymore. Instead of finding Zane, the front door had opened to reveal Rasheed.
Cam could still picture the puzzled look on the older man's face as he stepped outside.
Rasheed had taken one look at him and seemed to recognize immediately that something was deeply wrong. Whatever reputation Rasheed carried around Pittsburgh - whether ex-convict, former gang member, or stubborn son of a bitch - it hadn't mattered that night. He hadn't judged Cam. He hadn't mocked him. He hadn't dismissed his fear.
He had simply listened.
When Cam finally broke down and explained everything, Rasheed had remained surprisingly calm.
"You ain't built for this life," he'd told him.
It wasn't an insult.
It was an observation.
Then he'd looked Cam directly in the eyes.
"Don't worry about nobody followin' you."
Cam remembered asking how he could possibly know that.
Rasheed's answer had been short.
"I'll deal with it."
To this day, Cam didn't know exactly what that meant.
He wasn't sure whether Rasheed had spoken to somebody, made threats, called in old favors, or whether the danger had simply disappeared on its own. He hadn't seen the large man again. He hadn't felt watched since. Whether that was because of Rasheed or pure coincidence, he honestly couldn't say.
He had chosen to believe Mr. Jones.
Sometimes faith was all a person had.
Cam bent down and gripped the handle of his suitcase before lifting it upright. As it landed with a dull thud against the carpet, something rolled out from beneath the bed.
He frowned.
A nearly empty vodka bottle spun lazily across the floor before coming to a stop against his shoe.
Cam stared at it for several long seconds.
He slowly crouched down and picked the bottle up.
Holding it in one hand, he turned it over, watching the light catch against the scratched glass.
It represented the lowest version of himself. After another moment, he carried the bottle over to the bedside table and set it down gently.
He looked back toward the packed bags waiting by his bedroom door and allowed himself a small, genuine smile.
Blinn wasn't Purdue.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was another chance.
After everything that had happened over the past year, another chance was exactly what he needed.
Alabama Crimson Tide 2027 Schedule
I know you ain't talking.
