#soxstradamous strikes again
Invictus
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Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7850
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
You made that initial comment and I remember being so pissed off
I'll have to improve my gaslighting going forward
Appreciate it brother. We only going up from here. Need to speed this thing up and get up and running.
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Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7850
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 7850
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
Season III | Chapter XII - Cage To The Grave
Cam sat forward on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, laptop balanced carefully so the camera didn’t catch the laundry pile behind him. The glow of the screen lit his face, and in the little square at the top right he could see himself trying very hard to look composed.
On the main window, Coach Zach Thomas leaned back in his chair, hands clasped, Purdue football photos lining the wall behind him - black and gold frames, players mid-tackle, a quarterback frozen in a throwing motion, a shot of Ross-Ade Stadium under the lights.
“We’re building something here,” Coach Thomas was saying. “Coach Odom came in with a clear vision - tough, disciplined, fast. We want to make noise in the Big Ten, not just be a team people overlook.”
Cam nodded, trying not to look like he was hanging on every word.
“We’re on the verge of offering you a full ride,” Thomas continued. “That’s not something we throw around lightly. We like your tape, your route running, your blocking efforts, your willingness to do the dirty work. You’re a fit for what we want to do.”
Cam felt his chest tighten in a good way this time. A full ride. Big Ten football. It sounded unreal when someone else said it out loud. A year ago, he was looking up community colleges that he might be able to earn a scholarship after walking on. Now, he could be playing Ohio State on Saturdays.
“We’re trying to pull this quarterback out of South Bend,” Thomas added with a half-smile. “Kid’s been locked in with Notre Dame for some time right now, but I don’t know, we’re not done with him yet. You get a guy like that, you surround him with weapons - guys like you - you change the trajectory of a program.
Cam swallowed and nodded again. “Yes, sir. I really see myself fitting there. I like what you guys are building. I’m just waiting for that call now. Would love to come over and visit too.”
Thomas smiled. “It’s coming.”
There was a pause. A small one. The kind that shouldn’t mean anything.
“How likely is it you could get Zane Jones to come with you?”
Cam blinked.
Thomas kept going, like he hadn’t noticed the shift. “We’ve got room for two receivers in this class. If we can land you and him together, that’s one hell of a package deal. A real statement.”
The words landed heavy.
Cam forced a polite smile. “I’m not really sure about his situation, Coach. He’s still figuring things out. I mean, I could ask, but I don’t really want to speak for him.”
Thomas nodded quickly, realizing it. “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. We want you regardless, Cam. Don’t get that twisted. You bring value on your own. That’s why we’re talking.”
“Yes, sir,” Cam said, keeping his voice steady.
They wrapped up with handshakes through screens and promises to stay in touch. The call ended with a soft digital chime.
And then, there was nothing.
Just the blank laptop screen.
Cam stared at it, his own reflection looking back - shoulders slumped, smile gone, eyes tired.
On paper, it was everything he had wanted. A Big Ten program. A near full ride. A future.
But the question echoed anyway.
He closed the laptop slowly, the click sounding louder than it should.
Cam leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter - that coaches talked like that, it was about roster building, that it wasn’t personal.
But the feeling sat there anyway, heavy in his stomach.
Malik sat on the edge of his bed, back firm against the frame, blinds drawn tight enough to keep the room in a gray half-light. Thin blades of sun slipped through the cracks, cutting faint stripes across the carpet and the scattered envelopes at his feet.
His Beats headphones covered his ears, noise-canceling turned all the way up.
No music.
Not today.
Usually it was Young Thug or Lil Baby, bass rattling his chest, lyrics about hunger and survival drowning out whatever he didn’t want to think about.
Today, silence felt louder.
Scholarship packets lay open and ignored - logos from schools he used to stare at like they were golden tickets. Now, they looked like clutter. Paper promises.
His walls were still the same. Posters taped carefully above his desk: Michael Vick mid-throw, left arm a blur. Donovan McNabb rearing back in midnight green. Warren Moon poised in that effortless stance that made quarterbacking look like art.
Men who carried cities on their backs. Men who had weathered the storm.
Malik had studied them like scripture. How they moved. How they commanded a huddle. How they absorbed pressure without letting it show.
He wanted to be that.
Unshakeable.
Instead, all he could see when he closed his eyes was Zane’s face in the quad. Red with anger. Tears prickling at his eyes. Not defensive. Not deflective. Just fury and brimstone.
The words wouldn’t leave him.
For as long as he could remember, Ronnie’s death had bee told to him in one tone - frozen. Violent. Unforgivable. Zane’s father had taken him in cold blood. No nuance. No grey.
Just villain and victim.
Malik had built his anger on that foundation. Layered it carefully. Fed it. If he made it to the next level, if he honored Ronnie through his success, it meant something.
But now, there was a crack in it.
He hadn’t pictured a four-year-old boy losing his father the same night he lost his cousin. He hadn’t wanted to care. But, he might.
He hadn’t pictured a kid growing up in the shadow of that, trying to outrun his history.
Malik pressed his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind them.
He stood abruptly and paced the small space between his bed and his desk. His shoulder brushed against the McNabb poster, tape peeling slightly at the corner.
He stopped in front of the mirror. The quarterback staring back at him looked tired. Anger had always been easy. Clean and direct.
This was different.
He glanced down at the letters on the floor again. Opportunities, futures. Coaches who saw him as a leader, as the engine of an offense. Leaders didn’t sabotage their own teammates. He hated that thought. Hated that it might be true.
Malik ripped the headphones off and let them fall to the mattress. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of a lawn mower somewhere in the neighborhood.
He has been told the story a hundred times.
Rasheed Jones was gang-affiliated. A killer. A man with a rap sheet long enough to wallpaper his room.
He looked it up himself. Court transcripts. Sentencing summaries. Grainy local news clips archived online. The ruling had been clear. The punishment severe. Years stacked on years.
On paper, it was simple.
Malik had spent so much energy hating him on Ronnie’s behalf. He had carried that anger like a badge of loyalty.
He had transferred to Upper St. Clair with a mission. Outplay him. Outshine him. Humble him.
It wasn’t who Malik was. He prided himself on being disciplined, composed. A field general. The type of quarterback who elevated everyone around him. But grief had warped that. Shaped it into something uglier.
Grief had made revenge feel justified.
He glanced at his duffel bag sitting by his desk, still half-packed. Cleats hanging out of the zipper. The team would be leaving for Maryland soon - big matchup, foreign waters, hostile crowd. Normally, he would be laser-focused.
Today, none of that mattered.
He stood slowly and walked out of his room. In the kitchen, late afternoon light stretched across the countertops. His keys sat in their usual spot by the fruit bowl,
He paused.
Once he did this, there was no going back to the comfort of anger.
He grabbed the keys. He didn’t need another article. Didn’t need another headline written by someone who had never set foot in his neighborhood.
He needed the truth. He knew just where he could get it.
The row of bikes overlooked the glass front of the Michigan Athletics Facility, sunlight pouring in and glinting off polished floors and chrome handlebars. It was quiet for once, just the faint hum of machines and the rhythmic whir of pedals cutting through the stillness.
Bianca adjusted her grip on the stationary bike, posture relaxed, legs moving in an easy glide. She wasn’t even close to pushing herself yet. A light workout, recovery pace. The kind of afternoon she had been waiting for since stepping on campus - caught up on classes, no looming exams, finally able to lean into the athlete part of being a student-athlete.
Her phone was tucked between her shoulder and ear, a soft smile resting on her lips.
“So, you’re actually coming, right?” Zane’s voice crackled through, playful but with a hint of seriousness beneath it. “I’m not about to look in no stands in Detroit and not see you.”
She laughed lightly, increasing the resistance just a notch. “Okay, Mr. Needy. Everything is confirmed. It’s gonna be me, Katie, Darius, and a couple of other friends that are driving down from Ann Arbor. We’re making a whole night of it, and at the very center of it is Upper St. Clair.”
“Darius huh?” Zane repeated slowly.
Bianca rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes, Darius.”
“And how should I feel about this Darius?”
She bit back a grin. “You tell me.”
Another pause. Then, dramatically. “Is this Darius tall? I know you like yourself a tall drink of water.”
“Babe.”
“He’s a runner, right? Dangerous combo.”
She shook her head, laughing now. “You are so wack.”
“Research is research, B. I need to scout my competition until I make my way there.” She could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“Darius,” she said calmly, “wouldn’t dare. The only person who intimidates him more than me is you.”
Zane snorted. “Oh, so I’m intimidating now?”
“So very scary. Plus, now you’re some big-time football player. The talk of the town back home. People are scared.”
He groaned. “That’s enough out of you.”
“I’m serious! It’s terrifying dating a celebrity. I’m considering hiring a bodyguard.”
“As long as they’re white,” he shot back. “I know that’s not your bag.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He exhaled, letting the joke simmer down. “I’m excited to meet your people, for real. I’m glad you got a little community built down there.”
She glanced out of the window at the campus stretching beyond the complex. The thought of him here - walking through the Diag, sitting in the student section, seeing where she trained every day - made her chest glow.
“You’ll love them, babe,” she said. “Katie already feels like she knows you. And Darius is probably the captain of your fan club.”
“Here I thought that was your role?”
She laughed again, finally starting to pedal harder, feeling a light sheen of sweat form at her temples.
“So Detroit,” he continued. “I’m hoping that game really pops. Big stage. Good opponent. If I can hack away at a good game, maybe I finally get some love from your Wolverines.”
“It makes sense that they would be there, right?” she asked, trying - and failing - to keep her voice neutral.
“Coaches want me to lock some weekends in for official visits, I need to start packing them in. Tell your boys to hurry their ass up.”
“I’ll call the powers that be immediately.”
The idea of him walking through her campus as a recruit - being shown the lockers, the facilities, the stadium - felt surreal.
“Anyways B, I’ll call you later tonight,” he added. “I’m just about to head out with my grandma.”
Bianca’s smile softened.
“Going to see your Dad?”
“Yeah, we’re stopping by to sneak in a visit before I head to campus to board the bus for Maryland.”
Her heart squeezed. All he hype, the rankings, the Detroit spotlight that loomed - she always had to remind her that it all coexisted with reality. Visiting his father behind glass.
“I’m proud of you, Zane” she said quietly.
“For what?”
“Everything. You know, just take the praise.”
“Thank you, B. It means a lot to know you’re always by my side.”
“Good, it fucking better”
The call ended.
Bianca pulled the phone away and stared at the screen for a second before setting it in the cup holder. Outside, the afternoon light glowed golden over campus.
Cam sat forward on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, laptop balanced carefully so the camera didn’t catch the laundry pile behind him. The glow of the screen lit his face, and in the little square at the top right he could see himself trying very hard to look composed.
On the main window, Coach Zach Thomas leaned back in his chair, hands clasped, Purdue football photos lining the wall behind him - black and gold frames, players mid-tackle, a quarterback frozen in a throwing motion, a shot of Ross-Ade Stadium under the lights.
“We’re building something here,” Coach Thomas was saying. “Coach Odom came in with a clear vision - tough, disciplined, fast. We want to make noise in the Big Ten, not just be a team people overlook.”
Cam nodded, trying not to look like he was hanging on every word.
“We’re on the verge of offering you a full ride,” Thomas continued. “That’s not something we throw around lightly. We like your tape, your route running, your blocking efforts, your willingness to do the dirty work. You’re a fit for what we want to do.”
Cam felt his chest tighten in a good way this time. A full ride. Big Ten football. It sounded unreal when someone else said it out loud. A year ago, he was looking up community colleges that he might be able to earn a scholarship after walking on. Now, he could be playing Ohio State on Saturdays.
“We’re trying to pull this quarterback out of South Bend,” Thomas added with a half-smile. “Kid’s been locked in with Notre Dame for some time right now, but I don’t know, we’re not done with him yet. You get a guy like that, you surround him with weapons - guys like you - you change the trajectory of a program.
Cam swallowed and nodded again. “Yes, sir. I really see myself fitting there. I like what you guys are building. I’m just waiting for that call now. Would love to come over and visit too.”
Thomas smiled. “It’s coming.”
There was a pause. A small one. The kind that shouldn’t mean anything.
“How likely is it you could get Zane Jones to come with you?”
Cam blinked.
Thomas kept going, like he hadn’t noticed the shift. “We’ve got room for two receivers in this class. If we can land you and him together, that’s one hell of a package deal. A real statement.”
The words landed heavy.
Cam forced a polite smile. “I’m not really sure about his situation, Coach. He’s still figuring things out. I mean, I could ask, but I don’t really want to speak for him.”
Thomas nodded quickly, realizing it. “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. We want you regardless, Cam. Don’t get that twisted. You bring value on your own. That’s why we’re talking.”
“Yes, sir,” Cam said, keeping his voice steady.
They wrapped up with handshakes through screens and promises to stay in touch. The call ended with a soft digital chime.
And then, there was nothing.
Just the blank laptop screen.
Cam stared at it, his own reflection looking back - shoulders slumped, smile gone, eyes tired.
On paper, it was everything he had wanted. A Big Ten program. A near full ride. A future.
But the question echoed anyway.
He closed the laptop slowly, the click sounding louder than it should.
Cam leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter - that coaches talked like that, it was about roster building, that it wasn’t personal.
But the feeling sat there anyway, heavy in his stomach.
***
Malik sat on the edge of his bed, back firm against the frame, blinds drawn tight enough to keep the room in a gray half-light. Thin blades of sun slipped through the cracks, cutting faint stripes across the carpet and the scattered envelopes at his feet.
His Beats headphones covered his ears, noise-canceling turned all the way up.
No music.
Not today.
Usually it was Young Thug or Lil Baby, bass rattling his chest, lyrics about hunger and survival drowning out whatever he didn’t want to think about.
Today, silence felt louder.
Scholarship packets lay open and ignored - logos from schools he used to stare at like they were golden tickets. Now, they looked like clutter. Paper promises.
His walls were still the same. Posters taped carefully above his desk: Michael Vick mid-throw, left arm a blur. Donovan McNabb rearing back in midnight green. Warren Moon poised in that effortless stance that made quarterbacking look like art.
Men who carried cities on their backs. Men who had weathered the storm.
Malik had studied them like scripture. How they moved. How they commanded a huddle. How they absorbed pressure without letting it show.
He wanted to be that.
Unshakeable.
Instead, all he could see when he closed his eyes was Zane’s face in the quad. Red with anger. Tears prickling at his eyes. Not defensive. Not deflective. Just fury and brimstone.
The words wouldn’t leave him.
For as long as he could remember, Ronnie’s death had bee told to him in one tone - frozen. Violent. Unforgivable. Zane’s father had taken him in cold blood. No nuance. No grey.
Just villain and victim.
Malik had built his anger on that foundation. Layered it carefully. Fed it. If he made it to the next level, if he honored Ronnie through his success, it meant something.
But now, there was a crack in it.
He hadn’t pictured a four-year-old boy losing his father the same night he lost his cousin. He hadn’t wanted to care. But, he might.
He hadn’t pictured a kid growing up in the shadow of that, trying to outrun his history.
Malik pressed his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind them.
He stood abruptly and paced the small space between his bed and his desk. His shoulder brushed against the McNabb poster, tape peeling slightly at the corner.
He stopped in front of the mirror. The quarterback staring back at him looked tired. Anger had always been easy. Clean and direct.
This was different.
He glanced down at the letters on the floor again. Opportunities, futures. Coaches who saw him as a leader, as the engine of an offense. Leaders didn’t sabotage their own teammates. He hated that thought. Hated that it might be true.
Malik ripped the headphones off and let them fall to the mattress. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of a lawn mower somewhere in the neighborhood.
He has been told the story a hundred times.
Rasheed Jones was gang-affiliated. A killer. A man with a rap sheet long enough to wallpaper his room.
He looked it up himself. Court transcripts. Sentencing summaries. Grainy local news clips archived online. The ruling had been clear. The punishment severe. Years stacked on years.
On paper, it was simple.
Malik had spent so much energy hating him on Ronnie’s behalf. He had carried that anger like a badge of loyalty.
He had transferred to Upper St. Clair with a mission. Outplay him. Outshine him. Humble him.
It wasn’t who Malik was. He prided himself on being disciplined, composed. A field general. The type of quarterback who elevated everyone around him. But grief had warped that. Shaped it into something uglier.
Grief had made revenge feel justified.
He glanced at his duffel bag sitting by his desk, still half-packed. Cleats hanging out of the zipper. The team would be leaving for Maryland soon - big matchup, foreign waters, hostile crowd. Normally, he would be laser-focused.
Today, none of that mattered.
He stood slowly and walked out of his room. In the kitchen, late afternoon light stretched across the countertops. His keys sat in their usual spot by the fruit bowl,
He paused.
Once he did this, there was no going back to the comfort of anger.
He grabbed the keys. He didn’t need another article. Didn’t need another headline written by someone who had never set foot in his neighborhood.
He needed the truth. He knew just where he could get it.
***
The row of bikes overlooked the glass front of the Michigan Athletics Facility, sunlight pouring in and glinting off polished floors and chrome handlebars. It was quiet for once, just the faint hum of machines and the rhythmic whir of pedals cutting through the stillness.
Bianca adjusted her grip on the stationary bike, posture relaxed, legs moving in an easy glide. She wasn’t even close to pushing herself yet. A light workout, recovery pace. The kind of afternoon she had been waiting for since stepping on campus - caught up on classes, no looming exams, finally able to lean into the athlete part of being a student-athlete.
Her phone was tucked between her shoulder and ear, a soft smile resting on her lips.
“So, you’re actually coming, right?” Zane’s voice crackled through, playful but with a hint of seriousness beneath it. “I’m not about to look in no stands in Detroit and not see you.”
She laughed lightly, increasing the resistance just a notch. “Okay, Mr. Needy. Everything is confirmed. It’s gonna be me, Katie, Darius, and a couple of other friends that are driving down from Ann Arbor. We’re making a whole night of it, and at the very center of it is Upper St. Clair.”
“Darius huh?” Zane repeated slowly.
Bianca rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes, Darius.”
“And how should I feel about this Darius?”
She bit back a grin. “You tell me.”
Another pause. Then, dramatically. “Is this Darius tall? I know you like yourself a tall drink of water.”
“Babe.”
“He’s a runner, right? Dangerous combo.”
She shook her head, laughing now. “You are so wack.”
“Research is research, B. I need to scout my competition until I make my way there.” She could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“Darius,” she said calmly, “wouldn’t dare. The only person who intimidates him more than me is you.”
Zane snorted. “Oh, so I’m intimidating now?”
“So very scary. Plus, now you’re some big-time football player. The talk of the town back home. People are scared.”
He groaned. “That’s enough out of you.”
“I’m serious! It’s terrifying dating a celebrity. I’m considering hiring a bodyguard.”
“As long as they’re white,” he shot back. “I know that’s not your bag.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He exhaled, letting the joke simmer down. “I’m excited to meet your people, for real. I’m glad you got a little community built down there.”
She glanced out of the window at the campus stretching beyond the complex. The thought of him here - walking through the Diag, sitting in the student section, seeing where she trained every day - made her chest glow.
“You’ll love them, babe,” she said. “Katie already feels like she knows you. And Darius is probably the captain of your fan club.”
“Here I thought that was your role?”
She laughed again, finally starting to pedal harder, feeling a light sheen of sweat form at her temples.
“So Detroit,” he continued. “I’m hoping that game really pops. Big stage. Good opponent. If I can hack away at a good game, maybe I finally get some love from your Wolverines.”
“It makes sense that they would be there, right?” she asked, trying - and failing - to keep her voice neutral.
“Coaches want me to lock some weekends in for official visits, I need to start packing them in. Tell your boys to hurry their ass up.”
“I’ll call the powers that be immediately.”
The idea of him walking through her campus as a recruit - being shown the lockers, the facilities, the stadium - felt surreal.
“Anyways B, I’ll call you later tonight,” he added. “I’m just about to head out with my grandma.”
Bianca’s smile softened.
“Going to see your Dad?”
“Yeah, we’re stopping by to sneak in a visit before I head to campus to board the bus for Maryland.”
Her heart squeezed. All he hype, the rankings, the Detroit spotlight that loomed - she always had to remind her that it all coexisted with reality. Visiting his father behind glass.
“I’m proud of you, Zane” she said quietly.
“For what?”
“Everything. You know, just take the praise.”
“Thank you, B. It means a lot to know you’re always by my side.”
“Good, it fucking better”
The call ended.
Bianca pulled the phone away and stared at the screen for a second before setting it in the cup holder. Outside, the afternoon light glowed golden over campus.
sounds familiar