Get this clown off the wildcats. He belongs on the gridiron gang. The longest yard type ish
this rhetoric is anti black considering kam hasn't committed a single crime since leaving tampa (he is currently in possession of an illegal firearm but besides that)
(he also did assault several people at the strip club in texas)
The late morning sun sliced through the blinds, casting harsh bars of light across Kam's face. He groaned, his head pounding with each heartbeat. The stale taste of last night's cognac lingered on his tongue as he rolled over, burying his face in the pillow.
A persistent knocking echoed through his apartment, reverberating in his skull like a jackhammer. Kam squeezed his eyes shut, willing the noise to stop. But it continued, growing more insistent with each passing second.
"Kam! Open up, man. I know you're in there."
A familiar yet unexpected voice cut through the fog of Kam's hangover. He reluctantly dragged himself out of bed, stumbling toward the door. His bare feet padded across the cold hardwood floor, sending shivers up his spine.
Kam fumbled with the lock, eventually managing to open the door. Mark stood there, impeccably dressed in a crisp suit, a stark contrast to Kam's disheveled appearance. The agent's eyes narrowed as he took in Kam's bloodshot eyes and the faint smell of alcohol that clung to him.
"Jesus, Kam. You look like hell," Mark said, pushing past him into the apartment. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of empty Styrofoam and beer bottles scattered across the coffee table.
Kam ran a hand through his dreads, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his head. "What are you doing here?”
Mark turned to face him, "We need to talk, Kam. This can't keep happening."
Kam slumped onto the couch, rubbing his temples. "What can't keep happening?"
"This," Mark gestured around the messy apartment. "The partying, the hangovers, the missed practices. Do you have any idea how many calls I've been fielding from the folks at the collective?"
The weight of Mark's words settled on Kam's shoulders. He knew things had gotten bad, but he hadn’t realized the depths of them. After all, he’d been back at practice, obediently taking his medicine of post-practice sprints and conditioning, both serving as a punishment and way to kick-start him into shape.
Mark's voice softened as he sat down next to Kam. "Look, I get it. You're young, you want to have fun. But you've got to remember what's at stake here. Those NIL deals? They're not guaranteed. They depend on your performance, your image."
Kam's stomach churned, and not just from the hangover. Ever since he left Muncie, the thought of losing everything he'd worked so hard for was sobering. He didn’t mind going back to slumming it out but the money, the perks, the favorable deals; it allowed him to upgrade Yassy’s lifestyle, one of the few positive things he’d done in recent years.
Mark continued, his words cutting through the silence. "I know those compliance people tell you that those NIL deals can’t be tied to your performance but they are. All those new deals we signed last November? You were leading the SEC in rushing when we signed those and it’s a one-year deal. Forget about if you want to make it to the league, son. Any personnel department is going to take one stop at any bar down this street and they’ll know exactly how you spend your time away from the facility.”
“Once the season gets going, I’ll be fine,” Kam responded, equally trying to convince Mark as he was himself.
“You have to get to the season, son,” Mark scoffed, “They’re talking about not playing you.”
“It’s Akron,” Kam waved him off, “I mean, I kind of knew that was happening with everything that happened.”
“Which you didn’t tell me about,” Mark scolded him, “And it’s not just Akron, it’s an opportunity. I wouldn’t drive all the way out here for just any client, Kam, even with my relationship with Jamal’s dad. I really do believe you have the potential to play in the NFL one day, even get to a second contract. But you can’t just have some success, get high off it and be content. This is nothing compared to the life that you can provide for yourself and your loved ones. In five years, you wouldn’t be called dead in an apartment like this and you won’t be driving a car like that one downstairs, if you do the right things. I’m not asking you to be a saint, okay? Just don’t be a fucking idiot.”
…
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Stoops nodded, "They're putting on the pressure, a lot of investment has gone into him.”
Coach Hamdan leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "But Coach, we can't just let this slide. The kid's been a walking disaster since spring. Missed practices, showing up hungover, that stunt he pulled in the middle of fucking camp.”
"This ain’t Boise State anymore," Stoops let out a chuckle. "This is big boy football and it’s a lot more to it than the fucking values and kumbaya shit that we preach to them boys. They're the ones that are paying for that fucking roster you're calling plays for."
The room fell silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning. Outside, the distant sound of cleats on concrete echoed as players made their way out for warmups.
Boulware broke the silence, masking the excitement as he did have a soft spot for his star player who earned him a salary bump, “We can still mix in Kyrie, I can get the message across to Kam that he is still being held accountable.”
Stoops nodded in agreement. "Yeah, we handle this in-house. Extra conditioning, dog his ass in practice. We make it clear that while he might not be suspended, he's on thin ice."
Hamdan nodded slowly, his mind already working on how to adjust the playbook. "With any luck, Kyrie goes off and they start pouring into him instead of that slap dick.”
"Let’s not get cute now," Stoops furrowed his brow. "We need to be careful. The last thing we need is for Kam to feel like we're targeting him, he'll just go even more into his shell, push him further away."
Hamdan snorted, crossing his arms. "Further away? The kid's already got one foot out the door. He's going through the motions, nothing more."
“I’ll get him going, let me handle him,” Boulware chimed in.
“And how’s that going?” Hamdan sucked his teeth before walking out of the office.
Season 6, Episode 7
Kam hesitated at the entrance to the bustling dining hall, the cacophony of voices and clattering dishes washing over him. It had been weeks since he'd set foot here, preferring the solitude of his off-campus apartment. But Coach Stoops' new rules left him no choice.
He scanned the crowded room, the smell of the food mingling with the sharp scent of disinfectant. His eyes landed on a table in the far corner where Marlon's booming laugh rose above the din. Kam weaved through the maze of tables, nodding at a few teammates who called out greetings.
"You’re eating with the commoners now?" Marlon said as Kam slid into an empty chair.
“I’m a man of the people,” Kam scoffed, unwrapping his utensils as he nodded towards Rasheem and Kyrie who were also at the table.
“They’re forcing your ass to be here, aren’t they?” Marlon accurately called out.
“It’s that obvious?” Kam laughed, “I’ve got to be on campus pretty much all day, but then I can’t leave my apartment past a certain time. Make that make sense.”
“They got you on some probation-type shit,” Rasheem chimed in, the tension still palpable from their previous encounter.
They never had a chance to discuss it, with Kam taking off to Muncie right after it happened. By the time he returned, the second-year quarterback had already been relegated to backup, and their off-field interactions were limited as Kam wasn't around as much.
“Real spill,” Kam took a bite of his bland white fish, still working on getting his weight down, “Coach B even has my location and stuff.”
“For real?” Marlon leaned in, “Nah, that’s kind of crazy, man.”
“I have random breathalyzers throughout the day, curfew, have to check-in every now and then. But shit, at least I'm still here.”
He looked towards Rasheem, finally realizing they were talking around the subject but never addressing it.
“My bad, bro,” Kam finally blurted out, “I probably messed up your whole situation. You didn’t need all that extra stuff to worry about while you’re fighting for a job.”
“It’s all good,” Rasheem nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He blinked rapidly, focusing on the table’s scratched surface. The last thing he needed was to break down in the middle of the dining hall. “Camp gets the best of us all.”
“No bullshit,” Marlon nudged Kyrie, who had been quiet throughout the conversation, pushing around the mashed potatoes in his plate, “The type of bitches this nigga was bringing to the crib was fucking deviant behavior.”
“Y’all just some horny motherfuckers,” Rasheem teased, “I don’t believe in those camp eyes shit. Last thing I want to do around a bunch of niggas is knock something down, that’s why I don’t get why you be in the strip club every weekend, around a bunch of niggas.”
“You just tight that girl you like on Instagram was at the spot,” Marlon sucked his teeth, “Don’t worry, she’s just a bartender.”
“That’s how it always starts,” Kam joined in on the fun, “Until one of them basketball niggas come in there, blow mad fucking money and now she’s like fuck that, I’m getting on that stage on getting to the bag.”
As they launched into a heated debate about bartenders and strippers, Kyrie abruptly got up from the table and left, bypassing the pleasantries and goodbyes as he plugged his earbuds in. Kam noticed it and motioned towards Marlon with a confused face.
“What’s his problem?” Kam asked, his mind racing back to his last conversation with Ashley.
“He’s just in his feelings,” Marlon waved it off.
“About what?” Kam held his cards close, unsure if Kyrie had disclosed that he and Ashley had broken up. After all, if he hadn’t, they’d be wondering how Kam knew.
“You must haven’t gone through the gameplan yet,” Rasheem shook his head, “Back to business as usual.”
“You might get that bitch forty times against Miami,” Marlon laughed, “You better ice up, son.”
