Requiem for a Broken Dream.

[Soapy]

Season 8, Episode 2
The mahogany conference table gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lighting, its polished surface reflecting the tense faces gathered around it. Mrs. Ellington sat at the head, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun, fingers steepled as she surveyed the room. To her right, Coach Reeves slouched in his chair, his weathered face set in a scowl beneath the brim of his ever-present Wolverines cap.

Across from them, Zoe Chen, the student body president, perched on the edge of her seat. Never in her wildest dreams did she think her newfound responsibilities would include this.

"I just don’t see what the endgame is here," Coach Reeves growled, breaking the uneasy silence, "We've bent over backwards here. Kam's living off-campus, taking online classes. Hell, he barely sets foot on grounds except for practice and dining hall. What more do these kids want?"

Zoe flinched at his tone but held her ground. "With all due respect, Coach, it's not enough. The students I represent feel that Kam's presence on the team sends the wrong message, regardless of where he lives or how he attends classes."

Mrs. Ellington, a member of the university’s administrative staff, sighed. "We understand the concerns, Ms. Chen. But Mr. Seidu-Harris went through the correct legal proceedings. Don't we owe him a chance to rebuild his life?"

"Ma'am, I hear you. But the fact remains that many students, especially women, feel unsafe knowing that someone with Kam's history is not only on campus but celebrated as an athlete."

Coach Reeves shook his head, “He’s not even accused of doing anything to a woman.”

“We’re sympathetic to that feeling,” Ms. Clark butted in, cleaning up after Reeves and others like him was part of her job, “We want everyone on campus to feel safe, Kam included. We’ve been amendable. What Coaches Reeve is asking for — what we’re all asking for — is some reciprocation.”

“They’re not wild dogs,” Zoe was unrelenting, “I can’t just call them off. They’re concerned students that deserve to have their voice heard.”

…

Sandra stood with her back pressed against the cool metal of her locker, her sequined costume glittering under the overhead lights. Sweat beaded on her forehead, a mixture of exertion from her recent performance and rising anxiety.

Malik swayed slightly, his eyes unfocused as he jabbed an accusatory finger in her direction. The sharp smell of cognac hung on his breath. "You think I didn't see you going back there with that nigga?" he slurred, his words running together. "You think I want some backdoor bitch"

Sandra's heart raced, but she kept her voice steady. "It's just part of the job, Malik. You know that. It doesn't mean anything."

He scoffed, taking an unsteady step closer. "You think I’m stupid, bitch?”

Sandra's eyes darted to the door, calculating her escape route. She'd seen Malik like this before, but never quite this bad. The alcohol seemed to have stripped away any semblance of reason.

"You're drunk," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "We’re not really having this conversation right now, not here.”

Malik's face contorted with anger. "Bitch, who the fuck you think you is?!" he shouted, slamming his palm against the locker beside her head. The metallic clang echoed through the room, making Sandra flinch.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Part of her wanted to scream for help, but she knew the music outside was too loud. Even if one of the dancers or even Felix the manager came barging in, what could they do? Malik, by extension of Snow, practically ran the place.

"Babe, please," she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're scaring me."

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes – a hint of the man she thought she knew. But it was quickly consumed by the alcohol-fueled rage. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging painfully into her skin.

"Take your ass home," he growled. "Since you want to dance on a nigga like that.”

…

As the ball was snapped, Kam exploded into motion. He took the handoff smoothly, tucking the pigskin close to his body as he darted towards the line of scrimmage. The offensive line surged forward as one, creating a wall of bodies that momentarily obscured Kam from view.

For a heartbeat, it seemed as if he had vanished. Then, like a ghost materializing from thin air, Kam burst through a gap between the right guard and tackle. He cut sharply to his left, leaving a linebacker grasping at empty air.

The secondary closed in rapidly, but Kam was in his element now. He planted his foot and executed a spin move so fluid it looked like a dance. The safety's fingers brushed Kam's jersey but couldn't find purchase. In a blink, Kam was past him, legs pumping as he sprinted towards the end zone.

A few of his teammates whooped and hollered, but Kam simply tossed the ball to an assistant coach and jogged back to the huddle. His face betrayed no emotion, it was just one of those practices.

Coach Campbell allowed himself a small nod of approval before barking out orders for the next play. The team reset, and once again, Kam found himself in the backfield, waiting for his moment.

This time, the defense read the play better. As Kam took the handoff and cut to the outside, he found his path blocked by a wall of bodies. But instead of trying to power through, he showed a different side of his skillset that he developed over the years. With a subtle shift of his hips, he changed direction, ducking back inside.

The move caught the defense off-guard. Kam slipped through a narrow gap, then accelerated downfield. He weaved between defenders, his movements fluid and purposeful. It wasn't until he was 30 yards downfield that a safety finally managed to push him out of bounds.

As the practice wore on, Kam continued to shine. A screen pass that he turned into a 25-yard gain. A draw play where he dragged two linebackers for an extra five yards. With each successful play, the chatter on the sideline continued to grow.

“He might really be like that,” mentioned one of the redshirts.

…

Kam leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing a can of sparkling water, his eyes scanning the room. He still felt like an outsider sometimes, but moments like these helped bridge the gap.

"That spin move was fucking stupid, bro." Nate, the freshman running back from Jersey, sidled up next to him.

"You putting that work in too," Kam replied, dapping up the younger player. "How you liking it out here, compared to back home?"

Nate's eyes lit up. "Man, it's different, but I'm fucking with it. I just need a good bacon, egg and cheese though."

Kam chuckled, a rare sound that drew curious glances from nearby teammates. "You West Orange niggas really think y’all from New York for real.”

“We’re not letting them just jack bacon, egg and cheese, bro. I’m Jersey through and through bro, don’t be mad because nobody heard of…where are you from again?”

“Y’all niggas killed Malcolm X, I ain’t trying to hear that shit,” Kam teased, drawing a laugh from Nate.

“Don’t put that smut on our jacket,” Nate held his hands up, “That was Newark, nigga, not us.”

“Y’all niggas the same shit,” Josh, the wiry receiver, jumped into the conversation, “That Jersey shit weak as hell my boy, it’s like five solid niggas in that whole staff and they all play for us. Ain’t that a bitch?”

“My young boy locked your ass up today,” Jo’Ziah, the talkative corner and captain of the defense, never missed a moment to put the star receiver in his place, “Ayo Jeremy, you got the keys? You gonna leave this man in handcuffs all day?”

The third-year corner, Jeremy, wasn’t much of a talker and simply smiled and shook his head. He was a year behind Kam coming out of Pascack High School so they didn’t play much together, with Jeremy being a late bloomer that didn’t play on varsity until his junior year. By then, Kam had already gone down south for his senior season but he had heard about him from guys like Trevor that were still tapped into the local scene.

Kam probably would have roomed with him, if he was allowed on campus.

“We run the football in this household nigga,” Josh fired back, “I was driving that nigga back to dirty ass fucking Jersey — no offense, Kam — where his ass belong. Stop playing with me, little nigga.”

“Nigga, you from Chicago,” Martin, another Jersey native, butted in, “Who the fuck you calling dirty?”

“See, this is the problem with Black people,” Josh joked, “Niggas don’t ever wanna stick together. We supposed to gang up on them, not gang up on me.”

“Them niggas killed Malcolm X, you think they ain’t gonna backdoor you, nigga?” Kam interjected.

“Because that nigga was on some bullshit,” Desmond countered, ready to flaunt his history knowledge, “He was going against the Brotherhood, can’t have that!”

The shit talking continued throughout the night, the absence of alcohol and the fairer sex was barely noticed as the thrill of camaraderie was intoxicating enough.

[Caesar]

Kam gone from sashaying to enjoying the company of hard legs. We always knew that boy was sus. No wonder he wasn't knocking down Lana!

[Captain Canada]

Damn, we still not unveiling where this dude is playing?

[djp73]

Damn, we still not unveiling where this dude is playing?

coach Reeves got a wolverines hat on bruh, Utah Valley University

[Soapy]

Kam gone from sashaying to enjoying the company of hard legs. We always knew that boy was sus. No wonder he wasn't knocking down Lana!

first openly gay rtg would move units (triple entendre, don't even ask me how!)

Damn, we still not unveiling where this dude is playing?

coach Reeves got a wolverines hat on bruh, Utah Valley University

knock down some mormons

[Soapy]

Season 8, Episode 3
The faded red brick dorms loomed ahead, their weathered facades a testament to decades of neglect. Paint peeled from window frames, and weeds sprouted defiantly from cracks in the concrete steps.

Kyrie's roommate, Derrick, walked beside him, both of them too exhausted to speak. The weight of their equipment bags seemed to grow heavier with each step. As they approached their building, the familiar scent of musty carpets and stale air greeted them, a reminder of the countless other students who had passed through these halls over the years.

Climbing the creaky stairs to the third floor, Kyrie fumbled for his keys, his fingers clumsy with fatigue. But as they rounded the corner to their room, something felt off. The door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible in the gap.

Kyrie and Derrick exchanged a wary glance. Slowly, Kyrie pushed the door open, and his heart sank at the sight that greeted them. Their small dorm room, usually cluttered but familiar, was in complete disarray. Drawers hung open, their contents strewn across the floor. The ancient desk lamp lay shattered on the threadbare carpet.

Kyrie's breath caught in his throat as he surveyed the chaos. His eyes darted frantically around the room, taking in the scattered mess in front of them.

"Fuck," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. With trembling hands, he dropped his equipment bag and stumbled towards the closet, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears. The closet door hung askew on its hinges, the cheap wood splintered where it had been forced open.

Kyrie's fingers scrabbled at the back wall of the closet, searching for the loose panel he'd carefully pried away months ago. He sank to his knees, surrounded by a sea of discarded clothes and broken dreams. The wad of bills – a good chunk of what remained from his NIL earnings at Kentucky – was gone.

…

Kam slouched into the chair, his eyes heavy with fatigue as he stared into the bright studio lights. He'd lost count of how many interviews he'd done today, each one blending into the next in a blur of forced smiles and rehearsed answers.

"We’re rolling guys," the producer's voice barely registered as Kam straightened up, plastering on his media-ready grin.

"Welcome to the premier college football podcast with the Rat and the Tail and we’ve got a special guest here today, don’t we?" The host's enthusiasm felt grating after hours of similar introductions.

“I’m the Tail, that was the Rat and we’ve got Kam Seidu-Harris, the man of the hour, the man of the season and your future Heisman winner, how about that?”

Kam nodded, reciting his practiced response. "Thanks for having me. It's great to be here in Chicago."

As the interview progressed, Kam's mind wandered. The day had started out as a refreshing change of pace to the dull days of fall camp but as the interviews wore on, each one more manicured than the previous one, he wasn’t sure what he was accomplishing. It was a home game of sort, a Barstool sponsored athlete doing interviews with Barstool shows and podcasts so no questions about his arrest, that night at the club or the lengthy expose that followed detailing his countless encounters with Lexington PD the previous summer due to his drinking. It’s as if nothing had happened, besides him leading the country in rushing in back to back seasons.

The host's voice cut through his reverie. "So Kam, we’ve seen the running back position devalued at the next level but you’re a special talent. Was that a factor in your decision to come to Michigan, maybe show that you are a first round pick under a bigger stage?”

Kam hesitated, the weight of expectation pressing down on him. "I'm just focused on the upcoming season," he said finally, the words feeling hollow even as they left his mouth.

As the interview wrapped up, Kam was ushered to the next studio, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

In the next room, a podcaster greeted him with fake enthusiasm. "Kam! My man! Ready to shit on Ohio State?”

Kam forced a laugh, settling into yet another chair. As the recording began, he felt a pang of homesickness for the simple camaraderie of the locker room, for the honest sweat and effort of practice. Here, in this world of carefully curated content, he felt like a fraud.

The day dragged on, each interview blending into the next. By the time Kam stumbled out of the studio into the fading Chicago twilight, he felt drained, empty. The city lights flickered to life around him, a dazzling display that only emphasized his sense of isolation.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers found Yassy's contact, and he hit the FaceTime button. As the call connected, he was greeted by a cacophony of voices and the clinking of silverware. Yassy's face appeared, slightly blurred by poor lighting and motion.

"Hey, babe!" she said, her voice barely audible over the background noise. "What's up?"

Kam squinted, trying to make out the details of her surroundings.

"Just finished up the interviews," he replied, raising his voice slightly to be heard. "Waiting for my ride back to the hotel. You out right now?”

Yassy nodded, her attention clearly divided. She glanced off-screen, responding to someone Kam couldn't see. "Yeah, I'm out with Cynthia and Steven. We're trying that new place, the one with the rooftop garden?"

"Sounds nice," Kam said, feeling a pang of loneliness. He watched as Yassy turned away again, laughing at something Steven had said. Her earrings caught the light as she moved, tiny stars dancing at her ears. That he had purchased, of course.

"How were the interviews?" Yassy asked, her eyes darting between Kam and something off-screen. Before he could answer, she held up a finger. "Oh, wait, sorry Kam. Cynthia, what was that?”

Kam waited, listening to the muffled conversation. He could make out Cynthia's animated tone, punctuated by Steven's deeper voice. Yassy nodded along, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Sorry about that," she said, turning back to the phone. "What were you saying?"

Kam sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's fine. The interviews were... fucking interviews, you know? Just the same shit four, five different times.”

Yassy's attention wandered again, her eyes following a waiter as he passed by with a tray of colorful cocktails. The ice clinked in the glasses, and Kam could almost taste the alcohol through the screen.

"That's good," Yassy replied absently. "Oh, our food's here. Kam, I should probably go. Talk later?"

[Caesar]

"Sounds nice," Kam said, feeling a pang of loneliness. He watched as Yassy turned away again, laughing at something Steven had said. Her earrings caught the light as she moved, tiny stars dancing at her ears. That he had purchased, of course.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, once again we see Kamaldeen Seidu-Harris' significant other being wooed by another man, a WHITE man. How long will we allow this crime to go unpunished? How long will we allow this miscarriage of justice to continue?! Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you must find Kamaldeen Seidu-Harris GUILTY of being a cuck!

[Soapy]

"Sounds nice," Kam said, feeling a pang of loneliness. He watched as Yassy turned away again, laughing at something Steven had said. Her earrings caught the light as she moved, tiny stars dancing at her ears. That he had purchased, of course.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, once again we see Kamaldeen Seidu-Harris' significant other being wooed by another man, a WHITE man. How long will we allow this crime to go unpunished? How long will we allow this miscarriage of justice to continue?! Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you must find Kamaldeen Seidu-Harris GUILTY of being a cuck!

ya gotta stop projecting ya cuckhold fantasies onto others, my good brother.

[Soapy]

Season 8, Episode 4
Detective Alderman squinted against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun as he stepped out of his unmarked cruiser. The cracked asphalt of the basketball court radiated heat, shimmering like a mirage. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the humid breeze, cordoning off a section near the rusted chain-link fence.

Officer Tucker joined him, adjusting his belt with a weary sigh. "Didn’t Hernandez pick this up already?"

Alderman shrugged, his dress shirt already damp with sweat. "Guess we'll find out."

They ducked under the tape, nodding to the uniformed officers standing guard. Chalk outlines marked where shell casings had fallen, stark white against the faded court lines.

As they approached the cluster of investigators near the three-point line, Hernandez broke away to meet them. Her face was grim, dark circles under her eyes betraying a sleepless night.

"Alderman, Tucker. Thanks for coming," she said, her voice low and tense. "We've got a situation."

Alderman's eyebrows rose. "What kind of situation?"

Hernandez glanced around, then leaned in closer. "The preliminary ballistics came back this morning. The weapon used here? It's a match for your club shooting."

Tucker inhaled sharply. Alderman felt his stomach drop. The unsolved nightclub massacre had haunted him for months, a constant shame whenever they crossed paths with anyone from the DA’s office.

"You're sure?" Alderman asked, his mind already racing with implications.

Hernandez nodded. "Lab's running a full workup now, but they're pretty confident, flagged me down as soon as it came in."

Alderman shook his head, “Who do you have for this?”

“Don’t get your panties wet yet,” Hernandez laughed, never missing on an opportunity to tease her former partner, “Tyson Waheed, thirteen years old. According to witnesses, basketball game got intense, our vic — Tony Montesano, fifteen years old — punched our shooter. Shooter went home, came back, shot him three times.”

“Goddamn,” Turk winced, his heart not yet hardened by the years on the force like Alderman and Hernandez.

“So unless Lil’ Tyson was in the club that night, he’s not your guy,” Hernandez handed over her notes to Alderman.

“You interviewed him yet?” Alderman’s eyes scanned through the pages.

“You know how Sarge is with that shit,” Hernandez sucked her teeth, “The mom just came in, she was at work. We’ll see what he says.”

“Cut the shit,” Alderman shot her a glare.

“He said he found the gun behind a dumpster,” Hernandez smirked, “You didn’t hear it from me.”

…

Margo slumped on her barstool, swirling the dregs of her third whiskey sour. The din of clinking glasses and murmured conversations washed over her, a welcome respite from the tense silence of the writer's room.

Beside her, Lana giggled, her cheeks flushed from two gin and tonics. "I can’t believe you get down like this," she laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I always thought you’d just like go to your hotel room, read a book and go to sleep.”

Margo managed a wry smile. "That’s how you end up killing yourself." She signaled the bartender for another round.

As the night wore on, Lana's inhibitions melted away. She regaled Margo with stories of her creative writing classes, her eyes shining with passion. "I just... I want to make people feel something, you know? Like your scripts do."

Margo nodded, a bittersweet ache in her chest. She remembered that earnest enthusiasm, before years of studio notes and budget constraints had ground it down. "You've got talent, Lana. Don't let this business kill it."

Lana's brow furrowed. "But you haven't. Your writing is still so... alive."

Margo laughed, a harsh bark that made Lana flinch. "Oh, honey. You have no idea." She drained her glass, wincing at the burn. "This job... it takes and it takes. And one day, you wake up and realize there's nothing left to give."

Lana's smile faltered. "When did you know that you wanted to do this? Like actually do this?”

“That’s a decision you have to make everyday, kid. I’ve been there, trust me. Early mornings, late night, no one is even fucking looking at your writing.”

Lana was both embarrassed and yet appreciative that Margo had noticed.

“That’s what the alcohol is for,” Margo added, always one to add levity to the situation, “Just don’t get lost in it.”

…

Kam remain firmly planted in the corner of the living room, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene before him. The frat house pulsed with energy, bodies writhing to the thunderous beat of trap music. Red solo cups littered every surface, and the air was thick with the sickly-sweet smell of spilled beer and sweat.

He felt out of place, acutely aware of his sobriety in a sea of drunken revelry. Kam had nodded solemnly to the music, trying his best to fit in while fitting out.

A group of giggling co-eds stumbled past, giving him appreciative glances. Kam offered a tight smile in return, his gaze drifting back to the makeshift dance floor. He recognized a few faces from his drive through campus to the athletic facility, the only time he was allowed on campus.

In the corner, he spotted Blake, holding one of the freshman lineman up while they did a keg stand. Kam shook his head, a mix of amusement and concern twisting in his gut. They had practice in less than eight hours.



He took another sip from his can of Hiyo as he shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position against the wall. He watched as a petite brunette broke away from her group of friends, weaving through the crowd with determined steps. Her sundress swished around her thighs, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she approached.

"Hi," she said, her voice barely audible over the din. "You're Kam, right? The new running back?”

Kam nodded, his expression guarded.

The girl's cheeks flushed pink, whether from alcohol or embarrassment, he couldn't tell. "I’m Olivia. This is going to sound weird but my friends dared me to get your number. It’s dumb and childish, I know."

Kam looked past her and towards a cluster of girls watching them with poorly concealed interest. He shook his head and forced a laugh, “I don’t know if I can help you with that, I’m accounted for.”

Olivia's face fell for a moment before brightening again. "Not like I’m going to tell her.”

Kam hesitated, his eyes darting between Olivia and her expectant friends. He could see the hope in her eyes, mixed with a hint of desperation. It was a familiar look, one he'd seen on the faces of countless fans and groupies dating back to his time at Ball State.

After a moment's consideration, he relented. "Alright, here's what we'll do," Kam said, leaning in closer so she could hear him over the music. "I'll give you a number, but it's not mine. I think you just might be what my boy is looking for.”

Olivia swayed her head from side to side in thought, “Is he cuter than you?”

“No such thing,” Kam laughed before passing her his phone with Nate’s number pulled up.



Olivia's fingers hovered over her phone screen, carefully inputting the digits Kam had shown her. The soft glow illuminated her face in the dim room, revealing a prettier face than Kam had previously noticed. Just as she was about to hit save, a hand shot out from nowhere, snatching the device from her grasp.

"What the fuck?" A guy with tousled brown hair and bloodshot eyes stumbled into view, his words slurring slightly. "You always being a slut, he’s just trying to fuck you.”

Olivia's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in annoyance. "God, Ryan, it’s not even like that!" She reached for the phone, but he held it out of her reach, teetering unsteadily on his feet.

"Always making me look bad in front of my boys," Ryan insisted, his gaze shifting between Olivia and Kam. The smell of cheap beer wafted off him in waves, mingling with the already pungent air of the party.

Olivia huffed, crossing her arms. "You’re the one embarrassing yourself.”

Ryan's face contorted, a mix of hurt and anger flashing across his features. He turned his attention to Kam, who had straightened up from his position against the wall, muscles tensing beneath his shirt.

"You think you’re some big dick motherfucker just coming in here talking to people’s girls and shit?" Ryan sneered, taking a wobbly step towards Kam. The room seemed to quiet around them, the bass from the speakers thrumming in their chests as other partygoers began to take notice of the brewing confrontation.

Kam kept a smirk on his face as he shook his head. "Don’t nobody want your funky ass bitch, nigga.”

Ryan scoffed, his face flushing an even deeper shade of red. "You think I’m scared of you?" He jabbed a finger into Kam's chest, leaving a small wet spot on the fabric. "You’re going to have to show me you’re really about that life, motherfucker.”

Kam's jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides. The rational part of his brain screamed at him to walk away, to remember all he had to lose. But the primal part, the part forged over that summer in the streets of Ybor, itched to put this drunk idiot in his place.

For a tense moment, the air crackled with potential violence. Kam's arm twitched, muscles coiling as he prepared to swing. But then, like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds, clarity pierced through the haze of adrenaline. He took a deep breath, unclenching his fists with effort.

"I don’t got to show you shit," Kam said, his voice low and controlled. "Just give the girl her phone back, man.

Ryan opened his mouth to retort, but before he could utter a word, he was soon surrounded by a mountain of men, winners of the Joe Moore Award.

“Blake, my guy!” Ryan tried to diffuse the situation but to no avail as Desmond grabbed the collar of his shirt and pushed him into the wall, almost smashing him into Kam.

“Damn, nigga,” Kam jumped back, spilling some of his drink on the floor, “Don’t hurt me in the process.”

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” Blake lightly slapped Ryan in his face to get his attention, “We’re all having a good time here, aren’t we?”

Olivia intensely watched from the side, feeling partially responsible for getting her former boyfriend in his current predicament.

“You heard the man,” Blake told him, “Give the young lady her phone, apologize to her, apologize to Kam and apologize to Desmond over here for making him exert energy in something besides fucking your mother tonight, okay?”

[Captain Canada]

Sheesh