Dale Denton | The Legacy | Senior Year

[djp73]

Roll (over the) tide

[Soapy]

that offense looks like it might be able to keep up with yall, we shall see

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

Roll (over the) tide

djp73, Roll'd there asses!

that offense looks like it might be able to keep up with yall, we shall see

Soapy, Been there, done that storyline with USC fam

[Soapy]

fake ass jake paul smh

[Google[Bot]]

cool storyline on 11-2. nice job breaking the curse

[James]

I hate this so much but it's almost over.

[Captain Canada]

Alabama who? Washed up kings.

[The JZA]

Chapter VII: Meet The Dentons

Texas had finally done it.

The Longhorns were on top, kings of the SEC, and Dale had been the architect of it all. The sweet taste from their second win over Alabama still lingered like smoke in the air.

It had taken grit, years of ghosts, and bloodied knuckles from the grind to finally break through that curse. Alabama fell twice, the drought ended, and the burnt orange faithful roared through every corner of the Lone Star State.

But for Dale, the job wasn’t finished—not until he brought home the one trophy that would etch his name into immortality: the Heisman.

The 2030 season had been his masterpiece. Two of them already sat on the mantles, one in each of his parent's home, shining reminders of his greatness. But this third one… it hit different. If he won again, he’d step into a realm only one man had ever touched—and even he had doubt, even almost walked away from it for the NFL. The whispers of “the greatest ever” were already creeping through the media. SportsCenter ran his highlights every night like a gospel. The name Dale Denton had become more than just a player—it was a brand, a movement, a legend still unfolding.

But sitting beside him on that flight to New York, holding his hand so tight her knuckles whitened, was the reminder that not all victories come with medals. Layla. His soft spot and his storm. She’d been through hell, and somehow, she was still here—strong, beautiful, breathing life into his world. A month since Dom’s mess, and her bruises had healed, but the ghosts still lingered in her mind. Dale didn’t press. He didn’t need to. He just reached over and held her hand, thumb tracing circles on her skin while the plane cut through clouds toward New York.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d been holding her breath until the wheels lifted off the runway. That takeoff felt like release—like every ugly piece of her past was slipping further behind with each mile. Dale never let go of her hand once, not even when he dozed off mid-flight with his hoodie drawn low and headphones in. His fingers stayed wrapped around hers, firm and steady like an anchor.

When the plane touched down at JFK, the city greeted them with cold air and flashing lights. The wind cut sharp through Layla’s coat, but for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the chill. New York’s chaos felt alive, electric. And walking beside Dale, she could breathe.

As they stepped through the terminal, the flash of cameras followed him—fans, kids wearing burnt orange jerseys of #5 screaming his name. Dale stayed cool, throwing nods and quick smiles behind his shades. Even here, home from campus, his name carried weight. Posters of his face were plastered along billboards in Times Square. His highlight reels flooded sports feeds. The boy had become a symbol—grind turned gold.

“Crazy, right?” Dale said, glancing at her with a teasing smirk. “Who would’ve thought that the same chick who slid in my DMs would be flying shotgun to the Heisman ceremony?”

Layla snorted softly, her lips curling into a sly smile. “You say it like you weren’t caught in every thrist trapjutsu I posted.”

“Thirst trapjutsu?” Dale chuckled, eyes crinkling. “You calling me out on my own success tour?”

“I’m just saying,” she said, leaning in closer as they walked. “Don’t forget who had you blushing in your inbox, Mr. Soon-To-Be-Three-Time Heisman.”

“Blushing?” Dale scoffed, feigning offense. “Oh, so I didn’t have options?”

She laughed, bumping his shoulder playfully. “Yeah, maybe, but you chose me.” Layla silenced him with a victorious wink.

That line hung in the air a little longer than either expected. Dale slid his arm around her waist as they exited to the black SUV waiting curbside. Inside the car, Layla leaned back, taking off her shades as they made their way to the city. Her gaze lingered on Dale, admiration softening her expression. “You know, all the lights, the fame, the noise—it don’t change the fact you still that same dude who texted me back ‘good morning, beautiful’ every day like it was gospel.”

Dale grinned, keeping his eyes on the various unfinished construction around the multiple exits leading out from JFK. “And you still that same woman who turned my good morning into a whole damn purpose.”

Layla’s smile trembled, her throat tightening. “You always know how to say the right thing.”

“That’s ‘cause I mean it,” he said.

When they pulled up to the Mandarin Oriental, Dale gave Coach Elko a respectful nod, who looked at him like the proud father figure who’d seen it all, before helping Layla out. She looked up at the towering building, light glinting off her hair, and whispered, “Feels like a dream.”

“Then don’t wake up,” Dale said, brushing his thumb across her chin before guiding her inside.

Dale signed a few autographs, posed for a couple photos, then disappeared upstairs with Layla. After room service and a few glasses of champagne, the night slowed down. The city stretched out beneath them like an endless ocean of gold and silver. Layla stood by the window in a silk robe, her reflection glimmering against the glass. She turned to him, her eyes soft. “You ever stop to think about it? How far you’ve come? From that kid with nothing but a dream… to this?”

Dale leaned back, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Every damn day,” he admitted. “But I ain’t do it alone. I had help along the way. And now you... You been my peace, Layla. My calm in the noise.”

Later, when the plates were cleared and the city had gone quiet beneath them, Dale pulled her close. The warmth of his skin, the steadiness of his heartbeat—it was all the reassurance she needed. Every trace of fear melted under his touch. Flushed and slightly glistened in sweat, the two lay tangled in sheets that smelled faintly of lavender and victory. Layla’s voice came soft against his ear, almost like a prayer. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For giving me something real when I didn’t think I deserved it.”

Dale kissed the top of her head, half-asleep but fully present. “Ain’t nothing to thank me for, Layla. Whatever is in my world is yours, baby girl.”

Her heart clenched. “I love you,” she breathed, barely audible. “Nearly a year together already... It feels like a lifetime ago. Little did I know, fate had a plan. Which was you, Dale. My rock, my sanctuary, my home. Layla tangled her fingers in Dale's hair, gazing at him with unrestrained adoration. "I know we'll face challenges, that no relationship is perfect. But with you by my side, I feel like I can weather any storm. You empower me, inspire me, love me... Just as I am. Damaged parts and all. I’m in love with you.”

“I love you too, baby girl.” he murmured, his arm tightening around her.

Later, when the lights dimmed and the city outside hushed to a murmur, Layla whispered into his chest, “Tomorrow’s your day, Dale. Your legacy.”

And as the city lights flickered through the curtains, Dale Denton—college football’s golden boy, Texas’ savior, that kid from Harlem, the man chasing immortality—slept soundly, his future already whispering from beyond the skyline. Tomorrow, history waited. But tonight, he had everything that mattered.


——————————————————————————————————————————————————


The night dripped in class and flashbulbs, that once-a-year kind of spectacle where legends were carved under hot lights and sharper suits. The 2030 Nissan Heisman Memorial ceremony was a theater of greatness, and Dale Denton—Texas’ golden son—sat front row, knowing deep down this would be his last ride. Win or lose, this was the prelude to the curtain call to the most illustrious college career ever written.

Dale sat flanked by the people who made his story real. Layla, in a sleek black gown that turned heads every time she moved. Mark and Sharnell, decked out and glowing with pride—the kind of joy that comes from watching your boy make it from Pop Warner to prime time. Coach Elko, steady as ever, his stoic face barely hiding the pride that leaked from his eyes. Across from Dale sat the men of the hour—Boise State’s cannon-armed senior, Bill Stick. Baylor’s cool-tempered QB, Evan Tryon. SMU’s flashy dual-threat, Josh Ortiz. And Miami’s phenom wideout, the sophomore sensation Jadeveon Tripucka. Each man wore the same look—calm smiles masking the electricity running through their veins. Over eighty-one thousand college players in the nation, and these five stood at the summit.

The lights dimmed. A hush spread through the room like reverence in a cathedral. The montage screens flared to life, playing highlight reels that painted every player in mythic tones. Dale watched clips of himself slicing through defenses, dropping dimes on the run, juking linebackers out of their cleats. The roar of the crowd echoed through the speakers—and it felt almost surreal, like an out-of-body experience. Layla’s fingers crossed themselves. Dale turned slightly, catching her eyes glisten with pride and tears threatening to spill. He smiled—small, humble, but heavy with meaning.

When the montage ended, the lights brightened again. The host, voice smooth and steady, stepped to the podium with the golden envelope in hand.

“And now,” the announcer said, “the 2030 Nissan Heisman Memorial Trophy goes to…” The pause stretched long, thick with anticipation. “…Dale Denton, University of Texas!”

The room exploded.

Layla shot to her feet with a shout that cracked her voice, tears streaming freely as she clapped until her palms burned. Mark and Sharnell rose together, holding each other tight, their faces radiant with pure, unfiltered joy. Coach Elko simply nodded once, eyes misted, his pride too big for words.

Dale stood slowly, that signature Harlem swagger in every step as he hugged his folks, then his coach. Finally, taking Layla’s hand, he pulled her close for a brief, fierce kiss on the cheek. “Go claim your history, baby,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The walk to the stage felt like slow motion. Applause thundered all around him, flashing cameras cutting through the air like lightning. When he reached the podium, the Heisman gleamed under the spotlight, that timeless bronze figure forever frozen in glory. Dale shook the announcer’s hand, the trophy cool and heavy in his grip.

He took a moment before speaking—eyes sweeping over the crowd, the players, the faces that had been his journey’s witnesses. After giving a long glance at the Heisman award, with that calm, confident tone that had become his trademark, he spoke into the mic.

“I never thought I’d be here for the third time,” Dale began, the slightest grin tugging at his lips. “Winning this prestigious award, making history again… man, it’s crazy. This was a dream—something my father whispered into my ear when I was just trying to find my place in this game at the next level. All I really wanted was new challenges, something to push me toward the NFL. Guess I got my answer.”

The audience applauded lightly, but Dale’s tone shifted to something deeper—weightier.

“You know, if it wasn’t for God, I wouldn’t be standing here tonight. I wouldn’t have the success I’ve had, the teachers I’ve learned from, or the people who’ve kept me grounded when the lights got too bright. For that—everything I am—is because of Him. So this one, this one goes out to the big man up top.”

He paused, holding the Heisman up for a moment, the bronze catching every beam in the room.

“And to all my peoples here at home, my peoples back in Texas,” he continued, voice thick with emotion, “to my team, my family, my coach, my brothers in the locker room, and my people in the streets who believed when nobody else did—we did it, baby. We made history.”

The room rose to its feet, the applause rolling like thunder. Cameras flashed like a storm. Layla wept openly now, clutching Sharnell’s hand, both women beaming like proud queens watching their king claim his throne.

When the ceremony finally wrapped, Dale walked offstage with the Heisman still clutched tight, that third piece of his legend glimmering beneath the lights. Layla met him halfway down the aisle, wrapping him in her arms before he could even say a word.

“You did it,” she whispered against his neck, her voice cracking. “You really did it.”

Dale chuckled softly, a single tear cutting through his composure as he kissed her forehead. “Nah, we did it. All of us.”

Coach Elko stepped up next, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You made us proud, son. You did more than just win—you changed the game, congratulations.”

"Thank you, Coach." Dale responded. "I told you my goals, and we set out to achieve them. Now that I got this," He gestured to the award. "We can go get the one that truly matters, the natty."

Mark and Sharnell joined them, their faces glowing with pride, all of them momentarily speechless as the crowd buzzed around them. Cameras kept flashing, but none of that mattered. The moment was theirs.

Later that night, standing under the cold Manhattan sky with the city lights reflecting off the bronze trophy, Dale took a deep breath. Layla slipped her arm through his, leaning into him as snow began to fall lightly around them.

“Feels different this time, huh?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Dale said, watching his breath rise in the winter air. “Because this one’s the last. The one that proves everything I worked for was worth it.”

He turned to her, smiling softly. “From a kid from East Harlem to South Carolina, To Washington and Texas… all gas, no brakes.”

Layla grinned through her tears. “And now?”

“Now,” Dale said, eyes fixed on the skyline, “we eat like royalty, dinner with my parents. Come on, let me properly introduce you to them...”

The city glowed before them, and for the first time, Dale Denton wasn’t just a legend in college football—he was a man stepping into forever.

[The JZA]

fake ass jake paul smh

Soapy, That shit still tickles me

cool storyline on 11-2. nice job breaking the curse

Google[Bot], Twas a neat lil' dig. Could've flushed it out better but was a late find. Still, something to strive for.

I hate this so much but it's almost over.

James, Hang in there fam lol

Alabama who? Washed up kings.

Captain Canada, They seem to want that USC story, bunch of masochists