The drive into Syracuse felt familiar in a way Zane hadn’t expected.
He moved through the downtown core, hands steady on the wheel, eyes scanning the buildings that rose up on either side of the street. It reminded him of Pittsburgh - not exactly the same, but close enough. The same kind of density. The same mix of older brick structures and newer glass-fronted buildings. A different energy. A different rhythm.
New and unfamiliar.
He slowed as his GPS directed him toward his destination, turning onto a quieter street lined with cleaner sidewalks and more polished storefronts. A few people walked past, some in business attire, others in casual summer clothes, all moving with purpose.
Zane pulled up in front of an upscale condominium building.
He parked and sat there for a second, glancing down at his phone. He doubled-checked the address, thumb scrolling once, twice.
His brows furrowed. This was it.
He looked back up at the building - tall, modern, clean glass panels reflecting the afternoon light. Definitely not what he had pictured when he thought about “student housing.”
Before he could second guess it any further, he noticed someone waving at him from the sidewalk. A guy in a Syracuse polo, arm raised high, flagging him down like he was guiding in a plane.
Zane pushed the door open and stepped out, the heat hitting him lightly as his shoes met the pavement.
The guy jogged over, hand already extended.
“Zane, right?”
Zane nodded, shaking his hand. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Nate,” the guy said. “I’m here to help you get settled. We’ve got a few guys moving in today.”
“This is where I’m staying?”
Nate nodded like it was obvious. “Yeah. Players are spread out across a few different spots, but this is one of them.”
Zane looked at it again, taking it in more carefully this time. Nate smirked slightly, catching the look.
“Usually we put upperclassmen here,” he added. “But every now and then we get some hot-shot underclassmen we wanna take care of.”
He gave Zane a pointed look. “Safe to say the Orange value Zane Jones.”
Zane let out a small breath through his nose, grabbing his keys from his pocket.
“Clearly,” he said. He walked around to the trunk and popped it open.
Inside wasn’t much. One suitcase. One duffel bag. Mostly full of football equipment he wanted to bring from Pittsburgh.
Nate leaned in slightly, eyebrows lifting. “That’s it?”
Zane grabbed the suitcase handle, pulling it out with ease before slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he said.
Nate gave him a look. “Light packer, huh?”
Zane shut the trunk with a soft thud, locking the car to the answer of a quick beep with a button on his key fob.
“Didn’t have much to bring,” he answered.
He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, glancing back up at the building one more time.
“And I figured,” he added. “I’d start new.”
Nate nodded slowly, like he understood more than let on.
“Fair enough, buddy,” he said. He turned, motioning toward the entrance. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”
Zane followed, the wheels of his suitcase rolling smoothly over the pavement as he stepped toward the glass doors - leaving everything behind him, one step at a time.
...
The door clicked open with a soft, expensive-sounding latch, and the first thing that hit Zane was the space.
It didn’t feel like an apartment. It felt like somewhere important.
The ceiling stretched high above him, easily two stories, with a cascading chandelier hanging dead center - glass prisms catching the afternoon light pouring in through massive floor-to-ceiling windows on the fall wall. The light spilled across polished hardwood floors, smooth and reflective, broken only by a large area rug that anchored the living space.
Zane stepped in slowly, his sneakers sounding louder than he expected against the floor. The air smelled clean - like fresh paint and something citrusy.
To his right, the living room opened up wide. A sectional couch wrapped around a low, dark wood coffee table, positioned perfectly toward a mounted flat-screen TV that looked like it had never been turned on. A folded Syracuse blanket sat draped neatly over the armrest, like someone had staged it for a photoshoot. There were throw pillows - orange and navy - lined up too perfectly to have ever been used.
Straight ahead, the windows framed a view of the city - brick buildings, tree-lined streets, cars moving slowly below. It wasn’t Pittsburgh, it wasn’t far off either.
To the left, the kitchen blended seamlessly into the living room. Open concept, just like Nate had said. A long marble island sat at the center, spotless, with three barstools tucked underneath. The countertops were the same polished stone, stretching out to meet stainless steel appliances that gleaned under recessed lighting.
Zane walked over, dragging his fingers lightly across the counter like he didn’t fully trust it was real. No dust. No marks. Nothing.
He opened the fridge. Full. Not just stocked - organized. Containers lined the shelves, labeled neatly. Chicken, rice, vegetables, fruit, protein shakes. Bottled water stacked in rows.
Nate leaned casually against the island, watching his reaction.
“Syracuse makes sure their guys don’t starve when they’re not at the facility,” he said. “Team nutritionist sets up meal plans for everybody. What’s in there matches what you need for the program.”
Zane nodded slowly, still staring into the fridge for a second longer before closing it gently.
“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “This is insane.”
He turned, taking it all in again before his eyes drifted upward. A staircase hugged the wall near the entrance - dark wood steps with a sleek black railing, leading up to the second floor. Zane made his way over, hand brushing along the railing as he climbed. Each step creaked just slightly - not cheap, just lived in enough to feel real.
Upstairs opened into a small landing that overlooked the living room below. From up here, the chandelier looked even bigger, the light refracting across the walls.
A large bed sat centered against the wall, dressed in clean white sheets with an orange comforter folded neatly at the foot. Two nightstands flanked it, each with identical lamps. There was a dresser against the far wall, empty. A closet door slightly ajar revealed hangers already lined up, spaced evenly like someone had counted them.
The window in here was smaller, but still let in plenty of light.
Zane stood there for a second, then walked back to the railing and looked down at the main floor.
His place. Not a hotel. Not something temporary. This was all his.
His suitcase still sat by the door. His duffel bag leaned against the wall. The only things in the entire condo that showed someone actually lived here.
***
By the time Zane finished unpacking, the sun had started to dip just enough to soften the light coming through the windows. The condo no longer felt untouched - his clothes hung in the closet, his cleats sat by the door, his duffel bag slumped open at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t home yet, but it was starting to look like someone lived there.
He grabbed his keys, his phone, and headed back out.
The drive to the athletic complex didn’t take long. Syracuse’s campus rolled past him in the mix of brick buildings and open green space, students scattered along sidewalks, some glancing at his car as he passed. When the complex came into view, it stood out immediately - modern glass panels, sharp architecture, and clean lines that didn’t match the older buildings around it.
It looked expensive.
Zane parked and stepped out, the warm air hitting him as he shut the door. As soon as he walked inside, the difference was even more obvious.
Everything gleamed.
The floors were spotless, a polished finish reflecting the overhead lighting. Digital displays lined the walls - highlight reels, player graphics, schedules rotating through clean animations. A massive Syracuse logo stretched across the far wall, backlist in orange. The air smelled faintly of rubber and fresh equipment.
He passed by a weight room first - rows of brand-new racks, plates stacked neatly, machines that looked untouched. A few players were already inside, lifting, music humming low through speakers. Beyond that, training rooms - cold tubs, recovery stations, physical therapy areas that looked closer to a pro facility than anything he had seen before.
Nate had mentioned that millions had been poured into the revitalization of the athletic facility.
He certainly believed it.
“Zane.”
He turned at the voice. Coach Fran Brown stood a few feet away, hands resting casually at his sides. He looked exactly like he carried himself - confident, direct, no wasted motion.
Zane straightening slightly and walked over.
“Coach Brown.”
Brown nodded once. “How you feelin’? Everything good?”
Zane gave a small nod. “Good. Got most of my stuff settled away. The place is nice.”
Brown waved it off like it didn’t matter. “You know we take care of our own. We ain’t gonna sit here and act like we ‘Bama or something,” he said, shrugging slightly. “But that don’t mean our guys ain’t gonna be hooked up.”
Zane nodded again, understanding the tone. It wasn’t a sales pitch. It was just the truth.
Coach Brown studied for a second, then got straight to it.
“I’m gonna be real with you,” he said. “We discussed over the phone that you’re too good to sit. You’re not catching a redshirt.”
Zane didn’t react much, just listened.
“But, the way we run things over here,” Brown continued. “I’m not in the business of guaranteeing you’re starting day one.”
Zane didn’t hesitate. He shook his head lightly. “I’d rather earn it.”
Brown’s mouth curled slightly into a smirk. “Figured you would say that.”
His eyes moved over Zane for a moment - shoulders, frame, posture.
“You look like you’ve been grinding.”
Zane nodded. “Been easy to lock in, to tell the truth.”
There was a brief pause. The kind where some conversations could’ve ended right there - but didn’t.
Brown’s tone shifted just slightly. “How you been doing?” he asked. “Since your pops.”
Zane’s jaw tightened for a second, but he didn’t look away.
“It’s been tough,” he admitted. “But, I just try to stay locked in on the game. Keeps my head from wandering.”
Brown nodded slowly, like he expected that answer. “There’s people here if you need more than that,” he said. “Real, certified people. Don’t gotta carry this on your own.”
Zane appreciated it. He could tell it wasn’t just something the coach said to recruits - he meant it.
Regardless, Zane shook his head. “I appreciate that, Coach,” Zane said. “But, I’m ready to go. I want to play.”
Brown held his gaze for a second longer, then that same small smirk returned.
“Yeah,” he said. “I hope you’re ready for that action.”
He gave Zane a light pat on the shoulder before stepping past him, already moving on to whatever came next.
Zane stood there for a moment, looking back out over the facility - the weight room, the screens, the field visible through the glass down the hall.
***
Rasheed sat in the driver’s seat with the engine idling low beneath him, a steady vibration humming through the frame of the car. The radio had been turned off a long time ago. No music, no voices - nothing to break his focus. The only sounds were the occasional bass thump leaking from the club across the street and the distant rush of cars passing further down the block.
He wore a black hoodie pulled low and pair of dark jeans, blending into the shadows as best he could. The streetlights cast long, uneven pools of light across the pavement, flickering slightly as the night stretched into early morning. The crowd outside the club had thinned. What had been loud and chaotic an hour ago was not scattered - small groups lingering, a few stragglers stumbling out one by one.
Rasheed unfolded the scrap of paper in his hand again. The edges were creased from being opened too many times. He stared at the name written on it, unmoving, his eyes tracing the letters like they might change if he looked long enough.
They didn’t.
He folded it back up, slow and deliberate, and slipped it into his pocket.
His eyes lifted toward the club just as the door swung open again.
There.
A man stepped out, laughing to himself, shoulders loose, movements sloppy. The chain around his neck caught the light with every step, flashing under the streetlamp. When he grinned, it was wide - grills glinting as he muttered under his breath, words just loud enough to carry across the quiet street.
“Man.. I coulda had her ass too, if her fat ass friend ain’t-”
His voice trailed off into a laugh as he staggered toward a parked car.
Rasheed opened his door and stepped out. The night air hit him, cool and still. He shut the car quietly behind him and crossed the street at an even pace, his footsteps steady against the pavement.
The man didn’t notice. He was too busy humbling in his pocket, pulling out his keys as he reached the driver’s side door. The metal clicked lightly as he adjusted his grip, leaning slightly against the car for balance.
“Yo Ahmed?” Rasheed called out. The name cut through the silence clean.
The man paused, brow furrowing as he began to turn, confusion crossing his face.
Rasheed was already moving. The gun came out smooth, like it had been practiced a hundred times before. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
Two shots rang out in quick succession. The sound cracked through the empty street, sharp and final.
Ahmed’s body jerked, then folded awkwardly against the side of the car. His shoulder hit first, then he slid down, leaving a smear against the door as his legs gave out beneath him. The keys clattered to the ground.
Rasheed closed the distance, his footsteps measured as he approached.
He crouched down in front of him.
Ahmed’s breathing came out uneven, wet, his body slumped at an angle that didn’t look natural anymore. The chain that had been shining so brightly now sat crooked against his chest, dull under the shifting light.
Rasheed looked at him, expression unreadable.
“Guapo says you’re all paid up now, fuck nigga.”
Ahmed’s eyes fluttered, unfocused, trying to make sense of what was happening - of who was in front of him - but nothing came together.
Rasheed stood back up.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t look back. He turned and walked across the street, the quiet returning just as quickly as it had been broken. He opened his car door, slid inside, and shut it behind him.
The engine was still running. Without a word, he pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the early morning dark, leaving the street empty behind him.
Brown nodded slowly, like he expected that answer. “There’s people here if you need more than that,” he said. “Real, certified people. Don’t gotta carry this on your own.”
Brown nodded slowly, like he expected that answer. “There’s people here if you need more than that,” he said. “Real, certified people. Don’t gotta carry this on your own.”
lame ahh bih
fuck frank brown
Not supporting the recovery of a young black man is pretty of you
Training camp had settled into a rhythm, and Zane had begun to separate himself.
The Syracuse practice fields buzzed under the late summer sun, heat radiating off the turf in visible waves. Whistles cut through the air in sharp bursts as coaches barked instructions, cleats tore against the ground, and footballs snapped crisply through tight spirals across the field. Every rep felt fast. Every rep mattered.
Zane had been stacking them.
Lined up with the receivers, sweat clinging to his shirt and arms, he adjusted his gloves and glanced down the line. He could feel it without anyone needing to say it - he was different. Faster out of his breaks. Stronger at the line. More decisive in the playbook than most freshmen trying to survive their first camp.
He wasn’t just keeping up. He was climbing. Asserting his dominance on everyone in the depth chart. Except for one.
Across the field, Johntay Cook II was impossible to ignore. Every route he ran looked like it was on fast-forward - sharp cuts, explosive acceleration, no wasted movement. Even from a distance, Zane could see defensive backs struggling to stay attached to him. Johntay wasn’t thinking out there. He was reacting, moving at full speed like the offense belonged to him.
For now, it did.
Zane rolled his shoulders as the next period was called - 7-on-7.
The offense jogged into position. The defense mirrored them.
Zane lined up outside, eyes forward. Across from him stood Demetres Samuel Jr, the team’s top corner. Balanced stance. Low hips. Eyes locked in. At 6-foot-1, he was a smidge smaller than Zane’s own 6-foot-3, but his quick feet and fast hands limited the impact that size difference would have.
Ajani Sheppard, the quarterback, clapped for the snap.
Zane exploded off the line, ripping upfield along the outside. His strides opened quickly, eating up space. Demetres stayed glued to him, step for step, matching his pace without flinching.
Ten yards.
Fifteen.
Zane felt him there - tight, disciplined. So, he sold it.
He stuttered just enough, dragging his back foot for half a beat. It was subtle, but it was enough. Demetres leaned into the vertical, committing just a step too far upfield.
Zane snapped across his body. He played hard and cut inside, breaking into a dig route. The separation wasn’t huge, but it was clean.
The ball was already on its way. Zane flashed his hands out in front of him and secured it against his chest without breaking stride.
He immediately felt the hit. Demetres wrapped him and drove through, taking him to the turf with force.
A couple of coaches barked out at the contact, voices sharp.
“Keep off the fucking turf! No tacking!”
But it didn’t matter. Both platters popped right back up.
Demetres reached out and tapped Zane on the helmet, “Good fucking route, nigga.”
“Got his fucking ass!” he yelled, bouncing on his toes, pointing toward Zane. “That’s my young bull doing big shit!”
Zane couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his face. He grabbed the ball and casually tossed it toward a trainer on the sideline before turning back toward the receiver group.
Helmets nodded as he walked back in. A couple guys slapped his shoulder pads as he passed.
The energy felt different now. Zane stepped back into line, rolling his neck loose, eyes already on the next rep.
***
Zane had barely finished showering and grabbing some Nike sweatpants and a navy Syracuse shirt to put on when the knock came at his door.
He opened it to find Johntay, Julian, and Tyshawn crowded in the hallway, still in various stages of post-practice recovery - slides on, duffel bags slung over shoulders, the faint smell of sweat and turf clinging to them.
“Damn,” Tyshawn muttered the second he stepped inside.
He paused just past the doorway and let out a long whistle, turning slowly as his eyes moved across the condo. “Coach Fran ain’t hook me up like this when I got here.”
Julian snorted behind him, brushing past and dropping his bag near the wall. “Yeah, ‘cause you wasn’t no four-star recruit. That’s why, nigga.”
Zane closed the door and leaned against it for a second, brow furrowed as he looked around his own place like he was seeing it from their perspective for the first time.
“You niggas couldn’t shower first before rolling, huh?” he asked, clearing up some of his belongings off the couch. “Is the shit really that nice?”
The chandelier overheard cast a warm glow across the open-concept living space. The polished floor reflected light from the tall windows, and the kitchen counters sat spotless, lined with neatly arranged appliances and stocked groceries.
Johntay had already made himself comfortable, stretched out on the far edge of the couch with his phone inches from his face, thumbs moving quickly.
He nodded without looking up. “Yeah,” he said casually. “Only a few of us in this building. This is typically reserved for some of the basketball guys is what they told me.”
Zane walked further into the room. “Who else lives in this building?”
“Pretty sure it’s just me, you, Ajani, and Demetres,” johntay replied, still scrolling.
Tyshawn kicked off his slides near the entrance and wandered toward the kitchen, opening the fridge and nodding approvingly at the contents, snagging a red Gatorade. “Fran Jr. could’ve been here too,” he added. “I’m tellin’ you, he ain’t want to make it look like Coach’s son was getting special treatment. He down at Orange Hall like most of us.”
Zane turned toward him. “What’s Orange Hall?”
Tyshawn twisted the cap off his bottle. “Nigga, you really should of taken that visit - there used to be Sheraton Hotel on campus. They converted it into student housing. Kinda like a dorm, but nicer than the regular shit.”
Julian dropped onto one of the chairs near the kitchen island, leaning forward with a grin. “That’s where all the baddest hoes be at.”
Johntay let out a short laugh from the couch, finally glancing up. “Man, ignore these dudes and their heathenry.”
Julian pointed at Zane, leaning even further forward. “Nah, I’m just sayin’. You about to be a star player, nigga. Week 1 hit? Hoes out the door waiting for backshots. Swear down.”
Zane smirked, shaking his head as he grabbed a drink for himself. “I got a girl, so I don’t know about all that.”
Julian leaned back like he had just heard something ridiculous. “Not for my long, lil’ nigga.”
Zane shrugged, taking a sip. “Shit, I won’t lie like shit ain’t been weird between us since I signed to come here.”
There was a brief pause. Johntay sat up a little, resting his elbows on his knees, phone finally lowered. “You better figure that shit out soon,” he said, tone more serious now. “Shit gets pretty hectic once we’re in season.”
Zane nodded slowly, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah, I hear you.”
The room sat in that for a second before Tyshawn clapped his hands once, breaking the tension.
“Aight, enough of that shit,” he said, twisting the cap back onto his bottle. “Which one of you fuck niggas tryna run the game?”
Julian perked up immediately, hopping off his chat. “I’m on your bumper, nigga.”
Johntay shook his head, grabbing a controller off the table. “Wasn’t it you whose head got bounced off the table in Madden two weeks ago?”
Zane let out a quiet laugh as the energy shifted, the weight of the earlier conversation fading into the background while the room filled with noise again - trash talk, footsteps, the click of buttons.
***
Cam sat on the sideline in full gear, his helmet resting loosely in his hands as he watched practice unfold in front of him.
The sun beat down on the field, reflecting off helmet and shoulders pads as the offense lined up again. The quarterback, Brice, stood tall in the pocket, scanning for a moment before stepping into the throw. His arm whipped forward and the ball launched high, cutting through the air in a tight spiral.
Cam’s eyes followed it instinctively.
Downfield, Nitro streaked past his defender, gaining just enough separation. The ball dropped right off the outstretched hands of the corner, and Nitro hauled it in cleanly without breaking stride.
The sideline erupted. Players shouted, helmets tapped together, coaches clapped and pointed downfield. Nitro jogged back with a grin, tossing the ball to a manager as Brice barked something loud and cocky toward the defense.
Cam lifted his helmet slightly and gave it a couple dull pats, mimicking applause more than actually feeling it.
The whistle shrilled sharply. “Next two! Cycle!” the head coach barked, his voice cutting through the noise.
Cam didn’t move. He leaned back against the bench instead, stretching his legs out in front of him. He already knew his name wasn’t coming. Not this rep. Not the next one either.
A shadow stepped beside him. Shemar dropped down onto the bench and reached over, patting Cam on the shoulder pads. “What’s up with you?”
Shemar was a redshirt senior, having been here the longest of any of the players on the roster. He lived and breathed Purdue football, even though his odds of seeing significant game action was limited.
Cam sucked his teeth, his jaw tightening as he kept his eyes on the field. “Man, I feel like I got misled coming here.”
Shemar raised an eyebrow slightly but didn’t interrupt.
“I should be out there doing big shit,” Cam went on, his voice low but edged. “Not sittin’ here watching this shit.”
On the field, Brice clapped his hands loudly, yelling out adjustments before the snap. His voice carried all the way to the sideline, sharp and confident. After the play, he turned toward a group of backups and started chirping at them, talking like he already owned the place.
Cam nodded toward him. “And that?” he muttered. “Why he just get the job like that?”
Shemar followed his gaze and then shook his head slowly. “He a quarterback,” he said simply. “Different rules, lil’ bro. You should see his bank account too. Paid his ass handsomely."
Cam scoffed under his breath.
“He would’ve been at Notre Dame,” Shemar added, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “That’s what I heard. But some shit popped off. Got in trouble or whatever. Ended up here instead.”
Cam watched Brice jog back into the huddle, still talking, still commanding everything around him.
Shemar nudged him lightly. “Look, you new meat, bro. That’s just how it go. You gotta wait your turn.”
Cam didn’t respond right away. The sounds of practice carried on - cleats digging into turf, coaches yelling corrections, the thud of pads colliding.
“Just keep working,” Shemar said. “You’ll get there.”
Cam nodded once, but there was no conviction behind it. He pushed himself up from the bench, gripping his helmet tighter than before.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
But instead of settling back in, or watching the next rep, he turned and stalked off down the sideline, his steps sharp against the turf as the noise of practice carried on without him.
of you
