Zane was in the gym again, just like he had been nearly every day since the funeral, pushing a weighted sled across the turf with seven full plates stacked on it.
The metal skids screeched faintly against the rubberized floor as he drove forward, his cleats digging in, his thighs burning with each violent step. Sweat clung to the back of his neck despite the freezing temperatures outside, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged in front of his face before vanishing.
It had been a long day already - film study in the morning, emails from Tyson in the afternoon, a couple calls he’d ignored from people asking how he was doing when he didn’t even know how to answer that question himself. By the time night had settled in over Upper St. Clair, thick white flakes had started descending from the sky in a slow, peaceful drift, blanketing the parking lot and deadening the world outside.
Winter had arrived in full force, and somehow the cold felt fitting.
One of the hardest parts of losing both of his grandparents wasn’t the funeral, or the hospital, or even the moments where grief came crashing into him without warning.
It was the quiet afterward. The unbearable stillness.
When Felix had died, the house had still carried Mary’s energy - her constant movement, her clanging around in the kitchen, her shrill laugh on the phone with her friends, the smell of coffee brewing too early in the morning.
It had softened the loss, even if only slightly. But now Mary was gone too, and the house had become hollow. Empty in a way Zane couldn’t describe. There was no television humming with old football games. No grunting from Felix in his recliner. No dishes clinking together. No footsteps pacing across hardwood. Just the buzz of electricity in the walls. The heater rattling alive every now and then.
And, on the rare occasions Rasheed was actually home, the distant shuffle of his feet behind a closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway.
Zane hated it.
He hated every small, cruel detail of what life had become. He hated that he had started anticipating noises that would never come again. Hated catching himself waiting to hear Mary call him down for dinner or Felix yell at the TV over some game from twenty years ago. The silence felt alive now, pressing against him the second he walked through the front door, forcing him to sit with thoughts he didn’t want.
That was why he kept himself out of the house as much as possible. Why he woke up and lifted in the morning, spent the day distracting himself however he could, and always found an excuse to come back to the gym at night. Here, there was pain he understood. Weight on his back. Burn in his lungs. A purpose for the hurt.
He leaned into the sled harder, his body angled low, his legs pumping until he reached the far wall. His chest heaved as he let go, planting his hands on his knees and bowing his head, sweat dripping onto the turf. The gym was empty, as it had been most nights over the holiday break. Everyone was home with their families, or out living lives that still made sense. For Zane, the emptiness had become comforting. No eyes. No questions. Just him and the work.
That was why the sound of the gym doors opening behind him caught him off guard.
The metallic groan echoed louder than it should have in the silence.
Zane turned his head, his pulse still elevated as he fought to catch his breath, expecting maybe a late-night trainer, a janitor, or one of the younger local kids trying to sneak in for some extra work.
Instead, the sight that met him made his stomach tighten.
Cam had caught him at the only place Zane had allowed himself to exist lately: beneath iron, sweat, and pain. The gym had become his shelter, the only place where silence had a purpose. Out there, under weight or behind movement, grief had shape. It was measurable. Containable. But the moment Cam stepped through those doors, that fragile rhythm cracked.
The snowfall outside had thickened by then, white flakes drifting past the high windows in slow motion, coating the parking lot in fresh powder. Inside, the turf glistened faintly under fluorescent lights, the only sound the metallic scrape of Zane’s sled dragging against rubber flooring. Seven plates weighed it down - more than enough to make his legs scream - but that was the point. Pain was easier than thought.
When Cam accepted the invitation to work out, it felt almost surreal.
Zane watched him from the corner of his eye while toweling sweat from his face. Cam moved stiffly through stretches, like his body had forgotten how to be athletic. It was strange seeing him like this - heavier, slower, carrying himself like someone who hadn’t felt comfortable in his own skin for a while. Back in high school, Cam had always been sharp, quick, loud. Always talking. Always competing. Now there was a quietness to him that unsettled Zane.
Cam cleared his throat, “How has it been? Being back home in Pittsburgh and all after the season?”
Zane shrugged, “Cold as hell. It’s just a different kind of weather up in Syracuse. I guess the river’s over here make it a cold that bites the fuck out of you.”
Cam nodded, not really sure where to go to next. Zane filled the silence himself.
“What happened at Purdue, dude? It seemed like it was a pretty alright place to be.”
Cam blinked for a moment, before settling his hands on his hips, breathing deeply through his nose before responding. “Just wasn’t for me, honestly. Plus, the quarterback is such a dickhead.”
“Shit, I know all about quarterbacks being dickheads.”
By the time they moved to bench press, sweat had soaked through both of their shirts, and the familiar rhythm of spotting each other had started to chip away at the awkwardness. Zane sat up after his set, elbows on knees, breathing hard while Cam stood over him.
“You’ve gotten big as shit - pause if needed,” Cam muttered.
Zane wiped his mouth with the bottom of his shirt. “That’s what happens when all you do is lift.”
Cam nodded, but there was something loaded in it.
“How’s life been like with being under the same roof as your Dad man?” Cam squeaked, his voice raising slightly towards the end of his question. Zane hesitated a moment, unsure if that was something he wanted to step on.
“It’s been weird,” he answered, as he lifted his shoulder to wipe a bead of sweat threatening to reach his eyes away. “He’s such a closed off guy. And it’s only gotten worse since my grandparents died.”
Cam shot him a look, unsure of what to say. Zane caught it and contemplated even expanding before he figured how much harm could it really cause.
“I don’t know, man - he was a weird guy when he was locked up. But, that’s just jail. Now that he’s out? It’s like he forgot how to be a normal person.”
The weight of what Zane was leaving unsaid sat on his shoulders. He motioned to the sled with his eyebrows, signalling to Cam that it was his turn to go again with another rep. Cam bent down, getting the pipes on the right part of his traps before pushing.
The snow buried Pittsburgh outside, the two former best friends stepped back under the weight together.
***
Bryce Underwood moved through the football offices at the University of University of Michigan like he belonged there, because by now, he did. The halls were quieter with the holiday break in full swing, most of the building stripped down to coaches, analysts, and the handful of players still lingering around town. He carried a clear plastic container in one hand, filled with sliced oranges, grapefruit, and pineapple, shaking it lightly as he walked, the citrus juice sloshing at the bottom.
His headphones rested around his neck, and he nodded as he passed by a few staffers who greeted him on instinct. When he reached the offensive wing, he spotted Kenny Dillingham through the glass office wall, leaned back in a sleek black chair behind his desk, talking to two scouts with laptops open in front of them.
Bryce pushed through the door without much ceremony, nodding toward his head coach as he stepped inside.
“What’s up?” he asked, his voice casual, like he’d been summoned for something routine. With his free hand, he reached out and dapped up both scouts sitting across from Dillingham’s desk, exchanging quick greetings before turning his attention back to the coach.
He tilted his head. “Got your message to come through, but I can’t stay long. My moms got food cooking right now.”
Dillingham held both hands up in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll get right to it.”
Bryce stood there, lazily shaking his fruit container again, picking at a piece of pineapple with the plastic fork while Dillingham leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He explained that Michigan was going to have a few transfer portal recruits visiting in early January, and he wanted Bryce involved - showing face, helping sell the vision, making sure their quarterback was part of the process.
Bryce nodded slowly, chewing while listening, his eyes narrowing slightly as he worked through the information.
“Anybody I know?” Bryce asked.
Dillingham nodded. “We’re bringing in that junior edge rusher from Louisiana State University. The one who gave you hell in Baton Rouge.”
Bryce let out a breath through his nose and tilted his head back, remembering the game instantly. He could still feel the pressure collapsing around him in the pocket, that kid living in the backfield all night. He nodded once, acknowledging it. Dillingham leaned back in his chair, throwing his hands behind his head as he thought through the schedule, his eyes tracing the ceiling while he tried to recall who was slotted for what weekend.
Then he remembered.
His eyes snapped back down and locked onto Bryce.
“Oh,” Dillingham said, pointing at him. “And we’ve got Zane Jones coming in from Syracuse University.”
Bryce froze.
It was subtle - just a tightening in his shoulders, a pause in the movement of the fruit container—but it was there. His eyes narrowed almost immediately, disbelief flickering across his face before he could hide it.
“Really?” he asked.
Dillingham nodded, still reclined, calm as ever. “Really. Heard Sherrone Moore couldn’t lock him down when he came out of high school. But things are different now. Kid’s looking to pair up with a top quarterback and compete for a national title. We fit that.”
Bryce’s mouth flattened into a hard line as he stared at his coach, processing it. Of all the names he expected to hear, that wasn’t one of them. Zane Jones. The same Zane who was supposed to be out of the picture. The same Zane whose name still carried weight in circles Bryce had hoped were long settled.
Dillingham caught the shift immediately.
His eyes narrowed. “Something wrong?”
Bryce shook his head quickly, his dreads swaying with the motion. “Nah,” he said, his voice even. “I’m good. Whatever’s best for the team.”
Dillingham studied him for another second, like he wasn’t fully buying it, but Bryce had already turned on his heels and started toward the door. He gave the scouts a quick nod on the way out and stepped back into the hallway, the fluorescent lights suddenly feeling harsher than before.
The moment he was out of sight, his hand dipped into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone, thumb moving instinctively, already finding Bianca in his contacts.
His finger hovered over the call button.
He stared at her name for a long moment, jaw tightening as a dozen thoughts ran through his head at once - questions he didn’t want answers to, possibilities he didn’t want confirmed.
Then, after a beat, Bryce locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
For now, he decided, he’d wait.
***
The first thing Zane noticed about Matt Campbell was how meticulously put together he looked. It was almost jarring. His teeth were too white, the kind of polished smile that looked like it belonged on a billboard instead of behind a football desk.
His haircut looked fresh enough that Zane wondered if he had gotten it trimmed that morning just for this meeting. Even the Penn State polo stretched across his chest like it had just been pulled from the package, wrinkleless and crisp, the navy blue sharp against the bright office lighting. There was gray creeping in along the faded sides of his hair, just enough to make him look seasoned instead of old. Everything about him screamed control, preparation, order.
The office matched him.
Coach Campbell sat behind a broad oak desk with his hands clasped neatly in front of him, elbows resting beside scattered papers, folders, and recruiting sheets that looked like they had been sorted and re-sorted a dozen times. Framed pictures lined the walls - players holding trophies, sideline celebrations, draft-day handshakes. There was a rhythm to the room, a carefully manufactured image of success.
Across from him, Zane looked like the complete opposite.
He sat slouched in the black leather chair, his broad shoulders sagging into it, wearing light blue jeans and beige Timberlands that still carried faint salt stains from Pittsburgh snow. A black hoodie with the white Punisher skull stretched over his chest, the hood resting against the back of his neck. He looked less like the hottest receiver in the transfer portal and more like a kid who hadn’t fully caught up with his own life yet.
Because he hadn’t.
Tyson’s voice had been ringing in his ears all morning.
“This ain’t an interview for you, Zane. It’s an interview for them. Don’t forget that. They need to sell themselves to you. You’re the prize.”
Zane had nodded when Tyson said it over the phone, but sitting here now, inside one of the most powerful football programs in the country, it still felt ridiculous. Prize wasn’t the word he’d use for himself. Not lately.
Coach Campbell leaned back in his chair, studying him with a practiced ease.
“Adding someone like you,” he said, nodding to himself like the math was obvious, “is exactly what we need to bounce ourselves back to the top of the conference. Where we belong.”
Zane nodded once, though his mind barely registered the words. He had heard versions of this speech at Syracuse, at recruiting camps, at every major football event since he was sixteen. Coaches loved telling you how important you were before they had you.
Coach Campbell kept going.
“You step in here tomorrow, you’re WR1. No question. We’d build around you.”
That got a little more of Zane’s attention.
Campbell shifted in his seat and gestured toward one of the framed jerseys on the wall.
“You should’ve been here last year,” he said. “Truthfully. A Pennsylvania kid like you? We don’t let many like that leave the state. Guys like Saquon Barkley, Jahan Dotson - they stayed home. Built legacies here. That could’ve been you.”
Zane’s eyes flicked to the jersey, then back to Campbell. The mention of home sat strangely in his chest. Home had felt like anything but home lately.
Coach Campbell seemed to notice the shift.
He pivoted.
“What we offer isn’t just NIL money,” he said, tapping one of the folders. “Though we’ve got plenty of that. It’s not just marketing opportunities either. We’ll put you in front of every major brand in Pennsylvania if you want it. But what we’re selling here is bigger than that.”
He leaned forward now.
“A football team that makes you feel like family while never forgetting why we’re here.”
He paused.
“To win.”
That, at least, Zane understood.
Campbell cleared his throat and his tone softened.
“The staff knows what happened. About your grandmother.”
Zane’s jaw tightened immediately.
There it was; the part he hated.
The part every coach, every adult, every person who wanted something from him felt obligated to bring up.
His fingers fidgeted together in his lap, rubbing his thumb against his knuckles.
“Appreciate it,” he muttered.
Coach Campbell nodded. “We mean that.”
Zane stared at his hands. Coach Campbell continued carefully.
“We also take mental health seriously here. Counseling. Therapy. Support systems. Whatever you need. If you came here, you’d have every resource available to help carry-”
Zane’s eyes drifted up to the clock on the wall.
His leg bounced. This wasn’t what he needed.
Not from them.
Not from anyone.
He wanted football. He wanted noise.
Campbell must have seen it - the way Zane was slipping away, retreating into himself—because his entire demeanor shifted.
The polished recruiter disappeared. The football coach stepped in.
He leaned forward over the desk, eyes locking onto Zane’s.
“You’ve already proven you can survive.”
Zane looked up.
Coach Campbell’s voice was firmer now. Sharper.
“You’ve already proven you can carry weight most kids your age never could.”
Something twisted in Zane’s stomach. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“Now come somewhere you don’t have to carry it alone.”
“Come win big,” Campbell said.
His eyes didn’t break.
“Come finish this the right way.”
And for the first time in the meeting, Zane actually felt himself listening.
His stomach lurched, not with fear, but with possibility.
Outside the office windows, snow had started falling over Penn State’s campus, soft white flakes drifting across the campus like ash.
Zane stared at Coach Campbell for another second, then leaned back in the chair, letting out a slow breath through his nose.
Penn State had his attention now.
And that made the choice ahead even harder.
