Invictus

[Soapy]

I'd be sick, no lie

Zane Jones is an INNOCENT MAN, your honor. I been trying to tell y'all

Bro, did you call for the ball at 2:30?

son was covered WITH help and buddy threw a meatball sub extra marinara

[Captain Canada]

0:42, Zane slowed down on that route and was drifting away from the ball. 2:07, Zane let the (same) linebacker undercut him instead of going to the ball. 2:34, Zane called for the ball while still covered and running into the safety then damn not got mossed as the corner cut back to the inside of him to make the pick. We see the tape fam. Man's trying to run Josh Allen gimmick as a receiver.

Also, 51 having the best game of his career with four picks.

Also, also, can I just say that Zane being a milk warrior and playing like he does is appropriate? Motherfucker looks like a prime Danny Amendola out there.

0:42 if we're talking about the dig route, I just bought an extra yard or two since I clearly had him beat and there was no way he was going to jump that ball. That's a win.

2:07 the play... isn't for me? Gotta ask why Keelon is throwing THAT ball at THAT time. Anything to avoid blaming the quarterback huh? Ben Roethlisberger type.

2:34 but I got sick and tired of that fn Keelon Russell getting sacked over and over again.

Ain't my fault that every play is designed for Zane to catch the ball and try and make something happen Talk to Kiffin fam.

I'd be sick, no lie

Zane Jones is an INNOCENT MAN, your honor. I been trying to tell y'all

Bro, did you call for the ball at 2:30?

son was covered WITH help and buddy threw a meatball sub extra marinara

Desperate times brudda. As I explained with the man responsible for the harlot Mireya Rosas, I couldn't see brodie get sacked again so we threw up a prayer.

[Captain Canada]

Season 7 | Episode 10 - Welcome to the Riches

Zane sat in the makeshift office of his Tuscaloosa house, leaning back in the oversized office chair as he stared at the glow of his dual monitors.

The screen to his left played the game tape from Alabama’s loss to Texas A&M, frozen on a sequence that he had already watched several times, while the monitor on his right remained open to Instagram, where the reaction to the loss had become increasingly difficult to stomach.

The comments from football pundits and everyday fans alike had been brutal. Keelon Russell was being called a fraud, with some going as far as labeling him one of the worst quarterback prospects Alabama had ever produced, while the offensive line had been christened the “puppy squad” for the way Texas A&M’s pass rush had bullied them throughout the afternoon.

Zane hadn’t escaped the criticism either, despite finishing the game with fifteen catches for 153 receiving yards and two touchdowns. Apparently, even that wasn’t enough. “Flat-track bully” and “stat padder” had appeared often enough that he had stopped counting, and every time he read one, his jaw tightened a little more.

He seethed silently in the chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest as he tried to convince himself that none of it mattered.

He wasn’t going to turn into Kevin Durant, firing off angry responses from a burner account because somebody on the internet had hurt his feelings, but that didn’t mean the words simply disappeared when he closed the app.

He had been over there getting his brains beaten in by errant passes, fighting through defenders and doing everything he could to will the Crimson Tide toward a win, only to have the entire performance reduced to a collection of dismissive phrases by people who hadn’t been on the field.

It felt different from Syracuse, too. Last year, he had watched the Orange repeatedly get undone by one problem after another, whether it was Ajani’s terrible quarterback play or an offensive line that seemed incapable of matching the physicality of its opponents. This was supposed to be different. Alabama was supposed to be different. They had the talent, the coaching, the tradition and the expectations to make games like that mean something, and yet they had somehow lost the plot against Texas A&M. Zane finally reached for the mouse and closed Instagram, deciding that he had absorbed enough ridicule for one day.

His mind immediately went to Keelon. He knew him well enough to understand that the quarterback was probably taking the loss harder than anyone else in the building. Keelon’s competitiveness was almost obsessive, and Zane could picture him somewhere doing exactly what Zane had been doing, replaying every mistake in his head and wondering how he could have changed the outcome.

If his relationship with Ajani the year before had taught him anything, it was that berating a quarterback after a bad performance accomplished nothing. The quarterback already knew when he had screwed up. Adding another voice to the chorus only made the problem worse.

Zane made a mental note to call Keelon later and check in on him, not as Alabama’s star receiver but simply as a teammate who understood what it felt like to carry a loss around long after the final whistle.

A noise behind him finally pulled him out of his football-related stupor. Zane turned in his chair and found Anastasia walking down from the second level of the house, her red hair spilling naturally over her shoulders as she approached with a devilish smirk on her face.

She looked entirely too comfortable for someone who had just wandered into his office while he was dissecting a loss, dressed in pajamas consisting of a white tank top that was just translucent enough beneath the room's lighting and a pair of shorts that hugged her hips.

She stopped behind him and looked at the game tape still playing on the left monitor before asking what had gotten him out of bed so early. Zane shrugged and nodded toward the screen, letting the footage explain itself. Anastasia raised her eyebrows before placing both hands warmly on his shoulders, her fingers settling there as she leaned closer to inspect the replay.

“A little masochistic to witness yourself get your ass beat, no?” she asked.

Zane huffed out a laugh and shook his head, sarcastically telling her that she was funny. Anastasia straightened, her hands moving from his shoulders into his hair as she idly played with one of his locs, studying him for a moment before looking around the room.

There wasn’t much in the office beyond the equipment he needed for football, a few pieces of memorabilia and the practical furniture Tyson had arranged when he helped Zane get settled in Tuscaloosa. The rest of the house was much the same. It was comfortable, expensive and impressive, but remarkably restrained for someone who had become a millionaire before turning twenty. Anastasia seemed to notice the same thing.

“What you should be doing,” she said, “is bossing your life up a little more.”

Zane narrowed his eyes and finally turned his attention away from the television. He asked what exactly she meant by that, and Anastasia shrugged as if the answer should have been obvious.

"Ask any almost-20 year old guy in Tuscaloosa what he would be doing if he was a hot-shot player for the Tide with millions in the bank, and they would all say, 'spending that fucking money,'" she said, shrugging as she crossed her arms over her chest.

Zane breathed evenly through his nose, absorbing the criticism without immediately responding. He knew what she was getting at, even if he didn’t particularly like the way she was saying it. He had never been especially materialistic. He had grown up in a house where football jerseys on the wall meant more to him than designer furniture, where his grandfather's auto shop had been more familiar than any luxury showroom. Money had come into his life quickly, but his instincts hadn't changed with it.

“I’m not really the materialistic kind of guy,” he finally said.

Anastasia shrugged again, seemingly unbothered by the answer. "The sooner you start actually believing you've made it, and stop acting like the shit is just going to keep waiting for you, the better. You famous, baby. This fraudulent humble act isn't going to keep fooling everyone for long."

The word made Zane's expression change. He turned fully toward her, spinning the chair until he was facing her instead of the monitors.

“Fraudulent?” he asked, his eyebrows drawing together. “This is just who I am.”

Anastasia held his gaze, the smirk remaining firmly planted on her face. She didn’t immediately challenge him, and somehow that made the statement feel heavier. She simply looked at him as if she were waiting for him to realize something on his own.

Zane had spent months being told to find himself, to stop allowing other people to define him, to stop bending himself around whatever environment he happened to occupy. His father had told him to stop being malleable. Alabama had demanded that he become harder. Football had demanded that he become more ruthless. And now Anastasia was standing in front of him, suggesting that perhaps he hadn’t actually figured out where the line was between humility and hiding.

“We’re going shopping,” she said finally. “I want to show you a thing or two.”

Zane stared at her for a moment before letting out a long sigh. He glanced back toward the game tape, then toward the second monitor, and finally back at Anastasia. There was no argument waiting on his lips. Maybe she was right. Maybe he had spent so much time trying not to become the caricature of a young millionaire athlete that he had gone too far in the other direction. He shrugged, reached toward the desk and shut off the other monitor, leaving the game tape glowing beside him.

“Fine,” he said.

Anastasia’s smile widened.

Zane leaned back in his chair and looked once more at the frozen image of himself on the screen.

***

The Luxury Car Collection dealership in Tuscaloosa felt like the kind of place Zane had only ever seen from the passenger seat of somebody else’s car. As he walked through the showroom, his eyes moved from one vehicle to the next, taking in polished bodies, aggressive lines and interiors that looked more like private lounges than the inside of automobiles. He came dangerously close to actually gasping at one point, catching himself before the reaction could fully escape.

He still couldn’t quite understand how he had ended up here. A year ago, he had been driving around Pittsburgh in his grandfather’s SUV, and now he was walking through a luxury dealership in Alabama with enough money in his account to seriously consider buying one of the machines surrounding him. It felt surreal enough that he almost wanted to laugh.

He had been driving a rental since arriving in Tuscaloosa because his grandfather’s SUV had remained back in Pittsburgh with his father, and until recently, Zane hadn’t really cared enough to change that.

Anastasia’s argument from earlier in the week had unfortunately proven itself to be more accurate than he wanted to admit. He had all of this money now, and he was going through hell on the football field every week to earn it. He had spent countless hours in Alabama’s weight room and on the practice field, pushed his body until it protested and put himself through the kind of punishment that came with trying to become the best receiver in the country.

Maybe, just once, he deserved something nice.

The thought still felt unlike him. Zane had never been a flashy guy, and most of the clothes hanging in his closet weren’t even things he had gone out and purchased himself. His endorsement deals sent him outfits, different brands supplied him with athleisure because they wanted his name attached to their products, and Alabama provided more teamwear than he could realistically wear.

He had grown accustomed to receiving things rather than chasing them, and even now, with millions of dollars sitting behind his name, there was still a part of him that felt guilty about wanting something purely because it looked good.

However, he had spent enough time standing on the porch, watching everyone else walk through the door. Maybe it was finally time to step off of it and try something different.

A salesman approached from across the showroom, dressed in a black suit with a pristine black tie hanging neatly beneath his collar. His hands had initially been shoved casually into his pockets, a measured attempt to appear relaxed around someone as young as Zane. He pulled one hand free as he approached, his slick black hair shimmering beneath the fluorescent lights overhead, and extended it toward him with a pearly white smile.

“Darren,” he introduced himself.

Zane shook his hand firmly and gave his own name in return.

Darren glanced around the showroom before looking back at him. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”

Zane shrugged, his eyes wandering toward another row of vehicles. “Not really. I’m just browsing.”

Darren’s eyebrows climbed before a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He looked around the dealership as if checking to make sure Zane hadn’t somehow walked into the wrong building before returning his attention to him.

“This isn’t usually a place people browse at.”

Zane nodded, the corners of his lips lifting slightly. “No? People typically know what they want when they come here, eh?”

Darren laughed under his breath and shrugged before beginning to walk deeper into the showroom. Zane followed beside him, his attention immediately drawn toward a blacked-out Corvette sitting beneath the bright dealership lights. The thing looked mean, almost predatory, and Darren clearly noticed Zane looking at it. He glanced toward the car and then back at Zane, subtly gauging his level of interest without saying anything. Zane shook his head, his locs swaying with the movement.

“I’m looking for luxury,” Zane explained as they continued walking, “but maybe something that doesn’t look like the typical college football player ride you see on the internet under some fucked up headline.”

Darren stopped for half a second before laughing easily, apparently approving of the answer. He narrowed his eyes and nodded past Zane toward another section of the showroom.

“I’ve got just the thing for you then,” he said. “Something that doesn’t scream Georgia Bulldogs bullshit.”

Zane snorted at the comment and followed Darren toward the vehicle he had indicated, curiosity building with every step. Darren moved aside once they reached it, allowing Zane to get his first unobstructed look at the car. Zane stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening as he took in the design, the finish and the sheer presence of it sitting under the showroom lights. It was sleek without being obnoxious, expensive without immediately announcing itself to everyone within a hundred yards, and somehow managed to look like something he could actually see himself driving.

Zane stared at it for another moment before a grin finally crept across his face.

“I mean,” he said, stepping closer, “I’m not mad at this one at all.”

Darren smiled knowingly beside him, already looking like a salesman who had found exactly what he was hoping to find. Zane continued studying the car, running his eyes over every detail while trying to reconcile the person he had been with the person standing inside the dealership now.

***

Cam sat on the edge of his bed, his phone resting loosely in his hand as the screen continued to light up with another wave of notifications.

It seemed incapable of staying quiet for more than a few seconds at a time. The screen would remain illuminated long enough for him to glance at whatever had come through before finally going black, only for the silence to last barely a moment before the phone vibrated again and the light returned.

Social media notifications, tags, messages, mentions, invitations. There was always something.

Cam had been red-hot for Blinn to start the season, and the attention had followed naturally after he had been named to ESPN’s midseason Division II All-Star list. A few months ago, almost nobody outside of his immediate circle had known where he was or what he was doing. Now ESPN had blasted his name out of obscurity, and suddenly everyone seemed to know who Cam Wilson was.

At first, he had loved every second of it.

He had loved walking around campus and being stopped by people who wanted pictures, wanted to shake his hand or wanted him to come to their next party after Blinn inevitably won on the weekend. He loved the way teammates looked toward him when the offense needed something, the way coaches trusted him when a game was hanging in the balance and the way opposing defenses adjusted specifically because they knew he was the guy they needed to stop.

For so long, especially during high school, Cam had lived in Zane’s shadow. Even when he had been good, Zane had been the name people talked about first. Zane had been the player everybody wanted to watch, the player everybody expected to make something happen. Cam had spent years convincing himself that he was perfectly comfortable being the second option, perfectly happy being the guy standing beside the star. Now, at Blinn, he was finally getting the opportunity to be the star himself, and there was a part of him that felt vindicated by it.

The problem was that being the guy came with a weight he hadn’t fully understood until it had settled onto his shoulders.

There were very few moments anymore when he actually got to himself. Somebody was always knocking on his door, texting him, calling him, asking him to go somewhere or inviting him to another party. The attention that had once made him feel important was beginning to feel like something he had to manage, another responsibility stacked on top of everything else.

He couldn’t walk across campus without wondering who was watching him, and he couldn’t step onto the field without knowing that everyone expected him to produce.

The gameplans had changed because of him. Opponents were preparing specifically for him. Defensive backs were getting physical at the line because they knew that disrupting Cam meant disrupting Blinn’s offense, and every time a route was covered cleanly or a pass slipped through his hands, it felt like more than an individual mistake. It felt like another step toward a loss that everyone would blame on him.

Cam swallowed, his throat bobbing as he stared down at the phone again. The receiver group chat was moving quickly, his teammates discussing their plans for the weekend and waiting for him to confirm whether he was coming along. Normally, he would have responded immediately. He would have thrown in some joke, picked a place, told everybody he would meet them there and gone along with whatever they had planned. That was what the guy did. The guy showed up. The guy kept the energy high. The guy didn't let anyone see when things were weighing on him.

His thumb hovered over the screen as another message came through, and for a moment his mind drifted somewhere else entirely. Zane.

Cam stared at his phone, wondering what would happen if he called him. Maybe he didn't actually need advice.

They could talk about football, laugh about something stupid, complain about their teammates or just shoot the shit the way they used to before everything between them had imploded the previous year.

Zane understood pressure better than almost anyone Cam knew. He had gone from being a high school star to becoming one of the most highly regarded young receivers in the country, then transferred to Alabama and stepped into a program where every game seemed to carry the weight of history. If anybody understood what it meant to have people expect something from you every single time you stepped onto a football field, it was probably Zane.

Cam's hand slowly moved toward the phone, his fingers curling around it as he opened his contacts. For several seconds, he stared at Zane's name. It was right there. One tap and the call would begin. He could already imagine the way Zane would answer, probably with some smartass comment about Cam finally remembering he had a best friend. Maybe they would laugh. Maybe it would be awkward. Maybe Zane would ask him what was really going on, and Cam would finally have someone he trusted enough to tell.

But his thumb never touched the call button.

Something inside him held him back, an instinct he couldn't quite explain. Pride, guilt, fear or some combination of all three kept his hand suspended before he finally lowered the phone into his lap.

He looked down at it for another moment before letting his arm fall against his thigh. The group chat continued buzzing beside him, the screen lighting his face again as another message appeared, followed by another. Cam didn't answer any of them. He simply sat there and watched his phone come alive over and over again, surrounded by the attention he had spent years wanting and suddenly realizing that being the guy wasn't nearly as simple as he had imagined.

[Soapy]

Season crumbling and boy at the car dealership

[redsox907]

coping a new whip when you getting your shit stuffed in? Cam crying about being good after crying about not being good?

this applies to both them tender bruddahs

[Caesar]

As everyone else said, this dude playing like a hot dog water and he going buy a fucking car. He about to be on some headlines alright. "Crimson Tide receiver steps out with redhead at luxury car dealership while team is in a spiral." Pulling a Joleon Lescott

Anastasia much too fast for this boy. He not built for that.

[Captain Canada]

Season crumbling and boy at the car dealership

Talk to Keelon, Zane pulling his weight brudda

coping a new whip when you getting your shit stuffed in? Cam crying about being good after crying about not being good?

this applies to both them tender bruddahs

As everyone else said, this dude playing like a hot dog water and he going buy a fucking car. He about to be on some headlines alright. "Crimson Tide receiver steps out with redhead at luxury car dealership while team is in a spiral." Pulling a Joleon Lescott

Anastasia much too fast for this boy. He not built for that.

Let my boy breathe, he putting in his dues. Let him get some wheels brudda

[Captain Canada]

This one might be a little bit a stretch.

[Captain Canada]

But its a CVFB 26 chise, so let me breathe.

[Captain Canada]