Dale Denton | The Legacy | Rookie Year

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

Chapter V: Talking In Codes

Dale walked into the glass conference room with Coach Danielson at his side, his stomach twisting like he was about to step under the lights on a Saturday night.

Only this wasn’t no game, it was business. Big boy shit, the kind you couldn’t game plan for with X’s and O’s.

The Washington Huskies NIL Collective had the room polished up like a boardroom out a movie—long mahogany table that gleamed under fluorescent lights, chrome chairs that looked too clean to sit in, bottles of spring water lined up military neat, screens on the wall flashing Adidas logos alongside the "W" in purple and gold like a reminder of who really signed the checks. The air smelled faintly of leather chairs, copier ink, and fresh-printed contracts.

Even the silence felt expensive, like if you coughed too loud you’d owe somebody money.

Coach Danielson gave him a look, that calm-but-serious stare he always had, the one that used to reel Dale in on the sidelines when he was about to let his temper get the best of him. “Relax, son. Same way you read a defense, read the room. Don’t let it rattle you. They need you just as much as you need them.” His voice was steady, an anchor against the storm in Dale’s gut.

Dale nodded, tugging at his hoodie strings tight like armor as the Collective reps filed in one by one. Three of them—two men, Mr. Marcel and Mr. Calhoun, in tailored suits crisp enough to slice skin, and a woman, Ms. Garcia, rocking an blazer like it was stitched out of confidence. They all came with smiles, but not the friendly kind; these were measuring smiles, the type that weighed you like produce, judging your worth by every detail: the way you sit, the way you breathe, the way you carry your name. Their eyes moved like stopwatches, timing every twitch, every hesitation. Dale felt like he was back under the Friday night lights, except this time the field was made of polished wood, and the crowd was three strangers who controlled a bag big enough to change his life.

He swallowed, throat dry, watching them take their seats.

The woman set her folder down without looking at it, her confidence so sharp it cut the air. One of the suits smoothed his tie like he was already bored. The other leaned back, studying Dale the same way scouts did, like he was checking boxes on a report card. All of it made his stomach churn heavier, but he squared his shoulders anyway, trying to look unbothered.

“Mr. Denton,” Ms. Garcia started finally, her tone smooth but sharp, like a polished knife. Every syllable hit clean, practiced, rehearsed in boardrooms just like this. “First, let us congratulate you on an incredible freshman season that culminated in a national title. You’re the face of this program whether you know it yet or not. What we want to do here is make sure your brand reflects that—reflects you as a champion, reflects Washington as a deeply enriched legacy of elite stature, and sets the stage for what’s coming next.”

Dale shifted in his seat, nerves buzzing, but Coach Danielson leaned back, calm as ever. “He knows who he is," he nodded. "Just wants to make sure the business fits with his football.”

Mr. Calhoun leaned forward, his watch catching the overhead light, blinding for a split second. “That's quite understandable. We’re talking about opportunities that can set you up not just this season, but for years. Social campaigns, community events, merchandise collabs. Multiple venues are already invested in you. They see potential in your story. They see more than a player—they see a beacon for their brands.” His words rolled smooth but had weight behind them, the kind that hung in the air like smoke.

Dale licked his lips, weighing it like he was about to call an audible. “So what’s the play? I don’t wanna be a puppet on a string. Football comes first, always. You all know that.” He leaned forward now, eyes sharp, making sure they felt him.

Ms. Garcia nodded, her voice steady, respectful. “Exactly, that's why we’re here. We don’t want to pull you from your focus. We want to elevate it. Make sure when people see Washington Huskies, they see Dale Denton. You’ll be an ambassador—on and off the field. A leader in pads and in the community. That means showing up for causes you believe in, shaking hands with boosters, inspiring kids who watch you on Saturdays and think they could be you one day.” She smiled faintly, making sure her tone was sincere.

Coach Danielson cut in, his voice low but heavy like a linebacker blitzing through the middle. “As long as he’s protected. I’m here to make sure no one tries to fast talk him into a corner. He’s still a kid at the end of the day. His focus is football. The rest gotta fit around that, not the other way.” He locked eyes with each rep at the table, daring them to test him.

Mr. Marcel, older with gray streaks in his hair, slid a folder across the table. Silent. It's as if everyone had a role in this pincer and flank attack, but his was the most crucial. Inside, neat stacks of papers, highlighted numbers glowing like neon in Dale’s eyes.

$450,000. Six figures. Damn near half a mill.

Just for putting his face on the program, showing up for some events, letting the city see him shine. To Dale, it felt like more money than he could picture. More than moms ever saw in a year. The kind of money that could shift lives, not just days. He could already see the relief it might bring to his family, bills caught up, no more late notices, maybe even his little cousins back home rocking Huskies gear with his name on the back. The folder wasn’t just paper—it was possibility, it was pressure, and it was power all at once.

Dale ran a hand over his chin, staring at the numbers like they might disappear if he blinked too long. “This real? Y’all ain’t jerking me?” His voice carried that mix of disbelief and hunger, like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to put this kind of faith in him.

Coach Danielson gave him a slight nod, eyes steady. “It’s real. And the support you'll have with this NIL will also be real. Putting you in the right positions to make the best moves is what we're all here about. Just make sure you understand what you signing. Ain’t no shame in taking what you earned, son. You already paid your dues on the field. Don’t let nobody make you feel otherwise.” He said it like a father would, steadying him in the storm.

Ms. Garcia leaned in, tapping a page in the contract with manicured nails that clicked sharp against the glossy paper. “This is just the beginning. With your talent, this deal is a foundation, not the finish line. Local spots, gear drops, ads, community work—it all grows your name. And it builds legacy. But it starts here. It starts with you deciding you’re ready to step into something bigger.”

Her tone had a persuasive rhythm, equal parts business and prophecy.

Dale sat back, chair creaking under his frame, mind racing with everything—from Clarissa’s mess to Addy ghosting him, to Trey’s weird ass switch-up. Even Tanner's pressing him for the starting job lingered in the mix. The images flashed like highlight reels in his head, layered with the pressure of expectations from coaches, fans, family. All the noise, all the chaos, stacked against the silence of this glass room. And now here he was, staring at numbers that could flip his whole world upside down.

He thought of his moms back home, working doubles, struggling but never folding. Thought of the times he promised her he’d make it out, the nights he whispered those promises to himself when he had nothing but a busted football and a cracked sidewalk for a field. Thought of the bruises, the doubt, the hunger, the tears he buried. All those nights of pain and prayer—and now it sat in front of him in black ink, like God finally wrote back.

His throat tightened, and his hands flexed around the pen. The room got quiet, heavy with expectation, like the seconds before a kickoff. It felt like the fourth quarter, ball in his hands, the whole stadium holding its breath waiting to see if he’d deliver. He could almost hear the phantom roar of a crowd in his ears. “Alright,” he said finally, voice low but sure, carrying all the weight of his journey. “Let’s run it."

The Collective reps smiled as ink hit paper. The click of the pen echoed through the glass room like a gunshot, final and binding.

Coach Danielson clapped Dale on the shoulder, grip firm, a proud glint burning in his eye. “You just opened a new door, son. Now it’s on you to walk through it the right way. Remember, paper don’t change who you are. Stay you.”

Dale exhaled heavy, shoulders loosening, a grin breaking across his face despite the weight pressing down.

First NIL in the bag. Six figures, new opportunities, a new chapter waiting to be written. The game just got bigger, and so did the stakes. For the first time, Dale felt the future wasn’t some far-off thing—it was right here, right now, sitting in his hands.

As the reps shook hands and gathered their folders, Dale’s mind spun forward. He pictured moms finally catching a break from overdue bills, maybe moving her someplace nicer, safer, if she's willing. He thought about his pops, who helped him reignite his passion for the love of the sport, getting him out of that small abode of a Ford Explorer and into something better. Then the other side crept in—the whispers in the locker room, teammates wondering if he was getting special treatment, haters online waiting for him to slip. Money was a blessing, but it painted a target too.

Dale tucked the signed contract back in the folder, heart still racing. “Coach,” he muttered as they walked out into the hallway, voices from the conference room fading behind them, “it feels like everything just changed for this season coming up. Lights getting brighter.”

Coach Danielson smirked, sliding his hands in his pockets. “That’s ‘cause it did, son. The money’s real, but so are the eyes watching you now. You gotta play smarter, sharper, on and off the field. Handle your business, stay true to who you are, and you’ll be fine.”

Dale nodded, the weight of it all sitting on his shoulders but his chest filling with pride. He wasn’t just Dale Denton the quarterback anymore. He was Dale Denton the brand, the name, the story. A kid who started with nothing but a dream in East Harlem, New York and now held a future worth six figures in his backpack. The streets back home would be proud. His moms and pops would be proud. But most of all, he knew—this was only the beginning, for better or for worse...

[Soapy]

did you ice up in the offseason?

[The JZA]

did you ice up in the offseason?

Soapy, Yeah, Dale took the "liberty" to make sure he can win

[The JZA]

[The JZA]

Slipped in an extra chapter

[Soapy]

did you ice up in the offseason?

Soapy, Yeah, Dale took the "liberty" to make sure he can win

[redsox907]

last four games are the only challenges on the season - another Natty incoming??

No USC rematch is a bummer

[The JZA]

did you ice up in the offseason?

Soapy, Yeah, Dale took the "liberty" to make sure he can win

Soapy, I'm done fam, no more busting your shit lol

last four games are the only challenges on the season - another Natty incoming??

No USC rematch is a bummer

redsox907, The schedule goes horizontal, not vertical fam, but still. having that up-down scenario can be a momentum buster if we not on one. I know Ohio is gonna be a tough one for sure