Chapter III: Lucifer, Son Of The Morning
Six months flew by like a bad dream in rewind. One minute it was spring—cool mornings, fresh cuts on the field, new beginnings. The next, summer hit like hellfire. Austin heat didn’t play fair; it peeled the weak down to the bone. Sweat, turf burn, and exhaustion became part of Dale Denton’s daily sermon. But that’s what he lived for—the grind, the repetition, the chase for greatness.
Conditioning at sunrise. Film study till sunset. Playbook in one hand, protein shake in the other. Dale wasn’t just prepping for a season—he was writing the final chapter of his college legacy. Every whistle, every sprint, every rep was a countdown to something bigger. His last ride before the draft. His chance to remind the world why he was that dude.
Still, when the cleats came off and the stadium lights dimmed, Dale wasn’t some gridiron demigod. He was just a man with a phone lighting up at midnight, her name glowing across the screen: Layla.
That woman was like a glass of Henny after a long practice—smooth, dangerous, and exactly what he shouldn’t have, but couldn’t resist. She came into his life like smoke through a cracked window: quiet at first, then everywhere. When she wasn’t working her OnlyFans hustle or rolling with Zara, she was up under him—Netflix, video-gaming, or reading books, enjoying hole-in-the-wall taco joints and laughing about dumb shit. It started casual, then turned heavy real fast. They’d talk trash until it turned to touching, touching until it turned to moaning. Dale had told himself he wasn’t gonna smash—wanted to keep it grown, take it slow. But temptation got a way of talking slick. One night became that night. She pulled him in, and he stopped thinking. From then on, it was up. Layla was like a song stuck on repeat. One taste and he couldn’t stop pressing play.
She’d crawl up beside him after, hair messy, skin glowing, that smug smile playing at her lips. “Told you I was addictive,” she’d whisper. And he’d laugh, but deep down he knew she was right.
Dale still had his reservations. There were nights he’d scroll past her OnlyFans promo on his timeline, jaw tightening. Knowing the world saw what was now his irked him in ways he didn’t want to admit. But she always found a way to bring him back down, to remind him that when the cameras cut off, she was his peace.
They didn’t label it, didn’t need to. The chemistry spoke for itself.
That night, he lay in bed with Layla, the hum of the ceiling fan filling the silence. She was curled against him, skin soft, breathing even. Her OnlyFans notifications buzzed on her phone, but Dale ignored it as much as Layla did, tracing lazy circles on her thigh.
“You nervous?” she asked sleepily.
He exhaled slow, eyes on the ceiling. “Nah. Just ready.”
Layla smiled against his chest. “Then go be great, QB. Make ‘em remember my man's name.”
Outside, Austin was alive—the city lights flickering like stars that refused to die out. Inside, Dale closed his eyes and let her words settle in his chest like scripture.
Tomorrow, the season's week began. The drought was over. And Dale Denton was coming for everything...
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The city was back buzzing with burnt-orange pride. Billboards with Dale’s face on ‘em hung off the highway, the Heisman winner turned Texas savior. Cameras followed his every step, analysts broke down every throw, and boosters whispered about championships like gospel. Twenty-four years since Texas last held the national title. Twenty-four years of almosts and excuses.
But that can also be said elsewhere, six miles east of the University of Texas, Travis County State Jail.
The Texas heat was so thick it made the air taste like asphalt and sin as Hell had cracked open its gates and spat out one of its favorite demons.
Dom.
He walked out of Texas County State Jail like he owned the dirt under his boots—broad-shouldered, dark eyes cold enough to frost glass, sporting a chrome dome that looked like it was buffed the day before. The kind of man whose presence made air feel heavier, like the world braced itself every time he took a breath. Street smart, cruel, and too damn confident for his own good. Dom wasn’t just a villain; he was a storm wearing a human face.
The sunlight slapped him across the face as the gates buzzed open, but his grin didn’t fade. There she was—Zara—posted up against a black muscle car like a magazine spread for trouble. Tank top, tight jeans, big hoop earrings glinting like warning signs. She didn’t wave, didn’t smile, just chewed gum slow, one brow cocked like she’d been waiting to see if Hell would really let him loose.
Dom’s smirk widened. “Well, well, well…” his voice came low, gravel mixed with venom. “Look who couldn’t stay away. Miss me that much, pet? Or you just here to get your leash tugged again?”
Before she could clap back, he was already in her space—rough hand gripping her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his. His other hand wandered lower, palming her ass with the kind of audacity that got men killed. “Hope you been keepin’ that mouth in shape,” he murmured.
Zara’s eyes flared hot, but she didn’t back up. “Boy, you really tryna test the system, huh?” she snapped, shoving his hand off her. “You think I came out here to play welcome-home wifey? You lucky I don’t leave your ass right here to rot another six months. You pulled that bullshit stunt and think I’m supposed to curtsy?”
Dom chuckled, low and cold. “There’s that fire. Missed that.”
“Yeah, well, try that touchy shit again and see how quick I cool off.”
The two glared at each other, the air between them charged. Zara finally rolled her eyes and jerked her chin toward the car. “Get in. Before I change my mind.”
They peeled off from the jail like a getaway, the tires screaming freedom across the gravel. Dom leaned back in the passenger seat, smirk plastered on his face. “Alright, talk to me, Z. What’s been happening out here? I know you ain’t been sittin’ quiet while I was locked down. Who’s running the block now?”
Zara snorted. “Same circus, different clowns. Bitches still beefin’ over dick, dealers still beefin’ over corners. You know how it go. Only difference is, your name’s been collecting dust while you been gone.”
Dom’s eyes narrowed. “Dust?”
“Yeah. Your boys been scrambling to hold shit down, but ain’t nobody running the streets like before. And oh…”—she smirked, cruel and deliberate—“word around the block is your little porn princess been playing house with some college hotshot. A Quarterback or some shit. Big man on campus. Guess she finally traded your goon ass for a real baddie.”
Dom’s smile disappeared. His knuckles tightened on his knee until it popped. Layla.
Even her name was enough to stir the monster in him. The memories came back like bruises—her crying, him laughing, the twisted way they used to love and destroy each other in the same breath. He’d broken her down, piece by piece, and still she haunted him. And now she was in some other man’s bed? Nah. That didn’t sit right.
Dom inhaled sharply through his nose, then exhaled slow. “She can play house all she want. She’ll come home eventually.”
Zara cut him a sharp look. “You serious right now? You ain’t learn a damn thing, did you? That woman done moved on, Dom. You need to do the same before you end up back in a cage.”
Dom grinned darkly. “I ain’t worried about her. Not yet. Right now, I’m worried about money.”
He leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “Word is Landon still running his daddy’s escort chains, right? Probably got sloppy without me out here. You think I can’t flip that?”
Zara rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “You’re really stuck in the early 2000s, huh? Ain’t no ‘escort chains’ like that-like that. That whole game done gone digital. It’s all OnlyFans, cam rooms, encrypted links, and cash apps now. These girls don’t need pimps—they got Wi-Fi. Texas pushed a law back in '21 banishing pros on the streets. Now it's marketed as G.F.E.”
Dom scowled, shifting in his seat. “So the world got soft while I was gone.”
“The world got smarter,” she shot back. “And if you’re smart, you’ll stop tryna play king in a kingdom that don’t exist anymore.”
He smirked, turning to stare out the window at the city speeding by. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll build me a new one.”
Zara sighed, shaking her head. “Half your old crew still around, but it’s messy. Rico and Jax still pushing product, but the pipeline’s shaky. Cops been all over the scene. And Taco—yeah, that rat’s been running his mouth heavy since you left.”
Dom chuckled, the sound dark and dangerous. “Taco always did think he was slick. Guess I’ll have to remind him who runs this. It's time he had his wings clipped.”
When Zara pulled up to her spot, the car fell silent for a beat. The tension between them hung thick, like old smoke.
“I’ll figure some shit out,” Dom muttered, already half in his head, plotting something wicked.
Zara opened her door, stepping out from behind the wheel. “Yeah, I bet you will,” she said before circling the car and leaning in through the passenger window. Her lips curved into that knowing smirk, the one that used to drive him wild. “And when you do, bring some of that old magic stick my way. Been too long since you broke me off right.”
Dom’s grin returned, slow and menacing. “Careful what you ask for, Z. You might not survive round two.”
Zara just laughed, tapping the roof before stepping back. “Try me, killer.”
Dom slammed the gearshift, the black car roaring to life like a beast reborn. He peeled out from the curb, tires spitting gravel, smoke curling in his wake.
Texas hadn’t even realized it yet, but the devil was home again. And this time, he wasn’t planning to leave quietly.
I'm just saying he already had the #1 pick on lock. All he can do now is taint it lol. He could blow his knee out & never ever play football ever again..
Not with Woody out there talking nasty
