Dale Denton | The Legacy | Senior Year

[djp73]

[Soapy]

Bridges def gonna snuff you if you don't give him his carries

[Captain Canada]

my boy finally evolved

[The JZA]

djp73,

Bridges def gonna snuff you if you don't give him his carries

Soapy, Long as we get the Heisman, we good

my boy finally evolved

Captain Canada, Levels, my boy. We haven't seen Dale peak yet.

[The JZA]

Chapter IV: Pro Choice

The Texas sun had a way of pressing down on you, like it was testing what kind of man you really were, even in the waking moments. Three games deep into the season, and the Longhorns were moving like a machine—3-0, unbothered, untouchable. Their latest victim, UTSA, had come in barking loud, but left with their tails tucked, faces red, and scoreboard reading 30-9. It wasn’t just a win—it was a statement.

Austin was buzzing. Bars packed, burnt orange dripping off every wall, every word, every shot of whiskey. The Longhorns were back in blood, and leading that charge was Dale Denton, the new show in town—the golden boy from the West Coast with the kind of arm and swagger that made even the old heads lean forward in their seats.

Coach Mike Elko had seen a lot of quarterbacks come and go, but there was something about Dale that stuck. Maybe it was that calm arrogance, that quiet belief that he belonged wherever he stood. Or maybe it was the way he made the game look cinematic—like every snap was written just for him.

Monday morning came with that post-win calm—the type that separates programs built to last from the ones just chasing a moment. The boys jogged off the field after practice, helmets under their arms, joking and jawing like young kings. Dale stayed behind, hands on his hips, watching the linemen pack up sleds, his mind somewhere between satisfaction and obsession.

Coach Elko approached, whistle hanging loose around his neck, that steady expression carved deep into his face.

“Dale,” he started, voice low but firm. “Hell of a job out there. You led the boys right. Kept ‘em locked in, kept the energy balanced. You got a way about you—showman, but in control.”

Dale smiled, brushing sweat off his brow. “Appreciate that, Coach. I just try to make sure everyone eats. You know how it go—energy gotta flow both ways.”

Elko nodded, but his tone shifted, the coach in him waking back up. “I saw a few plays, though… you held that ball longer than you needed to. You trust your line more now, I get that, but sometimes that extra heartbeat can cost us.”

Dale chuckled, that grin of his cutting through the tension. “Man, you ain’t lyin’. I’m still adjusting. Back in Washington, I didn’t have the luxury of patience. Every snap felt like a gunfight. Either I made a move or got buried under a pile of 300-pounders. Now?” He exhaled, looking around the field. “Now it’s different. I drop back and feel… peace. Like I can finally breathe. The O-line here gives me space to see everything—the routes, the reads, even the safety rotation. It’s wild. Feels like I’m watching the play unfold in slow motion.”

Coach Elko watched him carefully, nodding slow. “That’s growth, son. You’ve stepped into a system that breathes rhythm. But I’ll tell you this—the difference between a clean pocket and a sack is still measured in inches and seconds. You got time now, but that time can lie to you if you’re not sharp.”

Dale gave a small nod, jaw tightening. “You right. I’m still learning how to move in this tempo. But trust, Coach—if I see daylight, I’m taking it. Ain’t no hesitation in my DNA. I’m chasing something bigger than stats.”

“Oh yeah?” Elko raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Dale’s tone dropped low, steady. “I want to throw a perfect game. Like Peyton did. No misses, no mistakes. Just execution. Precision. I don’t know when it’ll happen—college, league, wherever—but that’s the goal. That’s the bar.”

Coach Elko cracked a grin, part pride, part disbelief. “You aiming high. That’s what I like about you, Dale. You talk like you already see the mountain top, but you still willing to climb.” He patted Dale’s shoulder pad, firm and approving. “Peyton didn’t chase perfect throws—he chased perfect habits. That’s what made him a legend. Every rep, every read, every step—tight, clean, surgical. You keep stacking like that, and who knows what you’ll be.”

The two men stood there for a moment, the sun still climbing the skies, the hum of the city faint in the background.

Elko finally broke the silence. “Grab your gear and meet me in the film room. We’ll go over Saturday’s tape. I want to show you what’s working—and what’s still hiding between the frames.”

Dale nodded, clapping the coach’s hand. “Give me fifteen, Coach. I’ll be there.”

As he jogged toward the locker room, teammates dapped him up one after another—some playful, some respectful. He returned every gesture with that same easy confidence, but his eyes burned with something else. Something locked in.

Because for Dale Denton, it wasn’t about the scoreboard anymore. It was about mastery. About taking the chaos and bending it to his will, one play at a time.

And if perfection was rare air—he was ready to learn how to breathe it.


—————————————————————————————————————


The weight room was quiet, that late-night kind of quiet where the hum of the AC and the clank of iron plates felt like whispers in a cathedral. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but not Dale. Sweat glistened off his shoulders as he hit another set of ladder drills, quick feet cutting through the rungs like electricity. He wasn’t chasing reps—he was chasing precision. Each movement carved into muscle memory, each drop of sweat an investment in the next Saturday under the lights.

By the time he made it back to his dorm, it was damn near midnight. His knees ached, his chest still tight from the last sprint, but the hunger was louder than the pain. He dropped into his chair, cracked open his playbook, and started flipping pages, lips moving as he recited routes and reads under his breath. For Dale, football wasn’t just a game—it was scripture. Every play a prayer, every snap a chance to testify.

Then the phone buzzed across the desk. “Pops” flashed on the screen.

“Hey, what’s up, O.G.? What’s shaking?”

On the other end, his pops, Mark, let out that familiar old-school chuckle. “Hey there, champ! Not much, just wrapping up some work emails and wanted to check in on my cowboy. How’s Texas treating you?”

Dale leaned back in his chair, glancing at his playbook spread across the desk. “Shit, just as good as it can be. This sun ain’t doing me no justice, but everything else is copacetic. Talked to Coach earlier today about how different things feel down here. I’m more at ease than I ever was at Washington. Can’t really complain. Just running through the playbook for this Saturday. Me and the boys gonna paint South Carolina with y’all blood, so I hope you got your pitchforks ready to run me out of town afterwards.”

Mark’s deep laugh rumbled through the speaker, the sound of a man proud but amused. “Damn, that’s how you doing your old man? Gonna leave me to fend off the angry mob? Guess my survival chance is shot then!”

Dale laughed, kicking his feet up. “Hey, you raised a competitor, don’t act surprised.”

“Fair point,” Mark said with a grin in his voice. “But I been watching you, son. Caught your first two games. You look different out there—settled. Like a real quarterback. Not just an athlete improvising, but a general in command.”

Dale tilted his head, curious. “What you mean, ‘real quarterback’? You tryna say I wasn’t one before?”

Mark chuckled. “You always had the talent, no doubt. But now? I see patience. Confidence. You ain’t out there running for your life no more. You standing tall, trusting your line, trusting the play. That’s growth.”

“Yeah,” Dale admitted, his tone softening. “It feels good having time to breathe. Washington taught me survival; Texas teaching me control. But you know me, O.G.—grind don’t stop. I still hit legs after every practice. There’s gonna be games where I gotta tuck it and run, so I keep the jets warm.”

Mark laughed again. “Typical Dale. Always gotta push a little harder. But that’s the fire that got you here. Don’t ever lose that.”

They talked for a while longer, drifting between jokes and reflections until Dale hesitated—voice dipping into something more personal.

“Ayo, man, let me rap with you real quick.”

Mark straightened in his recliner, sensing the shift. “Talk to me.”

“So…” Dale sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I met this chick on Instagram. We been talking for a while now, and turns out, she lives out here in Texas. We been linking up, vibing heavy. She mad cool, supportive, bad as hell. But she used to be in the adult industry—like, professional level. Now she run her own OnlyFans.”

Mark paused. The recliner creaked, a long silence hanging between them before he finally spoke. “Alright… you telling me she’s a grown woman who made a living her own way, now running her own business. And she treats you right?”

“Yeah, man. She funny, she sharp, and she don’t take no bullshit. I really like her, for real. But…” Dale trailed off, the uncertainty leaking through his words. “It's there... You know how the media is. If they catch wind of it, it’ll be chaos. I don’t need a Zion, Steph Curry or PJ Washington type situation. I just want to keep things chill.”

Mark exhaled, deep and thoughtful. “Son, let me tell you something. At the end of the day, it’s her life, her body, her choice. The past don’t define a person unless they let it. If she’s bringing peace and positivity into your world, don’t let society’s noise drown that out.”

Dale nodded silently on his end.

“But,” Mark continued, voice firm but fatherly, “you gotta be smart. Keep your private life private until it’s solid. Let your circle be small—people you trust, people who got your back. And if the world wanna talk, Fuck ‘em!" Mark emphasized. "They don’t pay your bills or take your hits on the field.”

Dale grinned, his old man always knowing how to center him, appreciating his Bernie Mac imitation.

Don’t let fear of judgment stop you from living, son. If she’s real, and you feel that, then own it. The world gonna talk regardless. Let ‘em choke on their gossip while you live good.”

“Damn,” Dale said, shaking his head with a laugh. “You right for once.”

“I’m always right, boy,” Mark shot back, playful but proud. “And if shit hits the fan, I expect you to handle it like a man. Not like some fool chasing headlines.”

Dale smirked. “If it all goes sideways, I’ll just sign with the NBA. Seems like that’s where the real soap operas pop off.”

Mark bursts out laughing, nearly spitting out the sip of beer he just took. "Well damn, now you know you've really got me worried! If my own son thinks the solution to a PR nightmare is to switch leagues!"

Their laughter filled the silence that followed, warm and genuine—the kind that stitched distance shut.

"But seriously, Dale, I appreciate you hearing me out on this. Just remember you got my full support in whatever you decide. Don't let fear of others' opinions dictate your choices in matters of the heart. If she's special, hold onto that. Trust your instincts with this one, and remember... at the end of the day, your peace and happiness is what matters most to me and your mama. Don’t let the noise rob you of that. You hear me?"

“I hear you, O.G. Loud and clear.”

They said their goodnights, the line clicking silent after a final “love you, boy.”

Dale sat there for a minute, phone still in hand, staring out the window at the city lights burning through the dark. Seven months deep with Layla, and it felt real. Scary real. But his pops was right—he couldn’t half-step this. Not her. Not now.

He closed the playbook, leaned back, and let a small smile pull at his lips.

If he was gonna do this—football, love, all of it—he was gonna do it all the way.

No fear. No frontin’. No half steppin’.

[The JZA]

[Soapy]

time to demolish them cocks

[The JZA]

time to demolish them cocks

Soapy,

[The JZA]

[djp73]

64 yard td run must have been electric