Season 7 | Episode 11 - The First Cut is the Deepest
Zane sat on the edge of his bed with his phone propped against a stack of books, the FaceTime call filling the screen with his father’s face. It was the first time in several weeks that the two of them had actually had a meaningful conversation, rather than exchanging a few rushed words between games, practices and everything else that seemed to consume Zane’s life now.
Rasheed leaned back in his chair on the other end, looking more relaxed than Zane had seen him in a while, before a familiar smirk spread across his face.
“Glad the superstar finally made time for his old man,” he joked.
Zane huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Yeah, that's on me, pops. Things have been nuts since you dropped me off at the airport to tel the truth. Coach Kiffin don't play around with scheduling, and any time I do get, Tyson makes sure to use that up too."
Rasheed nodded slowly, leaning farther back in his chair as he listened. "But, you good though?"
"I mean, losing to Texas and Ohio State really sucked, and then dropping one to the Aggies sucked too. But, we've bounced back recently. Might be able to somehow backdoor our way into the playoffs if we're lucky." he shrugged, explaining Alabama's current circumstances.
"I knew that much, I been watching all the game," Rasheed nodded again, "I need y'all to desperately deal with them Florida bitches. My boys down at the barbershop been hyping them Gators up a little too much for my fucking liking."
The comment pulled a faint smile from Zane, but Rasheed’s expression remained unchanged as he clarified that he wasn’t asking about football.
"I'm trying to check on your mentals, son - see how you're really doing and handling all this shit. Seems like a fucking lot."
Zane felt the urge to smile wider at the realization that his father was actually making time to watch his games from afar, following his season despite everything separating them, but he kept the feeling tucked away.
He attempted to play it cool, taking a moment to feign contemplation before responding. "I actually bought a car a few weeks back. Took a little bit to finish customizing, but it got delivered yesterday."
Rasheed’s eyebrow lifted immediately, his interest piqued. “What kind?”
"Chevrolet Corvette Z06".
Rasheed stared through the screen for a second before a proud smirk crept across his face, and he gave his son a confident nod. “That’s what I’m talking about, my boy.”
"Yeah, I've been told that I've got to stop being so lowkey and branch out a bit more. Apparently spending a little bit of bread is good for the brand." Zane smirked.
Rasheed leaned forward slightly, his expression turning curious. “Who told you all that? Coach Kiffin?”
"Nah - this girl I've been talking to for the last month. Anastasia, she's real cool." Zane shook his head before explaining. He thought back to her comments.
Rasheed paused, his eyes narrowing slightly at the mention of her name.
“How much do you know about this girl?”
Zane thought about it for a moment before shrugging. "We been hanging out every few days for the last - I don't know - maybe, two months. Nothing too serious, for real."
Rasheed crossed his arms across his chest and looked at him sternly through the phone. “Be careful.”
Zane immediately started into a familiar explanation. "You know me, I'm always careful-"
asheed stopped him with a wave of his hand. He didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew what Zane was going to say.
“I know you’re a good kid,” Rasheed said, his voice quieter now. “You got a big heart. But the circumstances are different now.”
Zane breathed evenly through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly as he listened.
"This ain't some high school shit where the worst thing that can happen is you become the content of a group chat and you end up crying into a bottle of Henny, Zane. You got real motion now. Nigga is the number one receiver at fucking 'Bama. ?You put the wrong people around you, and they'll decimate your shit before you even know it."
Rasheed’s expression hardened as he looked directly into the camera. “I need you to promise me something.”
Zane stayed quiet.
“Watch yourself. Keep receipts. Vet the people you spend your time with. I’m not telling you to live scared, and I’m not telling you that everybody around you is out to get you. But you need to know who the hell you’re letting into your life now.”
Zane hesitated, taken aback by the seriousness in his father’s voice. Rasheed wasn’t joking anymore, wasn’t teasing him about being a superstar or celebrating the Corvette. He was speaking to him like a father who understood something about the world his son hadn’t yet been forced to learn. Zane swallowed and nodded slowly, letting the words settle somewhere deeper than he wanted to admit.
“I got you,” he finally said.
Rasheed held his stare for another moment, as if deciding whether he believed him. Then his shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Good.”
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The call remained connected, the silence no longer uncomfortable so much as unfamiliar. Zane looked at his father on the screen and realized that, beneath all the jokes and football talk and distance between them, Rasheed had been trying to figure out how to be his father again. Zane wasn’t entirely sure how to let him. But for the first time in months, neither of them seemed in any particular hurry to end the conversation.
***
Guapo sat behind the wheel of the idling car, one hand resting loosely against the steering wheel as the bass rolled steadily through the cabin. It wasn't loud enough to rattle the windows or announce his presence to the entire neighborhood, but it carried enough weight to make the air inside the car feel alive.
Outside, the fall night had settled over the streets earlier than it would have only a few months before, the sun disappearing earlier every evening and leaving the neighborhood wrapped in darkness long before most people were ready for bed. The streets were quieter than usual, with only the occasional car passing beneath the glow of the streetlights.
Guapo glanced toward the ashtray sitting beside the gearshift, where a blunt rested between the grooves, its ember continuing to build as smoke curled lazily toward the roof of the car. He watched it for a moment but didn't reach for it. His mind was somewhere else.
A knock against the driver's-side window pulled his attention toward the glass. Guapo slowly turned his head and found a hooded figure standing beside the car. He studied the man for a few seconds before pressing the button and lowering the window halfway.
The hood had been pulled tightly around the man's head, concealing most of his face, but he reached up and pushed it back just enough for Guapo to see him clearly. Guapo's eyes narrowed as he looked him over, recognizing the man immediately.
“You found him?” he asked, his voice calm despite the question.
The man nodded, keeping both hands buried inside the front pocket of his hoodie. Guapo didn't say anything else, instead turning his attention back toward the windshield and the empty street ahead, his headlights stretching across the pavement.
The man shifted his weight before pulling one hand from the pocket. He raised it between them, curling his fingers into the shape of a pistol and giving the gesture a subtle little wave. His meaning was obvious without needing to be explained.
“You want me to take care of him?” he asked. Guapo glanced sideways at him, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a knowing smirk.
He shook his head slowly, almost amused by the suggestion, before telling him that Rasheed was a lot more beneficial alive than dead. The circumstances had changed since Guapo had gotten out, and Rasheed wasn't simply some old debt that needed settling anymore.
He had a son now, and not just any son. Zane was a big-shot football player at Alabama who was raking in serious money, the kind of money that could make an old obligation considerably more valuable.
The man's expression tightened as he lowered his hand and stuffed it back into his hoodie pocket, his other hand already waiting inside. He looked through the windshield toward the same empty street Guapo had been watching, as if trying to understand where his boss was going with this.
“So what you gonna do?” he asked. Guapo remained silent for a moment, allowing the question to hang between them while the music continued its low rhythm inside the car. Then he turned toward the man, that same smirk returning to his face as the gold tooth caught the faint glow from the dashboard.
“Hit him where it hurts.”
The words settled into the car, simple enough to understand and vague enough to leave the details unanswered. Guapo finally reached toward the ashtray, picked up the blunt and brought it to his lips, taking a slow drag as he stared through the windshield. The ember glowed brightly against the darkness before he exhaled, smoke drifting across the cabin while the man remained beside the driver's window, waiting for whatever came next.
***
The third quarter had barely gotten underway, and the Alabama Crimson Tide were already making Ben Hill Griffin Stadium feel like a funeral.
Florida had managed to put together very little resistance all afternoon, their offense struggling against a Crimson Tide defense that had refused to give them anything easy, while Alabama's offense had continued to pile on the damage.
Zane had already found the end zone earlier in the game for yet another touchdown, Bobby had added one of his own late in the second quarter, and then Keelon had ripped off a run of more than thirty yards before taking the ball himself and finishing the drive in the end zone.
The scoreboard reflected the dominance with Alabama holding a commanding 21-3 lead, but the most noticeable thing inside Ben Hill Griffin Stadium was the silence. The Swamp, as the locals of Gainesville affectionately called it, had been deafening throughout the season, a place where opposing teams were supposed to feel the weight of every screaming fan. Now, the Gator faithful could barely muster the energy to make themselves heard.
Alabama's offense trotted back onto the field at Florida's 38-yard line, and Zane jogged toward the huddle with his helmet tucked firmly into place.
His legs felt heavier than they had at the beginning of the afternoon, his shoulders carrying the accumulated punishment of another physical game, but he forced himself to keep moving as he slipped into position with the rest of the offense.
Keelon was still waiting on the playcall from the sideline, his eyes flicking toward the coaching staff as the rest of the players settled around him. Zane breathed evenly through his nose, trying to control the fatigue creeping through his body. He wasn't going to lie to himself; he was pretty beat up. Every hit seemed to linger a little longer now, every movement requiring just a little more effort than it had earlier in the game.
Kaleb noticed it. The hulking tight end stepped toward him and gave him a light tap against the shoulder pad. Zane whipped his head around, looking at him curiously through his facemask as Kaleb leaned down enough to make sure he had his attention. “
You good?” he asked. Zane took a breath, letting it sit in his chest for a moment before nodding. He wasn't exactly sure whether he was good or simply had enough left in him to keep going, but there was no point in saying otherwise.
Kaleb studied him for another second before nodding back, apparently satisfied, and Keelon finally walked back into the huddle with the playcall.
It was a simple run play, designed to leave Zane isolated on the left side of the formation in the slot. The Crimson Tide broke the huddle and made their way toward their positions, each player settling into place as the Gator faithful slowly began to raise the volume again. The noise started as a low rumble before gradually growing, the fans desperately trying to inject some life into their stadium despite the three-score deficit.
Zane glanced toward the stands and felt the atmosphere change around him. He wouldn't lie; it could still be intimidating. This was The Swamp, after all. The crowd didn't need a close game to make itself felt, and even with Alabama up 21-3, the sheer number of people screaming at them was enough to tighten something in his chest.
He lowered himself into his stance and focused on the defender across from him. Keelon barked out the cadence, the offense waiting for the final movement. Then the ball snapped.
Zane exploded off the line.
His assignment was the outside linebacker, and he immediately tracked him, looking to make contact and create the funnel Khalid needed to run through. The play developed quickly, Khalid hitting the developing lane as Zane closed the distance between himself and the defender. He squared his shoulders and drove forward, throwing his body into the block as the defender met him with equal force.
The collision sounded like a car crash inside Zane's helmet.
Pads slammed together. Helmets clattered. His cleats dug into the turf as he fought to hold the block for another fraction of a second, and then, suddenly, something inside his chest gave way with a sharp crack.
Zane's breath disappeared.
A searing pain ripped through his chest so violently that his entire body seemed to seize around it. His knees buckled beneath him, and before he could understand what was happening, he crumpled onto the grass. The play continued around him, Khalid running through the opening while the rest of the offense moved downfield, but Zane remained on the turf, curled slightly toward himself as his body struggled to process the pain.
All he could hear at first was the roar of the crowd.
The sound washed over him from every direction, distorted by his helmet and the ringing inside his ears. He tried to move his arms, but instinctively brought both hands toward his sides instead, his fingers pressing against his ribs as another wave of pain shot through him. It felt as though something inside his chest had been shattered, and every attempt to breathe deeply made it worse. He didn't know what had happened. He only knew that moving felt impossible.
Eventually, the referee's whistle pierced through the noise.
The play was over.
Zane heard footsteps approaching, then Keelon's voice cutting through the chaos. “Zane!”
He couldn't answer.
“Zane, get up!”
Zane squeezed his eyes shut, trying to draw another breath through the pain. Somewhere nearby, Jalen was yelling at him too, his voice frantic as he moved toward him. “Get up, bro! Come on!”
But Zane didn't move.
He couldn't.
His hands remained locked against his sides as he lay on the turf, staring blankly through his facemask while the stadium slowly began to realize something was wrong. The roar of the crowd faded into a distant blur, and for the first time all afternoon, football disappeared from Zane's mind completely. There was no scoreboard, no rivalry, no next play and no championship waiting somewhere down the road.
There was only the pain in his chest and the terrifying feeling that if he moved even an inch, his entire body might fall apart.
@
(4-3, 1-2 SEC)
((5:32) Keelon Russell, 1-yard run (Missed kick) [MSST 0 - 6 BAMA]
(2:51) Mitch Sharga, 21-yard field goal [MSST 3 - 6 BAMA]
(2:57) Conor Baity, 49-yard field goal [MSST 3 - 23 BAMA]
(10:07) Kolin Wilson, 1-yard run (Mitch Sharga kick) [MSST 10 - 30 BAMA]
