Here To Prove.
Here To Prove.
Prescott punching air right now
Here To Prove.
The Texas highway stretched endlessly ahead, low hills rising and falling like the breath of a sleeping giant. Cam drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the window, his gaze drifting between the road and the rearview mirror of the last year.
A first overall draft pick.
A Dallas Cowboy.
On top of the world by any measure. A life most could only dream of.
But he didn’t feel invincible. Not today.
Everyone—from old coaches to half-forgotten teammates—had texted, called, DM’d. The air was thick with congratulations, praise, expectations. He smiled, said all the right things. But now, finally alone, the noise faded.
He’d left his new apartment, his new teammates and coaches and his new life behind.
And the real thoughts came.
He thought of his mom. Of the house he’d bought her—the one he grew up in that broke her heart to leave when she couldn't afford it anymore after his grandfather passed away.
The way her voice had broken when she saw it again, keys in hand.
She had held the family together when everything else broke apart, working endless hours to try to keep the inn afloat, skipping sleep, smiling anyway.
His whole life had been shaped by her sacrifice. He used to dream about giving her something back.
Now he had.
He thought of his grandfather, the only good male role model he'd ever had that wasn't a coach. Cam knew he would be proud. Not just of the on field accolades but of the man Cam had become. He owed it to him.
Then he thought of Dylan.
Drafted in the fourth round by the New York Giants. Quietly proud, playfully bitter.
“Only reason I got picked was ’cause you threw me the damn ball so much,” he’d said, laughing.
But Cam knew that wasn’t true. Dylan had grit. Fight. The kind of toughness that didn’t show up on tape but made teams remember you. They’d face each other twice a year now. Cam couldn’t wait for that first trash-talking pre-snap moment in a packed stadium.
He smiled at the thought. The people who knew him before the lights, the cameras, the headlines—those were the ones who stayed etched in his heart.
And then his thoughts turned to Kayla.
And Zoe.
It had been almost a year since he’d seen them, but their absence hadn’t dulled their presence in his mind. In some ways, they were still his tether to who he was before all of this—the boy with ambition and hurt stitched into the same thread.
A message buzzed on his phone in the cupholder.
“We can’t wait to see you. Drive safe. I love you.”
He didn’t answer right away. He just let the warmth of it settle over him like the sun soaking into the windshield.
An hour out, his GPS announced. He tapped the voice command.
“Siri, text Kayla: ‘About an hour away. Can’t wait to see you both. Where do you want to eat? I love you too.’”
The words left his lips easily.
Now he just had to get there.
They’d met after UTSA’s upset win over Texas A&M, when Kayla’s gym had offered him a modest NIL deal—six weeks training in exchange for a few Instagram and Facebook posts.
He hadn’t expected much.
But the moment he stepped into her studio—with its soft mats, smell of disinfectant, and an “Open” sign that flickered like it wasn’t sure if it belonged—he’d felt something shift. Kayla had greeted him with a confident smile and a firm handshake, a gi slung over one shoulder, her daughter Zoe watching shyly from the corner.
They started slow. Stances. Balance. Escapes.
He was a quarterback, used to the precision of cleats on turf, not bare feet on mats. But Kayla was patient. Encouraging. Real. She didn’t care about his star rating or social media followers. She only cared if he showed up.
By week two, he was spending extra time at the gym just to talk. About football. About pressure. About family. She listened without agenda. And Zoe—sharp, funny, fearless—tugged at his heart in a way he didn’t know how to explain.
He came back even after the NIL deal ended.
When an injury sidelined him that fall, it was Kayla’s quiet presence, her studio’s stillness, that helped him make peace with stillness. He brought food, he played cards with Zoe, and he let himself be something other than “the guy.” Their connection never needed a label—it just was.
Now, almost a year later, he was coming back.
When he was a half hour away he realized he hadn't gotten a response from Kayla.
He sent a follow up.
Still nothing. Maybe they were out back. Maybe Zoe was blasting music and Kayla left her phone in the kitchen. He kept driving.
Ten minutes out, something started to twist in his chest. Not panic. But a deep, slow-blooming unease.
He dialed.
Voicemail.
Cam swallowed hard and kept going.
Something tugged at him as he pulled off the highway into south Austin. A sliver of unease that grew with every block.
By the time he turned onto the gravel lot beside the gym, his hands were damp on the wheel.
There was a truck in the driveway. Silver, old and beat up, Arkansas plates. Kayla said she didn't have any clients today.
Cam shut the engine off and stepped out with a sense of urgency, leaving his phone in the cupholder.
The front door to the gym was open. Wide.
He picked up his pace, his heart pounding in his chest as he walked through the open door.
He called out.
“Kayla?”
No response.
The inside of the gym was dim, sun slanting through the front windows. Some of the mats were down, very unlike Kayla. A bin of kids’ toys lay overturned in the corner. The silence buzzed in his ears.
Then he heard it.
Yelling. From the back.
A man’s voice, sharp and unhinged. Then Kayla’s—strained, terrified.
Cam ran.
He bolted past the front desk to the hallway that connected the gym to the private living quarters where Kayla and Zoe lived. As he neared the back, the shouting sharpened—angry, desperate.
And then—Zoe. Crying. Panicked.
Cam rounded the corner and saw him.
A man. Tall. Gaunt. Disheveled. Holding a pistol.
Kayla was in front of Zoe, arms spread wide, her body a shield.
“Just let her go, please!” She pleaded through sobs.
Cam didn’t hesitate.
He charged.
Everything moved fast and slow at once—the blur of motion, the sound of his shoes slamming the floor, the shock on the man’s face as Cam tackled him full force, knocking the gun sideways and sending them both crashing into the living room furniture.
They hit hard, limbs tangling.
The gun skittered across the floor and vanished under the couch.
Cam grunted, landing a punch to the man’s jaw. The guy clawed at him, scrambling for leverage. They grappled on the hardwood, fighting for control.
“Kayla—go!” Cam shouted.
She didn’t wait. She grabbed Zoe and bolted out of the room, sprinting down the hall toward her office to call for help.
Cam twisted, trying to pin the man’s arms. The guy was wiry and panicked, his eyes wild. Cam tried to hold him down, but the man lunged sideways—just far enough to reach under the couch.
The gun.
Cam saw it a split second before it happened. He grabbed for the man’s wrist—
Too late.
BANG.
The sound split the air like a thunderclap. Cam’s body jerked, the force of the shot ripping through his side.
He gasped, rolled off the man, clutching his ribs. Heat spread down his shirt. The pain was unlike anything he’d ever known—sharp, flooding, dizzying.
The man stumbled to his feet, dazed and bleeding from the mouth and eyebrow, then turned and ran.
Cam barely registered the sound of the back door slamming and an engine starting.
He slumped against the wall, blood spreading beneath him. His vision blurred.
Then—Kayla’s face. Her hands on his face. Her voice breaking as she shouted his name. “Cam! CAM!”
Zoe sobbed behind her. Sirens wailed in the distance.
Cam tried to speak. He wanted to tell her he was okay. That it didn’t hurt. That he was glad he came.
But no sound came out.
Only blood.
And fading light.
Here To Prove.
RIP. Went out on top.