Zane sat upright against the headboard of his bed, shirtless, the pale glow of the flat screen television washing across the otherwise dark bedroom.
The rest of the house had long since fallen silent, but sleep refused to come. ESPN had already cycled through the day's slate of highlights more than once, yet he found himself unable to change the channel. Every replay seemed to pull him back onto the field in Columbus, forcing him to relive every mistake from the afternoon before.
The comfort of his bedroom in Tuscaloosa offered little relief. His body still carried the soreness of the game, while his mind remained trapped inside it.
The screen flashed to another angle of the matchup between Alabama and Ohio State. The familiar scarlet and gray crowd roared through the speakers as another Crimson Tide possession unraveled. An ugly interception floated harmlessly into a Buckeye defender's hands.
Moments later came another missed opportunity - a pass that should have kept a drive alive instead bouncing off a receiver's hands. Then came one of his own missed chance, a catch he knew he should have secured. Watching it unfold in slow motion made his stomach tighten all over again.
Football had a cruel way of preserving every mistake in crystal clarity. Every error lived forever on film, waiting to be dissected by coaches, analysts, fans, and - worst of all - by the players themselves.
He sighed deeply, dragging a hand back through his locs as the replay continued.
The image shifted to the final minutes of the game. The Buckeyes celebrated as the clock bled away, and then came the scene Zane had hoped he wouldn't have to see again.
Thousands of Ohio State fans poured over the walls and flooded onto the field, engulfing the scarlet jerseys in celebration while Alabama's players trudged toward the tunnel. There had been no anger left inside him at that point. Only disappointment.
They hadn't simply been beaten by a better football team. They had handed opportunity after opportunity away.
Turnovers, dropped passes, missed assignments - it had snowballed until the scoreboard reflected every mistake.
Ohio State cruises past Alabama 33-13
The headline stretched boldly across the bottom of the screen.
Zane clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
West Virginia had been difficult, but everyone inside the building had convinced themselves it was simply opening week rust. New teammates, new systems, first-game jitters. West Alabama had done little to challenge that belief. They had dismantled them exactly as the rest of the country had expected, and confidence had returned almost overnight.
The practices afterward had carried an unmistakable swagger. Players walked a little taller. Conversations became louder. The media began talking about Alabama as though they had already re-established themselves among college football's elite,
Then Ohio State had reminded them exactly how far they still had to go by punching them in the mouth.
He rubbed at his jaw before glancing toward the opposite side of the bed.
Anastasia remained fast asleep beside him, oblivious to the replay playing across the room. Her bright red hair fanned across the pillow in every direction, and the comforter had been pulled securely over her as she breathed slowly and evenly, completely undisturbed by the low volume of the television.
For a brief moment, Zane envied that peace. He wishes his own mind could shut off so easily.
The drops he had put out on tape against Ohio State wouldn't disappear because he wanted them to. NFL scouts would watch them. Opposing defensive coordinators would study them. Alabama's coaching staff would tear them apart in the meeting room tomorrow morning. There wouldn't be any excuses. There never were in a program like this.
He looked over again, her soft skin just covered by the bed sheet pulled up to her chest. He knew he should try to sleep soon, before the roar of morning begged for his attention.
He leaned farther back into the headboard as ESPN rolled the highlights yet again.
Another shot of jubilant Buckeye fans pouring onto the field while Alabama disappeared into the tunnel.
Zane didn't look away. He watched every second of it.
***
Guapo stood near the center of the dilapidated house, his hands resting behind his back as he surveyed the operation with the quiet satisfaction of a man returning to a kingdom he believed had always belonged to him. T
he place itself looked ready to collapse. Windows had been patched together with layers of garbage bags, warped plywood, and scraps of cardboard that barely kept the outside world from looking in. Thin rays of afternoon sunlight forced their way through the cracks, carving pale lines across the dusty hardwood floor.
The stale air smelled of cigarette smoke, marijuana, sweat, and chemicals, a combination that lingered so heavily it felt as though it had seeped permanently into the walls decades ago.
Somewhere in the corner, two industrial money counters whirred relentlessly, spitting stacks of bills into neat piles while several naked women with surgical masks on sorted, bundled, and rubber-banded the cash with practiced efficiency. At another table, members of the operation carefully broke down bricks of cocaine, weighing each portion on digital scales before sealing them into packages destined for different corners of the city.
It was organized chaos, exactly the kind of environment Guapo had spent years building before prison had interrupted everything.
He took it all in without saying a word, allowing himself to appreciate how quickly the machine had begun humming again.
It had been a long time since he had occupied a room like this as the man in charge instead of imagining it from behind concrete walls and steel bars. The years he had spent locked away had done little to dull his instincts. If anything, they had sharpened them.
Every sound inside the house - the rhythmic clicking of scales, the buzz of the counting machines, the muffled conversations between workers, the bass rattling the old floorboards - felt strangely comforting. This was familiar territory. This was a language he understood better than any classroom or boardroom ever could.
Word had spread through Pittsburgh's streets almost immediately after his release. It hadn't taken long for everyone to hear the same rumor whispered from neighborhood to neighborhood: Guapo was back.
In his absence, smaller crews had carved up pieces of the territory, convincing themselves the old order had died with his incarceration. Now many of those same organizations were quietly relocating their operations, shifting into different neighborhoods and jurisdictions before any direct confrontation became necessary.
Nobody wanted to test whether the stories about Guapo had been exaggerated over the years. Most knew they hadn't. Reputation had always been worth more than bullets, and his reputation had only grown while he'd been locked away. Time had transformed him into something almost mythical to the younger generation entering the game.
He couldn't blame them for moving.
They knew exactly how he operated.
Unlike many men who preferred giving orders from a safe distance, Guapo had never believed leadership meant insulation. If something needed doing, he had never been afraid to dirty his own hands. That willingness had earned loyalty from the people around him and fear from everyone else. At the same time, the room was filled with young men hungry to establish names for themselves, eager for opportunities to prove they belonged under his banner.
Every one of them watched him when they thought he wasn't looking, studying the way he walked, the way he carried himself, hoping one day to command the same silent respect. Guapo noticed every glance. He simply pretended not to.
He stalked slowly through the main room, nodding occasionally as workers acknowledged his presence without interrupting what they were doing. Thick clouds of marijuana smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling, where stained plaster threatened to crumble at any moment. An underground rap track blasted from a battered speaker balanced on a milk crate, the heavy bass vibrating through the old floorboards as if the house itself possessed a heartbeat. Nobody danced. Nobody joked too loudly. They understood there was work to be done, and with Guapo back, expectations had returned alongside him.
His initial objective had been simple: restore the revenue streams that had dried up during his imprisonment. Judging by the mountains of cash flowing through the counters, that mission was progressing faster than even he had anticipated. Old suppliers had reappeared almost overnight. Buyers who once hesitated had returned the moment they realized stability had returned to the streets. Fear, after all, was excellent for business. People preferred predictable criminals to unpredictable ones.
His attention drifted toward the far end of the room where several trusted lieutenants quietly discussed routes and schedules over a folding table covered in maps and burner phones. They looked up briefly as he approached before respectfully falling silent.
Guapo stopped beside them.
"The money's flowing the fuck in, niggas," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
One of the men nodded.
"Faster than we expected."
Guapo's lips barely moved into something resembling a smile.
"I figured."
His eyes drifted toward the boarded window, though there was little to see beyond scraps of daylight forcing themselves through the makeshift barricade.
The cash was only the beginning. The books still needed balancing.
Prison had delayed many things, but it hadn't erased them. Debts remained debts, whether they were measured in dollars, loyalty, or blood. Some people had convinced themselves the years had been enough to wipe the slate clean. Others had gambled that Guapo would never walk free again.
They had gambled poorly.
His first debtor had absolutely no idea he was coming.
The man believed everything between them had already been settled. One dead body, one exchange of information, and everyone had supposedly walked away square. Except Guapo had never viewed it that way. The information that had been traded had rippled far beyond a single killing. It had shifted balances of power throughout the city, exposing fractures that never should have been exposed. Now, years later, people had begun piecing together exactly who had supplied that information in the first place. Secrets buried long ago had a habit of digging themselves back up.
Guapo folded his arms across his chest.
There were consequences for unfinished business.
His expression hardened as one name surfaced above all the others.
Rasheed Jones.
He spoke it quietly under his breath, almost thoughtfully.
Rasheed still owed him work.
And Guapo intended to collect every ounce of what he believed was owed.
***
The music pulsed through the modest off-campus house, the bass vibrating through the hardwood floors with enough force that Cam could feel it in the soles of his shoes every time he shifted his weight.
It reminded him far more of the kickbacks back home in Upper St. Clair than the sprawling fraternity parties he had wandered through during his short-lived stint at Purdue. There wasn't an endless sea of strangers here or some massive mansion overflowing with bodies. It was smaller. More intimate. Familiar, almost.
People spilled out through the front door and into the yard, others crowded around the kitchen island with red cups in their hands, and conversations overlapped into a constant hum that somehow blended perfectly with the country music and rap alternating through the speakers. Every now and then someone would erupt into laughter loud enough to cut through everything else before the noise folded back into the rhythm of the celebration. Despite the smaller scale, the excitement was impossible to miss.
The entire house felt alive after Blinn's victory over Navarro earlier that afternoon.
Cam stood just inside the kitchen with a beer in his hand, allowing himself to finally breathe. His body still carried the pleasant soreness that followed a game well played. Every cut, every sprint, every collision still echoed through his muscles, but unlike the aching that came with failure, this pain felt earned. It felt satisfying. Blinn football had improved to 4-0, and for the first time in what felt like forever, football had rewarded him instead of punishing him.
He found himself replaying the afternoon over and over in his mind. Eight receptions. 164 receiving yards. Three touchdowns. Every route had seemed effortless. The ball had found him almost whenever the quarterback looked his direction. Slants, digs, fades - it hadn't mattered. He had gotten separation with ease, weaving in and out of defenders the same way he used to back during his senior season at Upper St. Clair, before everything had become so complicated.
It was impossible not to compare this feeling to the emptiness he had carried during his time at Purdue. Back then, every practice had felt like an uphill climb, every rep another reminder that he was falling behind. His confidence had crumbled piece by piece until he barely recognized himself.
Then came the transfer. The drinking. Tom's murder. The terrifying confrontation outside the grocery store. The nights where sleep refused to come because every unfamiliar face looked like someone following him. It had all piled together into one enormous weight that had threatened to bury him completely. Standing here now, surrounded by teammates celebrating a win, it almost felt like those memories belonged to someone else.
Almost.
He reminded himself not to get carried away.
That conversation with Zane before leaving Pittsburgh resurfaced in his head. Zane had told him to embrace the opportunity but stay hungry. Blinn wasn't the destination - it was the bridge.
Cam had repeated those words to himself almost daily since arriving in Texas. He wasn't here because he had made it. He was here because he had another chance to prove he belonged. That perspective had kept him grounded through summer workouts, brutal conditioning sessions, and now the early success of the season. He refused to let one great afternoon convince him that the journey was over.
Still, humility became difficult when nearly everyone in the house wanted a piece of your attention.
Every few feet someone intercepted him.
"Cam! My boy!"
A teammate wrapped an arm around his shoulders before someone else shoved a phone into another player's hand.
"Picture real quick."
Cam laughed, holding up a peace sign as the flash went off.
"You was killing 'em today."
"Three touchdowns is crazy."
"Bro, they couldn't guard you if they had twelve people out there."
Another series of handshakes followed. Daps. Shoulder bumps. Someone handed him another beer before he had even finished the first. Every congratulation came with another grin, another laugh, another reminder that he had become one of the faces of the team almost overnight.
It was surreal. For so long he had chased validation, desperate to prove he was worthy of the attention Zane naturally commanded back home. Now it was coming effortlessly, and strangely enough, it didn't satisfy him nearly as much as he imagined it would. It felt good - really good - but it wasn't the all-consuming high he once believed it would be.
Maybe because he finally understood how quickly it could disappear.
Eventually he slipped away from another conversation and wandered back toward the kitchen, deciding he should probably finish at least one beer before someone handed him another. The keg had already been drained again, prompting several offensive linemen to muscle another silver barrel through the front door. Cheers erupted throughout the house as they rolled it toward the back patio.
"You boys better not let the party die!"
"We just getting started!"
Cam chuckled to himself, stepping aside to let them pass before filling his cup again. He leaned casually against the counter, allowing himself to simply observe the room for a moment instead of being the center of it.
That was when he noticed her.
She stood across the kitchen near the hallway entrance, speaking with another girl for only a moment before her attention drifted toward him. Long brown hair rested over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the warm glow from the overhead lights. A fitted black tank top hugged her frame, and Daisy Duke shorts showed off long, athletic legs that disappeared into a pair of white sneakers. She wasn't trying too hard to command attention, which somehow made her stand out even more.
She was already looking directly at him.
Cam met her gaze instinctively.
For a second neither of them looked away.
Then her lips curled into a broad, toothy grin.
It made him smile before he even realized he was doing it.
He felt the corners of his own mouth lift in response, the grin arriving naturally after months of feeling like smiling had required effort. She tilted her head ever so slightly as if amused that he had finally noticed her. There wasn't any awkwardness in it. No uncertainty. Just quiet confidence.
Cam took a sip from his beer, still unable to pull his eyes away for more than a second.
She didn't either.
The noise around him faded into the background. The music, the laughter, the shouting from the backyard - all of it blurred together as his attention narrowed to the stranger across the room.
For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, the future didn't immediately fill him with anxiety.
Last edited by Captain Canada on 08 Aug 2026, 13:40, edited 2 times in total.
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(2-0, 0-0 B10)
(7:11) Conor Baity, 18-yard field goal [BAMA 3 - 0 OSU]
(9:47) Jackson Courville, 31-yard field goal [BAMA 3 - 3 OSU]
(5:50) Bobby Golden, 16-yard pass from Keelon Russell (Conor Baity kick) [BAMA 10 - 20 OSU]
