Invictus

[Captain Canada]

Season 7 | Episode 1 - Slap The City

Zane lay stretched across the couch in the living room, one ankle resting atop the opposite knee as his thumb lazily scrolled through another page of real estate listings Tyson had emailed him earlier that morning.

Every few seconds another immaculate home filled the screen. Modern brick exteriors. Three-car garages. Open-concept kitchens with marble countertops. Backyards complete with covered patios and swimming pools that looked more suited for a boutique resort than a college student.

The houses grew increasingly absurd the farther he scrolled, each one somehow managing to eclipse the last. Tyson had clearly instructed the realtor to think less like someone shopping for a college apartment and more like someone housing a future first-round draft pick.

It still felt surreal.

Only a few days had passed since the announcement became official. The graphics had gone live across social media. Reporters had blasted the news across college football circles. The paperwork had cleared the NCAA. His signature sat on every document it needed to. There was no turning back now.

Zane Jones was the newest member of the Alabama Crimson Tide.

Even thinking the words inside his own head felt strange. He had repeated them to himself more than once since leaving Tuscaloosa, almost expecting them to sound less unbelievable with repetition.

They never did. Alabama wasn't simply another stop in the transfer portal.

Alabama was the measuring stick. It was the program that every other powerhouse had spent the better part of two decades trying to catch. Growing up, Saturdays had practically belonged to the Crimson Tide. Under the legendary Nick Saban, they had ripped through the 2010s with a consistency that bordered on absurdity, stacking national championships, SEC titles, Heisman Trophy winners, All-Americans, and first-round draft picks until it almost became routine.

Every season felt like another assembly line feeding the NFL. If someone became a star in Tuscaloosa, the expectation wasn't whether they would hear their name called on draft night. It was how early.

Now, somehow, he belonged to that machine.

His thumb stopped over another listing as the memories of his official visit drifted back into his mind. More specifically, they settled on the conversation that ultimately changed everything.

Lane Kiffin.

The first thing Zane had noticed about Alabama's new head coach was how comfortable he seemed wearing the weight of the position. Taking over after a legend could have swallowed lesser coaches whole, yet Kiffin never carried himself like a man intimidated by history. Having already coached under Nick Saban years earlier before building successful programs elsewhere, returning to Tuscaloosa almost felt like unfinished business.

Rumors had swirled throughout December that LSU was preparing to pry him away after their own coaching search, but instead Alabama had moved decisively and brought him home. By the time Zane met him, Kiffin already walked through the football complex like he had never left.

What surprised Zane most, though, wasn't his confidence.

It was how little he tried to recruit him.

Every other school had sold a vision. Texas had sold lifestyle. Michigan had sold championships paired with Bryce Underwood. Penn State had sold home. Miami had sold excitement. Everyone had arrived armed with presentations, promises, graphics, NIL projections, and carefully rehearsed speeches.

Lane Kiffin had done none of that.

Instead, he had leaned back comfortably in his chair, folded one leg over the other, and almost smiled.

"Alabama sells itself."

That had been his opening pitch.

No dramatics or theatrics: just simple confidence.

He had gestured around his office almost dismissively.

"You know what this place is."

Zane remembered nodding because there wasn't really anything else to say. Everybody knew what Alabama was.

Coach Kiffin hadn't wasted another second pretending otherwise.

"So let's skip all the stuff you've already heard."

That had immediately gotten Zane's attention.

"We know what you are."

Kiffin folded his hands together across the desk.

"You're an NFL talent." Another pause. "That's why we want you."

Zane remembered feeling himself relax. Finally, someone wasn't trying to inflate his ego.

"But we wanna turn you into the best receiver in your NFL Draft class."

Kiffin's eyes narrowed slightly.

“Right now, I don’t know if that’s you, if I’m being honest. Not yet, at least.”

The words had hit. Not necessarily because they were cruel or that he didn’t agree. Simply because nobody had challenged him. Except his own father, at the very least.

Zane remembered grimacing before asking the obvious question.

"What ain't setting me apart?"

Kiffin hadn't needed to think.

"Chris Henry Jr. Those Ohio State boys are something serious."

The answer came instantly.

"More complete receiver."

"He blocks better."

"He finishes routes better."

"He attacks the football better."

Kiffin had reached for a remote before several clips appeared on the television behind him. One after another they showed contested catches from Zane's freshman season.

"You see this?"

The play paused just before contact.

"You've got inside leverage."

Another click. A defender bumped him near the catch point. The pass fell incomplete.

"You quit fighting."

Zane had immediately shaken his head.

"I didn't quit."

"I know you don't think you did."

Kiffin hadn't sounded accusatory. Only analytical.

"But watch."

He replayed the clip.

"You stop driving through contact."

Another play appeared. Another defender collided with him. Another incompletion.

"You should dominate 50-50 balls."

Another clip.

"And every time defenders put hands on you," Click. "Your catch percentage falls off a cliff."

The room had gone quiet after that.

He had watched enough film over the years to know when someone was finding something real instead of inventing criticism for motivation.

Kiffin hadn't questioned his talent. He had questioned its ceiling.

Finally, the coach leaned back again.

"You're a remarkable receiver for a freshman.”

The compliment immediately transformed into another challenge.

He leaned forward until his forearms rested on his knees.

"I wanna know how much higher we can push you."

His eyes had remained locked onto Zane's.

"Not how good you already are."

"How great you're willing to become."

Looking back now, sitting alone in Pittsburgh with luxury homes sliding across his phone screen, Zane realized that Alabama had been the only place that never tried convincing him he was already enough.

Every other coach had promised him stardom. Lane Kiffin had promised him discomfort. Accountability. Development. It was the first visit where he had left feeling slightly insecure instead of validated.

That had been exactly what he needed.

Of course, Alabama hadn't exactly been lacking elsewhere. Tyson had nearly laughed when the NIL numbers finally came across his desk. They weren't quite at the absurd level Ohio State had reportedly handed Jeremiah Smith the year before - a deal that had become the talk of college football - but they didn't need to be.

Alabama's offer comfortably placed Zane among the highest-paid players in the country while still allowing the program to lean on something far more valuable than money.

History.

Money had gotten schools into the conversation.

History had finished it.

His thumb resumed scrolling through Tyson's list of homes. One property overlooked a quiet neighborhood only minutes from campus. Another sat farther outside the city with enough land that he doubted he'd ever even use half of it. A third featured vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a kitchen larger than the entire first floor of his Syracuse condo.

He couldn't help smiling. His condo suddenly felt tiny by comparison.

Not that he needed any of this. Truthfully, living alone didn't require much space at all.

The thought quietly carried him toward another memory.

Marie.

His smile disappeared almost immediately.

The last real conversation they had shared replayed itself without permission. He had called her shortly after informing Coach Kiffin that Alabama had his commitment. Part of him had hoped hearing certainty in his voice would somehow reassure her.

Instead, it had done the opposite.

Their relationship had already been cracking beneath the weight of distance, grief, and uncertainty. Alabama had simply been the final weight that snapped what remained. Neither of them had yelled. Neither of them had said anything particularly cruel. Sometimes relationships didn't end because of betrayal.

Sometimes life simply pulled two people in opposite directions until there wasn't enough rope left to bridge the distance.

He hadn't spoken to her since.

His chest tightened briefly before he forced the memory aside.
Bianca had been different.

The only acknowledgment had been a single notification on his phone. She had liked his commitment post on Instagram. Only liked being the right phrasing.

It somehow felt more complicated than silence.

Zane released a slow breath through his nose before locking the phone for a second and rubbing both hands across his face. His entire life had changed over the span of a few weeks. New school. New city. New expectations. A future worth millions of dollars waiting somewhere on the horizon.

After another quiet moment, he unlocked the screen once more and returned to Tyson's email. The houses reappeared exactly where he had left them, patiently waiting for him to choose the place that would become home.

***

Bianca sat alone at a corner table in one of Michigan’s campus cafés, her phone resting in front of her beside a coffee that had long since gone lukewarm.

Outside, winter had wrapped Ann Arbor in a blanket of white, snowflakes drifting lazily past the broad windows while bundled-up students hurried across campus with their collars pulled high against the cold. Inside, conversations buzzed softly around her, espresso machines hissed behind the counter, and someone laughed loudly near the entrance. None of it registered. Her eyes remained fixed on the glowing screen in front of her.

There it was.

Zane's commitment announcement.

The crimson Alabama uniform looked surreal against the polished recruiting graphic. Number one across his chest. Arms folded confidently. The unmistakable script A behind him.

The caption was simple, professional, thanking Syracuse, thanking everyone who had supported him through the hardest year of his life before announcing that he would be continuing his collegiate career at Alabama. It had already accumulated hundreds of thousands of likes and thousands of comments from fans, players, coaches, media personalities, and NFL stars welcoming him to Tuscaloosa.

She had already added her own like.

Her thumb hovered over the comment box for what had to have been the tenth time.

Congratulations.

Proud of you.

Go be great.

Every sentence she typed felt wrong. Too distant. Too familiar. Too emotional. Too cold. Nothing fit the strange place they occupied in each other's lives now. Eventually she sighed quietly, deleted the half-finished sentence, and locked her phone.

Maybe silence was easier or what he maybe would have wanted.

They had not spoken since he had visited Michigan.

The memory replayed itself without invitation.

Him standing awkwardly in her dorm room after their conversation. His tired eyes. The weight he carried everywhere after losing both Felix and Mary. The moment she had admitted she could never simply be his friend. The way he had admitted he missed her too. Their kiss. The night that followed.

It had felt like years of unresolved emotion finally crashing into one another.

Bianca rested her chin against her palm and stared absentmindedly through the café window. Part of her figured he had simply wanted to avoid the messiness of everything.

That had always been Zane's weakest quality. He could stare down a linebacker without flinching. He could make impossible catches in front of 80 thousand screaming fans. But difficult conversations? Emotional fallout? He usually buried himself in football until the problem either disappeared or exploded.

Considering she had never heard anything about him breaking things off with the girl from Syracuse - the one who had stood beside him through Mary's funeral - she imagined their night together probably had not done his relationship any favors.

The thought settled heavily in her chest. She did not necessarily regret what had happened.

She just wished life were simpler.

Her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her coffee cup as another memory surfaced.

Katie sitting across from her with papers and transfer options scattered everywhere. Both of them exhausted from trying to choose where to restart their lives. Bianca had admitted then that all she could really do was trust the universe. If she and Zane were ever supposed to find one another again, life would eventually push them back together. If not, well.

Then she would finally have to let him go.

She had believed those words when she said them.

A faint shadow crossed the table.

Bianca sensed someone standing behind her before she even looked up.

She turned in her chair to find Katie smiling knowingly down at her, a leather purse hanging from one shoulder and her blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Snowflakes still clung to the sleeves of her coat from outside.

Katie's eyes immediately dropped toward Bianca's phone.

A smirk slowly spread across her face.

"So," she said, drawing the word out, "that's what we're doing today?"

Bianca instinctively glanced back at the screen, where Zane's Alabama commitment graphic still dominated the display.

She felt heat rise into her cheeks. "It's not what it looks like."

Katie snorted.

"I don't think I've ever heard a sentence less believable."

Bianca rolled her eyes before reaching over and locking the phone again, placing it face down against the table as though hiding the evidence.

"I was just looking."

"Mhm."

Katie slid into the empty chair across from her, setting her purse beside her feet before peeling off her gloves. She folded her hands together on the tabletop, still wearing the same amused expression.

"You know," Katie began casually, "it isn't beyond me that Alabama and Auburn are less than a two-hour drive apart."

Bianca exhaled dramatically.

"I know."

Katie lifted an eyebrow.

"You know?"

"I know."

"You've Googled it."

"I did not Google it."

Katie stared at her.

Bianca sighed.

"It was Google Maps."

Katie burst into laughter.

"I knew it."

Bianca couldn't help laughing herself, shaking her head as she leaned back into her chair.

"It doesn't mean anything."

"You know the fucking route now bitch."

"I was curious."

"Sure."

Katie leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table.

"So tell me something honestly."

Bianca already knew the question before it came.

"You seriously had no idea he was choosing Alabama when we picked Auburn?"

The humor faded from Bianca's face. She shook her head immediately, firmly.

"No."

"None?"

"Not a one. You know Zane - he keeps things close to the chest."

Katie studied her for a long second before apparently deciding she believed her.

Bianca looked down at her folded hands.

"I picked Auburn because it made the most sense for me," she said quietly. "The coaching staff. The track program. The academic support. It just felt right."

"And Zane?"

"I had absolutely no clue."

Katie nodded slowly.

"I believe you."

Bianca looked back toward the snowy window.

"I found out the same way everybody else did."

Silence settled comfortably between them for a moment.

Students continued filtering through the café around them, ordering coffee and sandwiches before disappearing back into the cold.

Katie rested her cheek against her palm.

"You know," Bianca looked back over. "That's kind of insane though."

"What is?"

"You spent months trying to convince yourself to stop letting your life revolve around Zane."

"I did."

"You transferred somewhere that made sense completely independent of him."

"I did."

"And then he somehow ends up less than two hours away."

Bianca couldn't help smiling.

The two friends shared another laugh before the conversation drifted toward class schedules, housing, and what life in Auburn might actually look like.

Yet even as Bianca joined in, a small part of her mind wandered south, toward Tuscaloosa, toward crimson jerseys and Bryant-Denny Stadium, toward the boy she had loved for years and still wasn't entirely sure she had stopped loving.

***

Cam had never imagined that an ordinary grocery run could feel like the beginning of a second chance.

Snow drifted lazily through the gray Pittsburgh afternoon, collecting in uneven patches across the parking lot as he stepped out of the automatic doors with a single plastic bag dangling from one hand. His breath curled into the winter air while his eyes remained fixed on the phone in his other hand, the grocery store and the people around him fading into the background.

An email sat open on the screen, one he had already read four or five times just to make sure he had not imagined it.

Sacramento State Football.

He could hardly believe it.

The coaching staff had reviewed his high school film along with the handful of practice reps available from his short, disappointing stay at Purdue. It was nowhere near enough to truly evaluate a player, but apparently it had been enough for someone to believe there was still something worth developing. They wanted him to come out for an official visit. They believed they might have a roster spot available if everything checked out.

Cam let out a quiet laugh through his nose, unable to stop the grin spreading across his face. It was the first legitimate collegiate interest he had received since everything had fallen apart.

For months he had convinced himself football was over.

Purdue had ended in disaster. His body had slipped out of playing shape. His confidence had disappeared long before that. Every morning since returning home had been spent wondering whether anyone would ever call again, whether all the sacrifices he had made growing up had amounted to nothing more than a few highlight tapes collecting dust online.

Then Zane had shown back up.

Against every expectation, against every reason not to, Zane had offered him a chance to work out together. No lectures. No speeches. Just an opportunity to get back into shape.

Those sessions had slowly dragged him out of the hole he had dug for himself.

The sled pushes.

The sprints.

The endless lifting.

The film study.

Zane had treated him like a teammate again long before Cam believed he deserved it.

Cam looked down at the email once more, his thumb already typing out a response.

Thank you for reaching out…

He smiled to himself.

Maybe this wasn't the ending.

As quickly as the warmth settled into his chest, another thought forced its way in.

Zane.

The internet had exploded the moment Alabama announced his commitment. Million-dollar NIL estimates. National analysts debating how the Crimson Tide had landed the biggest receiver in the transfer portal. Endless graphics. Endless praise.

Cam physically shook his head.

No.

He refused to do that again.

That jealousy had poisoned everything.

It had turned every success Zane experienced into another reason to resent him. It had driven a wedge between two friends who had once done everything together.

It had bled into his relationship with Rebecca until even she had grown tired of hearing his bitterness.

It had followed him all the way to Purdue, where instead of competing against strangers, he had spent every day competing against ghosts.

That version of him had nearly destroyed his life.

He wasn't going back there.

His phone chimed as another notification appeared. He barely glanced at it before continuing to type.

I'd love to schedule a visit…

The parking lot was quieter than usual, muffled beneath fresh snowfall. Every footstep produced a soft crunch beneath his boots as he crossed toward the far side of the lot where his mother's sedan sat waiting. The grocery bag swung lightly against his leg while he continued polishing the email, wanting it to sound professional without seeming desperate.

He was only a few car lengths away before something finally pulled his attention from the screen.

Someone was leaning against the driver's side door.

Cam slowed.

The man stood with complete stillness, one heavy shoulder resting against the car as if he owned it. He was enormous. Broad enough to make the sedan look almost compact beside him. A dark winter coat strained across his shoulders, and both hands rested comfortably inside its pockets.

Cam's smile disappeared.

He slipped his phone into his jacket.

The snow suddenly felt much colder.

He continued walking, though far more cautiously now.

"Hey, man” he called out, keeping his voice even. "You mind moving?"

The man didn't answer.

He simply watched him.

Cam stopped several feet away now, studying him. He didn't recognize the face. Mid-thirties maybe. Thick beard. Dark knit cap pulled low. His expression remained unreadable, almost bored.

Cam shifted the grocery bag into his other hand.

"Yo," he repeated, a little firmer this time, "can you fucking move?"

Still nothing.

The silence made the hairs on the back of Cam's neck stand up.

He held his arms out in mild frustration.

"Bro, that's my mom's car."

Only then did the man slowly push himself off the vehicle. For a split second Cam thought the problem had resolved itself.

Instead, the stranger took one deliberate step toward him.

Then another.

The size difference became impossible to ignore.

Cam had played football his entire life. He wasn't small by normal standards.

This man dwarfed him.

Every instinct told Cam to back away.

He refused.

He planted his boots into the snow and squared his shoulders.

"What?" Cam asked.

The stranger leaned forward until only a couple feet separated them. His voice emerged low enough that it barely rose above the wind.

"You ain't no killer."

Cam's stomach dropped. His eyes widened despite every effort to hide it.

The man noticed.

A slow smile crept across his face. The kind that appeared when someone finally confirmed a suspicion.

He tilted his head ever so slightly.

He paused just long enough for the word to sink into Cam's chest.

"I think you know who did in my boy Tom."

Every muscle in Cam's body locked. The grocery bag slipped slightly in his grip. His heartbeat pounded so violently he could hear it ringing inside his ears.

The stranger's smile widened another fraction as he watched realization spread across Cam's face.

He had gotten exactly the reaction he came looking for.

[redsox907]

you writing a football romeo and juliet now? Two lovers entwined in a decade old rivalry where both sides hate each other



Cam bout to get roughed up. He willing to die to protect Zane?

[Caesar]

WCW going to Auburn instead of Alabama ain't stopping the inevitable happily ever after between the milk warrior and his milk maiden.

[Captain Canada]

you writing a football romeo and juliet now? Two lovers entwined in a decade old rivalry where both sides hate each other



Cam bout to get roughed up. He willing to die to protect Zane?

Football Romeo and Juliet isn't my bag. But I see the inspriration.

Cam just can't catch a break but ain't no protecting Zane. As far as he knows, Zane has no idea about his toe-dipping into crime.

WCW going to Auburn instead of Alabama ain't stopping the inevitable happily ever after between the milk warrior and his milk maiden.

Would be a healthier relationship than any of the ones you cooked up thus far, kind sir

[Soapy]

ya lucky my son Byrum Brown graduated already

come through WCW, come through

[Captain Canada]

Season 7 | Episode 2 - Without Me

The last zipper on Zane's suitcase rasped shut through the silence of the bedroom, the sound echoing louder than it should have in a house that had once always seemed alive.

He rested both hands on top of the luggage for a moment, leaning his weight into it as he caught his breath. Around him, the room had become almost unrecognizable. The shelves had been emptied. The dresser drawers sat open and bare. The posters and photographs that had decorated the walls throughout high school had long since been taken down, leaving behind lighter squares where the paint had been protected from the years.

Everything he had wanted from his condo in Syracuse had already been shipped directly to Tuscaloosa by the moving company Tyson had hired on his behalf.

All of the logistical headaches had been handled without Zane needing to think about them, something his agent had insisted upon once the Alabama paperwork had become official. It still amazed him how quickly life changed once people started treating him like an investment.

He glanced toward the corner where another duffel bag rested beside the door, then toward the window overlooking the quiet Pittsburgh neighborhood.

Snow blanketed the yards and rooftops in a clean sheet of white, hiding the imperfections beneath it. It looked peaceful from up here. Deceptively so.

This house had carried every version of him he could remember. The little boy who ran through the hallway in oversized socks. The teenager who had dreamed of college football while watching old NFL games with Felix. The freshman who had returned home after winning the Shaun Alexander Award carrying far more grief than celebration.

Now he was leaving again, this time without either of his grandparents waiting downstairs to tell him to be safe.

His eyes drifted upward until they settled on the lone piece of decoration he had refused to remove.

His Upper St. Clair jersey still hung proudly on the wall.

The black and silver fabric looked almost frozen in time. Number one. The jersey that had transformed him from a local kid with potential into one of the most coveted recruits in the country. He stepped closer without really meaning to, studying the wrinkles in the fabric as memories flooded through him. Early morning lifts. Camp in the August heat.

Snow-covered playoff games. The roar of Friday night crowds. Cam lining up opposite him during practice. Malik barking adjustments at the line of scrimmage. Coach Shazier screaming for another rep. His grandparents sitting faithfully in the stands every single week.

For the first time in a long while, the memories didn't hurt quite as sharply.

They simply reminded him of where everything had begun.

A knock sounded softly against the open bedroom door.

Zane turned to find Rasheed leaning casually against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. His father looked almost uncomfortable standing there, as though he wasn't entirely sure he belonged in the room. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes quietly surveyed everything - the empty shelves, the packed luggage, the jersey still hanging on the wall.

"How's packing?" Rasheed asked.

Zane looked around the room one final time before nodding.

"I'm just about done."

Rasheed nodded once in return, remaining where he stood for another moment before slowly stepping inside. The floor creaked beneath his boots as he walked farther into the room, taking it in with a quiet appreciation neither of them voiced. The room had once belonged to a little boy he'd barely known. Now it was being emptied by a young man preparing to become one of college football's biggest stars.

Zane rested a hand on the handle of his suitcase.

"Thanks for driving me to the airport."

His father waved the gratitude away with a shrug.

"Ain't like I was gonna let you Uber outta here."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Zane's mouth.

"I appreciate it anyway."

Rasheed lowered his eyes briefly before exhaling through his nose.

"I wish I could've made the trip with you."

That caught Zane's attention. He looked over to his father, who had turned toward the window, watching snowflakes drift lazily outside.

"My probation's got me locked inside Pennsylvania another year," Rasheed continued. "Would've liked to see your new spot."

Zane nodded slowly.

"I know, but you’ll get out there next year."

It had been one of Penn State's strongest recruiting pitches. Stay home. Rebuild things with his father. Be close enough to repair a relationship that had spent nearly two decades fractured. There had been moments when that offer had almost convinced him. Almost. But in the end, he had chosen Alabama. Chosen discomfort. Chosen the place he believed would force him to become the player - and the man - he still wasn't.

"I don't hold it against you," Zane said honestly.

Rasheed remained quiet for several seconds, long enough that Zane looked over to see his father struggling to organize his thoughts.

It wasn't something he saw often. Rasheed usually had an answer.

Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck before letting his arms fall to his sides.

"I know," he started before stopping himself. He looked down at the hardwood floor and shook his head once. "I know it ain't been easy."

Zane didn't interrupt.

"I've been back in this house and I'm aware it hasn't exactly made things comfortable for you."

He gave a humorless chuckle.

"I'm stuck in my ways."

There wasn't any anger in his voice. "I know that ain't always conducive to having a great father-son relationship."

The words landed heavier than Zane expected.

He had spent years imagining conversations like this. Arguments. Apologies. Explanations. Somehow, none of those fantasies looked anything like reality.

Rasheed finally met his son's eyes.

"But I want you to know something."

Zane stood still.

"I've always been proud of you."

The room seemed to go completely silent. The only sound audible was the snowflakes flicking against the window.

Zane searched his father's face instinctively, looking for sarcasm or some hidden joke that never came. Rasheed simply stood there with an expression Zane had never quite seen before. It wasn't softness exactly. It wasn't regret either.

"I've always been proud of you," Rasheed repeated more quietly. "Even when I wasn't around enough to tell you."

Zane let the words settle.

Twenty years of absence, prison walls, violence, broken promises and missed birthdays didn't disappear because of one sentence.

But hearing it still mattered.

A slow smirk spread across his face before he looked back toward his father.

"You growing soft on me?"

Rasheed stared at him for a second before the corner of his own mouth lifted.

"Must be old age."

Zane laughed.

His father shook his head with a small grin still lingering across his face, and for a brief moment neither of them felt obligated to fill the silence. They simply stood together in the nearly empty bedroom, surrounded by the remnants of a life Zane was finally leaving behind.

Tomorrow he would board a plane bound for Tuscaloosa.

The house, however, would remain here.

His grandparents' home.

The place that had made him.

Zane reached over and gripped the handle of his suitcase before taking one final look at the Upper St. Clair jersey hanging on the wall. It had represented the beginning of his journey.

Now another one waited several states away.
Without another word, father and son picked up the luggage together and carried it downstairs.

***

Cam sat alone at the far end of the nearly empty bar, watching pale winter sunlight slowly creep through the front windows and stretch across the worn hardwood floor.

Dust floated lazily through the golden beams, disturbed only occasionally by the bartender wiping down glasses behind the counter. It was far too early in the afternoon for the place to have any real life inside it. A television mounted in the corner played a sports debate show with the volume low enough that the voices blended into little more than background noise.

The few patrons scattered throughout the room kept to themselves, nursing lunches or beers without much conversation. Even among them, Cam looked out of place. It was barely a quarter after one in the afternoon, too early for drinking to feel socially acceptable, but social norms had stopped mattering the moment he realized someone had been hunting him.

He honestly hadn't known where else to go.

Home didn't feel safe. The gym suddenly felt too exposed. Driving around Pittsburgh with nowhere in particular to be only left him checking his mirrors every few seconds until his neck hurt.

Eventually he had pulled into the parking lot beside the bar almost without thinking, convincing himself he would have one drink simply to calm his nerves before figuring out his next move.

That had been over an hour ago.

Somewhere along the way, one drink had become two. Then three. Now the alcohol had settled warmly into his bloodstream, dulling the sharpest edges of his panic without doing anything to remove it entirely.

His car still sat outside beneath a thin layer of fresh snow, but he already knew he wasn't driving it anywhere. He was far too drunk to safely get behind the wheel, and even if he weren't, the idea of walking back into that parking lot made his stomach twist itself into knots.

His fingers drummed absently against the sticky wooden countertop as his mind replayed the encounter outside the grocery store for what had to be the hundredth time.

Every detail returned with brutal clarity. The crunch of snow beneath his boots. The stranger leaning casually against his mother's car like he'd been waiting all day. The size of him. The confidence. The way he hadn't moved when Cam politely asked him to step aside. Most of all, Cam couldn't shake that grin. It hadn't been loud or theatrical. It had simply spread slowly across the man's face as though he already knew exactly how the conversation was going to end. Then came those words.

"You ain't no killer."

At first, Cam had almost felt relieved.

Then the second sentence had arrived.

"But I think you know who did in my boy Tom."

Cam shut his eyes tightly.

His heartbeat quickened all over again.

He had believed - truly believed - that everything had been over. Rasheed had handled it. The danger had passed. The nightmare surrounding Felix's murder and everything that followed had been buried along with the men responsible.

He had convinced himself he could simply move on with his life. Get back into football shape. Accept another opportunity if one came. Maybe rebuild the bridges he'd burned through jealousy and insecurity. Sacramento State's email had felt like the first genuine piece of hope he'd received in months. They had watched his high school film. They had evaluated the few practice reps available from his short stint at Purdue. They believed there was still a football player worth investing in.

That email had felt like the beginning of a second chance.

Now it felt almost laughably insignificant.

What did a college visit matter if someone wanted him dead?

He swallowed hard and looked instinctively toward the entrance again.

The front door remained closed.

Nobody entered. Nobody left.

Still, he couldn't stop checking.

Every few minutes his eyes drifted back toward the windows, searching every passing figure bundled against the cold. Every tall man suddenly looked familiar. Every truck slowing outside made him tense. Every silhouette crossing the sidewalk sent adrenaline surging through his chest before logic slowly pulled him back down again.

His body had become exhausted. His mind refused to follow.

He reached for the sweating glass in front of him before stopping halfway.

Maybe he should call somebody. The thought came and went almost immediately.

His mother? Absolutely not. She would panic.

Zane?

His fingers twitched slightly.

Zane would probably answer. He always had lately. Their friendship had been slowly healing over weeks of shared workouts, uncomfortable conversations, and silent understanding. Zane had never once made him feel judged for the way things had fallen apart after Purdue. If anyone would help him figure this out, it would probably be him.

What exactly would he say?

"Hey, so your Dad murdered your father’s murderer. I set him up, and now the guy’s buddies are after me. Hope ‘Bama is going well.”."

Cam squeezed the bridge of his nose.

No.

He couldn't dump that on Zane. Not after everything he'd already lost.

The last thing he needed was another disaster landing in his lap because of him.

Rebecca crossed his mind next.

The thought lingered longer.

He had spent weeks imagining reaching out to her. Maybe apologizing properly. Maybe seeing whether there was anything left worth salvaging between them.

Jealousy had poisoned everything good in his life. It had ruined his friendship with Zane. It had driven Rebecca away. It had contributed to him unraveling at Purdue until he'd practically self-destructed.

Working out with Zane had forced him to confront that ugliness inside himself, and for the first time in months, he'd started believing he might become someone different.

Someone better.

Now it felt like the past had caught up before he'd even had the chance.

His eyes drifted back toward the untouched phone lying beside his elbow.

He didn't pick it up.

The bartender wandered over quietly.
"You good, man?"

Cam blinked.

"Huh?"

"You've been staring at that door for like twenty minutes."

Cam forced a weak laugh that sounded painfully artificial even to his own ears.

"Just thinking."

The bartender studied him for another second before nodding.

"You need another?"

Cam looked down into the amber liquid already waiting in front of him. The surface reflected the overhead lights in warped circles. He knew another drink wasn't solving anything.

He also knew sobriety meant facing everything head-on again.

"Yeah," he muttered.

The bartender silently refilled the glass before walking away.

Cam wrapped his hand around it, feeling the cool condensation dampen his fingers. He lifted it halfway before pausing once more, unable to stop himself from looking toward the entrance again like he had every five minutes since sitting down. The door remained closed.

***

The prison door buzzed loudly before a heavy metallic clank echoed through the corridor, the electronic lock disengaging with the familiar mechanical groan that had become background noise over the better part of the last decade.

The man inside the cell didn't move immediately. He remained standing where he was, shoulders squared and chin slightly raised, waiting until the thick steel door had opened completely before acknowledging the prison guard standing outside.

The correctional officer gave him a brief nod and motioned for him to step out. Without saying a word, the inmate obeyed, crossing the threshold with an easy confidence that suggested this was merely another hallway rather than the end of a prison sentence. His chest remained high, his posture relaxed, and his dark eyes slowly swept across the surrounding cell block as he fell into step beside the guard, committing every face watching him to memory as they made their way toward processing.

A grin steadily crept across his face the farther they walked. He could feel the eyes following him from every direction.

Some inmates stared with naked envy, silently wishing they were the ones making that walk toward freedom. Others watched with unmistakable relief, grateful to finally see him leaving their world behind.

He recognized every expression without needing to stop and study them. Prison had a language all its own, one that was spoken more through body language than words, and he had spent enough years mastering it to understand exactly what each lingering stare meant. More than anything, he knew what his departure represented.

The moment those gates shut behind him, the balance inside would disappear. Men who had waited patiently would suddenly start making plays for territory. Old grudges would resurface. Alliances would fracture. Blood would almost certainly be spilled.

The thought made him scoff quietly beneath his breath.

The guards probably believed they had finally rid themselves of one of the institution's biggest problems, but he knew better.

They had spent years looking at him as though he were some uncontrollable menace, some violent animal who existed only to create chaos. They never understood the irony. Violence had always been a tool. Order had been the objective. He had kept men focused.

He had settled disputes before they became wars. He had made sure people stayed in line because disorder benefited no one. Whether the correctional officers admitted it or not, life inside had been far more manageable while he occupied his corner of the prison.

They would find that out soon enough.

The only disappointment he carried with him was that he had never quite managed to pull the guards themselves under his thumb. Some had accepted favors. Some had looked the other way when it suited them. But true control over them had always remained just out of reach.

The processing room smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and old paper. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while a corrections employee silently pushed a clipboard across the counter for him to sign.

He scribbled his name without looking down for very long before surrendering his prison-issued clothing piece by piece. The familiar khaki uniform disappeared into a laundry bin, replaced instead by the civilian clothes that had been waiting patiently in storage throughout his sentence. A plain black T-shirt. Dark jeans. A worn leather belt. Boots that felt heavier than he remembered after years of institutional footwear.

Another officer handed him a transparent plastic bag containing the handful of belongings he'd accumulated over the years - some letters, a few photographs worn soft around the edges, toiletries, and the odds and ends the prison deemed worthy of returning. He barely glanced inside before gripping the bag loosely in one hand.

Another series of heavy security doors opened one after another as he followed the final escort down the exit corridor. Each metallic slam echoed behind him like punctuation marks separating one chapter of his life from the next. Then came the final gate.

The massive prison entrance rolled open at an agonizingly slow pace, daylight pouring through the widening gap with enough brightness to make him instinctively narrow his eyes. Cold winter air rushed toward him, carrying with it the scent of damp pavement and melting snow. He paused just beyond the threshold, lifting a hand to shield his face until his vision adjusted. For the first time in years, there were no fences directly in front of him. No razor wire. No concrete walls stretching toward the sky.

Only freedom.

His gaze wandered toward the line of vehicles parked along the roadside outside the facility. Families leaned against pickup trucks. Children bounced impatiently in place waiting for parents they barely remembered. Women embraced men stepping through the gates after years apart. Some reunions were emotional enough to draw tears. Others remained awkward, strangers attempting to remember how to become family again.

None of it interested him.

His eyes moved methodically down the line until they settled near the back, where a black Ford Mustang sat idling quietly away from the crowds. The windows were tinted dark enough to conceal whoever waited inside, though he already suspected exactly who it would be.

He started walking.

With every step away from the prison, his swagger returned naturally. The years hadn't taken it from him. They had merely forced it to sleep. His shoulders loosened. His stride lengthened. By the time he reached the Mustang, he looked every bit like the man who had once commanded respect on the streets long before prison walls tried to strip that identity away.

The driver's side door swung open.

A tall man climbed out wearing a black hoodie pulled tightly over his head despite there being no real need for it. His face remained partially hidden beneath the shadow of the hood, but the smile spreading across it caught the light well enough. Gold grills gleamed brilliantly as he stepped forward without hesitation, extending his hand.

The former inmate accepted it immediately.

Their palms slapped together before sliding naturally into a practiced dap, followed by a brief shoulder bump that carried far more familiarity than words ever could.

The hooded man nodded once.

"Good to have you back out, Guapo."

Guapo returned the nod without missing a beat. He walked around the front of the Mustang toward the passenger side, the transparent bag swinging loosely from one hand while he reached for the door handle with the other. Before climbing inside, he glanced once more toward the prison shrinking behind him in the distance.

"I got a couple stops to make on the way," he said calmly.

The driver smirked.

"Oh yeah?"

Guapo settled into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut with a solid thud. As the Mustang eased away from the prison entrance and merged onto the road, he rested one forearm against the open window and stared out at the city waiting beyond the horizon.

"There's business meetings to be had, my nigga."

The Mustang accelerated down the highway, leaving the prison - and whatever fragile peace had existed in his absence - far behind.

[Caesar]

Cam about to get blicked down because he ran from Brice Colton's scorn at Purdue. Crazy.

[redsox907]

Guapo bout to have Sheed running laps for him. Wait until he finds out Sheed's son is a moneymaker in his own right

[Soapy]

Cam about to get blicked down because he ran from Brice Colton's scorn at Purdue. Crazy.

Go ahead and port this over to CFB27, gang

[Captain Canada]

Cam about to get blicked down because he ran from Brice Colton's scorn at Purdue. Crazy.

Brice Colton responsible for another body, as we can plainly see.

Guapo bout to have Sheed running laps for him. Wait until he finds out Sheed's son is a moneymaker in his own right

Guapo about to throw a whole wrench in this bitch.

Cam about to get blicked down because he ran from Brice Colton's scorn at Purdue. Crazy.

Go ahead and port this over to CFB27, gang

Nah, we gonna keep this going on 26. Got that new new coming out for 27.