nah, if she was gonna go in (ayo), go all the way in
i know he got the bubble guts by that 3rd missed call
Invictus
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 6279
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
Season III | Chapter VII - Sign of the Times
The film room always felt colder than the rest of the school.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the glow from the projector washing the offensive unit in pale blue. Helmets sat at their feet, shoulder pads half-unbuckled, the smell of turf and sweat still clinging to them from practice.
On the screen: the fourth quarter against Mt. Lebanon.
28-24. Survive and advance.
Coach Shazier stood at the front with the remote in one hand, laser pointer in the other.
“Roll it.”
The clip started. Zane recognized the formation instantly - trips right, single-high safety look pre-snap. He leaned forward slightly, already knowing what was coming.
He released clean off the line.
Stemmed inside.
Split the safeties.
Cover 2. A blatant hole down the middle. One of his favorite looks to get, knowing that the safety was rolling up from giving a run defence look a step too late. He had been underestimating Zane's first step off the line all throughout the first half. Punishment was his gift.
On the screen, Zane was running free - green grass opening like a runway.
The ball never came.
Instead, Malik dumped it to Cam on the shallow crosser. Cam turned upfield, fought through contact, and picked up twelve yards and a first down.
A good play.
But not the right one.
Shazier paused the film right as Zane crossed between the safeties.
The laser dot hovered over him.
“Malik,” Shazier said evenly, “walk me through this.”
The room shifted. Pads creaked. No one spoke.
Malik leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “I liked the crosser. High percentage. Get it to a playmaker in space, move the chains.”
The laser stayed on Zane, wide open in the frozen frame.
“You don’t see the post?” Shazier asked.
Malik shrugged. “I saw it. I was more confident in the throw underneath.”
A beat.
“I want to get playmakers the ball and let them work.”
The words hung in the air.
Low. Calculated.
Every head in the room knew what he meant.
Zane felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck. It wasn't embarrassment - it was betrayal, Anger. He thought his sideline shouting match had been enough to bridge the gap. Clearly he was wrong.
He told himself to stay quiet.
Be a leader.
Let it go.
But the words came anyway.
“So what,” Zane said, voice calm but sharp, “you not capable of making that throw? Or you just scared to?”
A ripple went through the room.
Malik’s head snapped toward him. “Shut the fuck up,” he said, already halfway out of his chair. “Before I come back there.”
Zane stood.
Slow. Deliberate. "Fuck you gonna do, pussy?"
Chairs scraped. Cam muttered something under his breath that nobody caught.
Coach Shazier stepped forward. “Sit down. Both of you.”
Neither moved.
Malik laughed once—short and humorless. “Man, you think you’re him because you had a couple good games?”
Zane didn’t answer. He just held his ground.
Then Malik went lower.
“Like father, like son,” he said. “All that hype. Same blood. Same killer instinct, right?”
The room froze.
Air disappeared.
Zane blinked, the words not even processing at first - then hitting all at once.
His father.
Prison.
Killer.
A chair tipped somewhere in the back.
Cam was on his feet now, eyes wide. “Yo-”
“Enough!” Shazier’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.
He stepped between them, physically putting a hand on Malik’s chest and pointing Zane back toward his seat.
“That’s done,” Shazier said, voice low and dangerous. “Right now.”
Malik sat, jaw tight but eyes still locked forward.
Zane didn’t move at first. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles burned. His vision tunnelled , the screen blurring into a wash of blue and white.
The frozen image still showed him running free down the seam.
Wide open.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to sit.
No one spoke for the rest of the session.
The projector clicked to the next play, but nobody was watching film anymore.
They were all watching the space between their quarterback and their best receiver and wondering how a team was supposed to survive with a fracture like that running straight through it.
The hallway outside the locker room had emptied out, the late afternoon light slanting through the high windows and stretching long shadows across the tile.
Cam sat on the bench near the main doors, helmet at his feet, backpack half-zipped. His phone read 4:17 PM. His mom was usually here by 4:20.
Zane was supposed to drive him.
Cam exhaled slowly.
He could still see it - the film room, the way the air had gone thin when Malik said it. The way Zane’s face had changed, not angry at first, just… blank. Like something old had been pulled to the surface.
Cam had been talking to a couple of track girls when Zane left. By the time he realized, the parking lot was already half empty.
He felt a flicker of guilt.
I should’ve been paying attention.
But he also knew Zane. Some things, you didn’t chase him down for. You let him breathe. He’d come back when he was ready.
They’d been boys since Pop Warner. Years of two-a-days, bus rides, shared Gatorades. And still - there were parts of Zane’s life that stayed sealed shut.
His dad.
All Cam knew was prison. That was it. No details. No stories. And his mom? A ghost. A name that never came up.
Cam had never Googled it. Never even considered it.
That would’ve felt like betrayal.
The locker room door banged open.
Malik stepped out, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, headphones around his neck. He looked up, saw Cam, and slowed slightly.
Cam stood.
“Yo,” Cam said, voice tight. “That was foul.”
Malik stopped walking. “What was?”
“You know what,” Cam said. “You ain’t have to bring his family into it.”
Malik’s expression darkened for a split second - something real flickering there - before he covered it with a scoff.
“Man, he started running his mouth,” Malik said. “Don’t throw stones if you live in a glass house.”
Cam shook his head. “That ain’t the same thing.”
Malik took a step closer. “Why you so pressed? You his lawyer now?”
“That's my boy.”
“Yeah,” Malik said, dragging the word out. “That’s the problem.”
Cam frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Malik leaned in slightly, voice dropping.
“How long you plan on riding his coattails?”
The words hit harder than Cam expected.
“I’m not-" Cam started.
Malik cut him off with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got talent. Real talent. I hit you all game last week - you showed it. So why you content being the number two?”
Cam’s jaw tightened. “We’re on the same team.”
“Exactly,” Malik said. “So why you deferring? Why you playing understudy to somebody who thinks he’s bigger than the offense?”
Cam felt heat rise in his chest. “Zane’s our best receiver.”
Malik tilted his head. “For now.”
A car horn blared outside - two short honks.
Cam glanced toward the doors instinctively. His mom.
When he looked back, Malik was already slinging his bag higher on his shoulder.
“Think about it,” Malik said. “You could be the number one if you wanted to be.”
He turned, walking toward the exit, then tossed one last line over his shoulder:
“Maybe we’ll find out.”
The doors swung shut behind him.
Cam stood there for a long moment, the hallway suddenly too quiet.
He hated that the words had landed.
Hated even more that a small part of him - somewhere deep and ugly - hadn’t rejected them immediately.
Another honk from outside.
Cam grabbed his helmet and headed for the doors, pushing the thought down as hard as he could.
But it followed him all the way to the car.
The film room always felt colder than the rest of the school.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the glow from the projector washing the offensive unit in pale blue. Helmets sat at their feet, shoulder pads half-unbuckled, the smell of turf and sweat still clinging to them from practice.
On the screen: the fourth quarter against Mt. Lebanon.
28-24. Survive and advance.
Coach Shazier stood at the front with the remote in one hand, laser pointer in the other.
“Roll it.”
The clip started. Zane recognized the formation instantly - trips right, single-high safety look pre-snap. He leaned forward slightly, already knowing what was coming.
He released clean off the line.
Stemmed inside.
Split the safeties.
Cover 2. A blatant hole down the middle. One of his favorite looks to get, knowing that the safety was rolling up from giving a run defence look a step too late. He had been underestimating Zane's first step off the line all throughout the first half. Punishment was his gift.
On the screen, Zane was running free - green grass opening like a runway.
The ball never came.
Instead, Malik dumped it to Cam on the shallow crosser. Cam turned upfield, fought through contact, and picked up twelve yards and a first down.
A good play.
But not the right one.
Shazier paused the film right as Zane crossed between the safeties.
The laser dot hovered over him.
“Malik,” Shazier said evenly, “walk me through this.”
The room shifted. Pads creaked. No one spoke.
Malik leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “I liked the crosser. High percentage. Get it to a playmaker in space, move the chains.”
The laser stayed on Zane, wide open in the frozen frame.
“You don’t see the post?” Shazier asked.
Malik shrugged. “I saw it. I was more confident in the throw underneath.”
A beat.
“I want to get playmakers the ball and let them work.”
The words hung in the air.
Low. Calculated.
Every head in the room knew what he meant.
Zane felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck. It wasn't embarrassment - it was betrayal, Anger. He thought his sideline shouting match had been enough to bridge the gap. Clearly he was wrong.
He told himself to stay quiet.
Be a leader.
Let it go.
But the words came anyway.
“So what,” Zane said, voice calm but sharp, “you not capable of making that throw? Or you just scared to?”
A ripple went through the room.
Malik’s head snapped toward him. “Shut the fuck up,” he said, already halfway out of his chair. “Before I come back there.”
Zane stood.
Slow. Deliberate. "Fuck you gonna do, pussy?"
Chairs scraped. Cam muttered something under his breath that nobody caught.
Coach Shazier stepped forward. “Sit down. Both of you.”
Neither moved.
Malik laughed once—short and humorless. “Man, you think you’re him because you had a couple good games?”
Zane didn’t answer. He just held his ground.
Then Malik went lower.
“Like father, like son,” he said. “All that hype. Same blood. Same killer instinct, right?”
The room froze.
Air disappeared.
Zane blinked, the words not even processing at first - then hitting all at once.
His father.
Prison.
Killer.
A chair tipped somewhere in the back.
Cam was on his feet now, eyes wide. “Yo-”
“Enough!” Shazier’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.
He stepped between them, physically putting a hand on Malik’s chest and pointing Zane back toward his seat.
“That’s done,” Shazier said, voice low and dangerous. “Right now.”
Malik sat, jaw tight but eyes still locked forward.
Zane didn’t move at first. His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles burned. His vision tunnelled , the screen blurring into a wash of blue and white.
The frozen image still showed him running free down the seam.
Wide open.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to sit.
No one spoke for the rest of the session.
The projector clicked to the next play, but nobody was watching film anymore.
They were all watching the space between their quarterback and their best receiver and wondering how a team was supposed to survive with a fracture like that running straight through it.
***
The hallway outside the locker room had emptied out, the late afternoon light slanting through the high windows and stretching long shadows across the tile.
Cam sat on the bench near the main doors, helmet at his feet, backpack half-zipped. His phone read 4:17 PM. His mom was usually here by 4:20.
Zane was supposed to drive him.
Cam exhaled slowly.
He could still see it - the film room, the way the air had gone thin when Malik said it. The way Zane’s face had changed, not angry at first, just… blank. Like something old had been pulled to the surface.
Cam had been talking to a couple of track girls when Zane left. By the time he realized, the parking lot was already half empty.
He felt a flicker of guilt.
I should’ve been paying attention.
But he also knew Zane. Some things, you didn’t chase him down for. You let him breathe. He’d come back when he was ready.
They’d been boys since Pop Warner. Years of two-a-days, bus rides, shared Gatorades. And still - there were parts of Zane’s life that stayed sealed shut.
His dad.
All Cam knew was prison. That was it. No details. No stories. And his mom? A ghost. A name that never came up.
Cam had never Googled it. Never even considered it.
That would’ve felt like betrayal.
The locker room door banged open.
Malik stepped out, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, headphones around his neck. He looked up, saw Cam, and slowed slightly.
Cam stood.
“Yo,” Cam said, voice tight. “That was foul.”
Malik stopped walking. “What was?”
“You know what,” Cam said. “You ain’t have to bring his family into it.”
Malik’s expression darkened for a split second - something real flickering there - before he covered it with a scoff.
“Man, he started running his mouth,” Malik said. “Don’t throw stones if you live in a glass house.”
Cam shook his head. “That ain’t the same thing.”
Malik took a step closer. “Why you so pressed? You his lawyer now?”
“That's my boy.”
“Yeah,” Malik said, dragging the word out. “That’s the problem.”
Cam frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Malik leaned in slightly, voice dropping.
“How long you plan on riding his coattails?”
The words hit harder than Cam expected.
“I’m not-" Cam started.
Malik cut him off with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got talent. Real talent. I hit you all game last week - you showed it. So why you content being the number two?”
Cam’s jaw tightened. “We’re on the same team.”
“Exactly,” Malik said. “So why you deferring? Why you playing understudy to somebody who thinks he’s bigger than the offense?”
Cam felt heat rise in his chest. “Zane’s our best receiver.”
Malik tilted his head. “For now.”
A car horn blared outside - two short honks.
Cam glanced toward the doors instinctively. His mom.
When he looked back, Malik was already slinging his bag higher on his shoulder.
“Think about it,” Malik said. “You could be the number one if you wanted to be.”
He turned, walking toward the exit, then tossed one last line over his shoulder:
“Maybe we’ll find out.”
The doors swung shut behind him.
Cam stood there for a long moment, the hallway suddenly too quiet.
He hated that the words had landed.
Hated even more that a small part of him - somewhere deep and ugly - hadn’t rejected them immediately.
Another honk from outside.
Cam grabbed his helmet and headed for the doors, pushing the thought down as hard as he could.
But it followed him all the way to the car.
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 6279
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 6279
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 6279
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Invictus
Season III | Chapter VII - Do I Wanna Know?
The student lounge never stopped moving.
Backpacks thumped onto chairs, coffee cups clinked against tabletops, voices layered over each other in a constant hum that made concentration feel optional at best. Bianca sat at a corner table with her laptop open, an economics problem set staring back at her like it had been written in code.
Elasticity curves. Marginal cost. Supply shocks.
She had read the same paragraph three times and still couldn’t tell you what it meant.
Instead, she people-watched.
A girl in a Michigan crewneck speed-walked past talking into a headset. Two guys argued about fantasy football. Someone laughed too loud across the room. It all felt easier to understand than the numbers on her screen.
Bianca sighed and leaned back in her chair.
“Studying hard or hardly studying?”
She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
Darius dropped into the seat across from her, setting down a steaming takeout container. The smell of lo mein drifted across the table.
Bianca rolled her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What?” he said, already digging in with a plastic fork. “A man’s gotta eat.”
“You left me at the party.”
“I didn’t leave you,” Darius said through a mouthful of noodles. “Candace had been lining me up all summer. I wasn’t about to fumble at the goal line.”
Bianca stared at him. “You’re comparing sex to football.”
“Everything is football if you try hard enough,” he said. “Plus, you had Katie. I figured you were good.”
At the mention of Katie, Bianca’s stomach tightened.
She made a face before she could stop herself.
Darius paused mid-bite. “What?”
Bianca lowered her voice, leaning slightly across the table. “Did you know she does coke?”
Darius blinked once, then nodded like she had asked if Katie liked coffee. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Bianca repeated, incredulous.
“She’s a snowbunny,” he said casually. “Been that way as long as I’ve known her.”
Bianca stared at him. “And no one thought to tell me?”
He shrugged. “I figured you knew. I mean, I usually see her coked up with a couple hockey dudes. It’s recreational. It’s not like she’s doing heroin.”
Bianca recoiled. “Cocaine is still a significant drug, Darius.”
He leaned forward, curiosity lighting his face. “So… did you?”
She shook her head immediately. “No.”
Darius smirked. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he said, pointing his fork at her. “Rich girl went to her first party and tried to keep up.”
Bianca dropped her head into her hands. “It was one line,” she muttered. “Maybe two. I hated it. I felt awful. And I regret it.”
Darius sat back, eyebrows raised. “Well, damn. Plot twist.”
“And I lied to Zane about it,” she added quietly.
“Why?” he asked.
Bianca hesitated. “Because he’s… not from that world. At all. Stuff like that - crime, drugs - it hits different for him.” She stopped herself before going further, catching the edge of something too personal. “It just would’ve upset him.”
Darius studied her for a moment, the teasing gone.
“You want me to keep that between us?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Please.”
He made a small zipping motion across his lips. “You got it.”
Bianca exhaled, but the relief didn’t fully come. The lie still sat heavy in her chest, like an unpaid debt she couldn’t ignore.
Her laptop screen dimmed from inactivity.
Supply and demand.
Cause and effect.
She stared at the blank curve on the graph and couldn’t help thinking that every choice had a cost - and she was just starting to understand what hers might be.
The concrete stoop still held the warmth of the late afternoon sun.
Zane sat with his back against the railing, a small pile of envelopes and glossy folders spread out beside him like playing cards. The stack was noticeably thicker than it had been a week ago.
2–0.
Two games.
Two touchdowns.
Back-to-back 100-yard nights.
The results spoke louder than any highlight tape.
He flipped open another packet, scanning the bold lettering at the top.
Duke.
Maryland.
Rutgers.
Northwestern.
Scholarship offers. Real ones.
He pulled his phone out, Googling depth charts, offensive schemes, campus photos - trying to picture himself in places he had never even visited. Coach Shazier had been right: once the film hit, the noise started coming.
Still nothing from Michigan.
Bianca had asked about it first thing on the phone last night. He hadn’t had an answer.
A shadow crossed the sidewalk.
Cam.
Backpack slung high, hands tucked into the straps. He slowed as he approached, like he wasn’t sure how the conversation was going to go.
Zane looked up and grinned. “About time you pulled up.”
They dapped each other up, the handshake automatic, muscle memory from years of it.
“My bad about yesterday,” Zane said. “I just… left.”
Cam shook his head. “You had bigger stuff going on. That’s on me too. I should’ve been paying attention.”
They stood there for a second, the apology hanging between them before dissolving into something easier.
Cam nodded toward the envelopes. “So it’s real now, huh?”
Zane let out a small breath. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
Cam sat down beside him on the stoop. “You deserve it.”
Zane glanced at him. “You good?”
Cam hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Malik talked to me after film.”
Zane’s jaw tightened slightly. “What did that bitch have to say?”
Cam picked at a loose thread on his backpack. “He asked how long I was gonna ride your coattails. Said I could be the number one if I wanted.”
Zane didn’t respond immediately. He just stared out at the street, processing.
Finally, he breathed. “You should want to be the best.”
Cam blinked. “What?”
“For real,” Zane said, turning to him. “You’re talented. You should want that. We both should. That’s how we get better - pushing each other.”
Cam studied his face, looking for sarcasm and finding none.
“But,” Zane continued, “we on the same team. That comes first. We brothers before anything else.”
Cam nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah. Always.”
“This our year,” Zane said. “Both of us. Show the country what we can do.”
Cam cracked a smile. “You sound like a commercial.”
Zane laughed. “I’m serious.”
Cam reached into his backpack and pulled out a couple of envelopes of his own, waving them like a magician revealing a trick.
“My stack coming up too,” he said. “Better watch out.”
Zane raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s like that?”
Cam leaned back on his hands. “I'm on your bumper, Z.”
Zane bumped his shoulder into his. “Funny. I'm looking in my rearview mirror, and I don't see nothing.”
They sat there for a while, side by side, the envelopes scattered between them like roadmaps to different futures.
The student lounge never stopped moving.
Backpacks thumped onto chairs, coffee cups clinked against tabletops, voices layered over each other in a constant hum that made concentration feel optional at best. Bianca sat at a corner table with her laptop open, an economics problem set staring back at her like it had been written in code.
Elasticity curves. Marginal cost. Supply shocks.
She had read the same paragraph three times and still couldn’t tell you what it meant.
Instead, she people-watched.
A girl in a Michigan crewneck speed-walked past talking into a headset. Two guys argued about fantasy football. Someone laughed too loud across the room. It all felt easier to understand than the numbers on her screen.
Bianca sighed and leaned back in her chair.
“Studying hard or hardly studying?”
She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
Darius dropped into the seat across from her, setting down a steaming takeout container. The smell of lo mein drifted across the table.
Bianca rolled her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What?” he said, already digging in with a plastic fork. “A man’s gotta eat.”
“You left me at the party.”
“I didn’t leave you,” Darius said through a mouthful of noodles. “Candace had been lining me up all summer. I wasn’t about to fumble at the goal line.”
Bianca stared at him. “You’re comparing sex to football.”
“Everything is football if you try hard enough,” he said. “Plus, you had Katie. I figured you were good.”
At the mention of Katie, Bianca’s stomach tightened.
She made a face before she could stop herself.
Darius paused mid-bite. “What?”
Bianca lowered her voice, leaning slightly across the table. “Did you know she does coke?”
Darius blinked once, then nodded like she had asked if Katie liked coffee. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Bianca repeated, incredulous.
“She’s a snowbunny,” he said casually. “Been that way as long as I’ve known her.”
Bianca stared at him. “And no one thought to tell me?”
He shrugged. “I figured you knew. I mean, I usually see her coked up with a couple hockey dudes. It’s recreational. It’s not like she’s doing heroin.”
Bianca recoiled. “Cocaine is still a significant drug, Darius.”
He leaned forward, curiosity lighting his face. “So… did you?”
She shook her head immediately. “No.”
Darius smirked. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he said, pointing his fork at her. “Rich girl went to her first party and tried to keep up.”
Bianca dropped her head into her hands. “It was one line,” she muttered. “Maybe two. I hated it. I felt awful. And I regret it.”
Darius sat back, eyebrows raised. “Well, damn. Plot twist.”
“And I lied to Zane about it,” she added quietly.
“Why?” he asked.
Bianca hesitated. “Because he’s… not from that world. At all. Stuff like that - crime, drugs - it hits different for him.” She stopped herself before going further, catching the edge of something too personal. “It just would’ve upset him.”
Darius studied her for a moment, the teasing gone.
“You want me to keep that between us?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Please.”
He made a small zipping motion across his lips. “You got it.”
Bianca exhaled, but the relief didn’t fully come. The lie still sat heavy in her chest, like an unpaid debt she couldn’t ignore.
Her laptop screen dimmed from inactivity.
Supply and demand.
Cause and effect.
She stared at the blank curve on the graph and couldn’t help thinking that every choice had a cost - and she was just starting to understand what hers might be.
***
The concrete stoop still held the warmth of the late afternoon sun.
Zane sat with his back against the railing, a small pile of envelopes and glossy folders spread out beside him like playing cards. The stack was noticeably thicker than it had been a week ago.
2–0.
Two games.
Two touchdowns.
Back-to-back 100-yard nights.
The results spoke louder than any highlight tape.
He flipped open another packet, scanning the bold lettering at the top.
Duke.
Maryland.
Rutgers.
Northwestern.
Scholarship offers. Real ones.
He pulled his phone out, Googling depth charts, offensive schemes, campus photos - trying to picture himself in places he had never even visited. Coach Shazier had been right: once the film hit, the noise started coming.
Still nothing from Michigan.
Bianca had asked about it first thing on the phone last night. He hadn’t had an answer.
A shadow crossed the sidewalk.
Cam.
Backpack slung high, hands tucked into the straps. He slowed as he approached, like he wasn’t sure how the conversation was going to go.
Zane looked up and grinned. “About time you pulled up.”
They dapped each other up, the handshake automatic, muscle memory from years of it.
“My bad about yesterday,” Zane said. “I just… left.”
Cam shook his head. “You had bigger stuff going on. That’s on me too. I should’ve been paying attention.”
They stood there for a second, the apology hanging between them before dissolving into something easier.
Cam nodded toward the envelopes. “So it’s real now, huh?”
Zane let out a small breath. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
Cam sat down beside him on the stoop. “You deserve it.”
Zane glanced at him. “You good?”
Cam hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Malik talked to me after film.”
Zane’s jaw tightened slightly. “What did that bitch have to say?”
Cam picked at a loose thread on his backpack. “He asked how long I was gonna ride your coattails. Said I could be the number one if I wanted.”
Zane didn’t respond immediately. He just stared out at the street, processing.
Finally, he breathed. “You should want to be the best.”
Cam blinked. “What?”
“For real,” Zane said, turning to him. “You’re talented. You should want that. We both should. That’s how we get better - pushing each other.”
Cam studied his face, looking for sarcasm and finding none.
“But,” Zane continued, “we on the same team. That comes first. We brothers before anything else.”
Cam nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah. Always.”
“This our year,” Zane said. “Both of us. Show the country what we can do.”
Cam cracked a smile. “You sound like a commercial.”
Zane laughed. “I’m serious.”
Cam reached into his backpack and pulled out a couple of envelopes of his own, waving them like a magician revealing a trick.
“My stack coming up too,” he said. “Better watch out.”
Zane raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s like that?”
Cam leaned back on his hands. “I'm on your bumper, Z.”
Zane bumped his shoulder into his. “Funny. I'm looking in my rearview mirror, and I don't see nothing.”
They sat there for a while, side by side, the envelopes scattered between them like roadmaps to different futures.
-
Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 6279
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
