Invictus

[Captain Canada]

Season VI | Episode 12 - Gimme A Reason

Zane was in the gym again, just like he had been nearly every day since the funeral, pushing a weighted sled across the turf with seven full plates stacked on it.

The metal skids screeched faintly against the rubberized floor as he drove forward, his cleats digging in, his thighs burning with each violent step. Sweat clung to the back of his neck despite the freezing temperatures outside, his breath coming in ragged bursts that fogged in front of his face before vanishing.

It had been a long day already - film study in the morning, emails from Tyson in the afternoon, a couple calls he’d ignored from people asking how he was doing when he didn’t even know how to answer that question himself. By the time night had settled in over Upper St. Clair, thick white flakes had started descending from the sky in a slow, peaceful drift, blanketing the parking lot and deadening the world outside.

Winter had arrived in full force, and somehow the cold felt fitting.

One of the hardest parts of losing both of his grandparents wasn’t the funeral, or the hospital, or even the moments where grief came crashing into him without warning.

It was the quiet afterward. The unbearable stillness.

When Felix had died, the house had still carried Mary’s energy - her constant movement, her clanging around in the kitchen, her shrill laugh on the phone with her friends, the smell of coffee brewing too early in the morning.

It had softened the loss, even if only slightly. But now Mary was gone too, and the house had become hollow. Empty in a way Zane couldn’t describe. There was no television humming with old football games. No grunting from Felix in his recliner. No dishes clinking together. No footsteps pacing across hardwood. Just the buzz of electricity in the walls. The heater rattling alive every now and then.

And, on the rare occasions Rasheed was actually home, the distant shuffle of his feet behind a closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway.

Zane hated it.

He hated every small, cruel detail of what life had become. He hated that he had started anticipating noises that would never come again. Hated catching himself waiting to hear Mary call him down for dinner or Felix yell at the TV over some game from twenty years ago. The silence felt alive now, pressing against him the second he walked through the front door, forcing him to sit with thoughts he didn’t want.

That was why he kept himself out of the house as much as possible. Why he woke up and lifted in the morning, spent the day distracting himself however he could, and always found an excuse to come back to the gym at night. Here, there was pain he understood. Weight on his back. Burn in his lungs. A purpose for the hurt.


He leaned into the sled harder, his body angled low, his legs pumping until he reached the far wall. His chest heaved as he let go, planting his hands on his knees and bowing his head, sweat dripping onto the turf. The gym was empty, as it had been most nights over the holiday break. Everyone was home with their families, or out living lives that still made sense. For Zane, the emptiness had become comforting. No eyes. No questions. Just him and the work.

That was why the sound of the gym doors opening behind him caught him off guard.

The metallic groan echoed louder than it should have in the silence.

Zane turned his head, his pulse still elevated as he fought to catch his breath, expecting maybe a late-night trainer, a janitor, or one of the younger local kids trying to sneak in for some extra work.

Instead, the sight that met him made his stomach tighten.

Cam had caught him at the only place Zane had allowed himself to exist lately: beneath iron, sweat, and pain. The gym had become his shelter, the only place where silence had a purpose. Out there, under weight or behind movement, grief had shape. It was measurable. Containable. But the moment Cam stepped through those doors, that fragile rhythm cracked.

The snowfall outside had thickened by then, white flakes drifting past the high windows in slow motion, coating the parking lot in fresh powder. Inside, the turf glistened faintly under fluorescent lights, the only sound the metallic scrape of Zane’s sled dragging against rubber flooring. Seven plates weighed it down - more than enough to make his legs scream - but that was the point. Pain was easier than thought.

When Cam accepted the invitation to work out, it felt almost surreal.

Zane watched him from the corner of his eye while toweling sweat from his face. Cam moved stiffly through stretches, like his body had forgotten how to be athletic. It was strange seeing him like this - heavier, slower, carrying himself like someone who hadn’t felt comfortable in his own skin for a while. Back in high school, Cam had always been sharp, quick, loud. Always talking. Always competing. Now there was a quietness to him that unsettled Zane.

Cam cleared his throat, “How has it been? Being back home in Pittsburgh and all after the season?”

Zane shrugged, “Cold as hell. It’s just a different kind of weather up in Syracuse. I guess the river’s over here make it a cold that bites the fuck out of you.”

Cam nodded, not really sure where to go to next. Zane filled the silence himself.

“What happened at Purdue, dude? It seemed like it was a pretty alright place to be.”

Cam blinked for a moment, before settling his hands on his hips, breathing deeply through his nose before responding. “Just wasn’t for me, honestly. Plus, the quarterback is such a dickhead.”

“Shit, I know all about quarterbacks being dickheads.”

By the time they moved to bench press, sweat had soaked through both of their shirts, and the familiar rhythm of spotting each other had started to chip away at the awkwardness. Zane sat up after his set, elbows on knees, breathing hard while Cam stood over him.

“You’ve gotten big as shit - pause if needed,” Cam muttered.

Zane wiped his mouth with the bottom of his shirt. “That’s what happens when all you do is lift.”

Cam nodded, but there was something loaded in it.

“How’s life been like with being under the same roof as your Dad man?” Cam squeaked, his voice raising slightly towards the end of his question. Zane hesitated a moment, unsure if that was something he wanted to step on.

“It’s been weird,” he answered, as he lifted his shoulder to wipe a bead of sweat threatening to reach his eyes away. “He’s such a closed off guy. And it’s only gotten worse since my grandparents died.”

Cam shot him a look, unsure of what to say. Zane caught it and contemplated even expanding before he figured how much harm could it really cause.

“I don’t know, man - he was a weird guy when he was locked up. But, that’s just jail. Now that he’s out? It’s like he forgot how to be a normal person.”

The weight of what Zane was leaving unsaid sat on his shoulders. He motioned to the sled with his eyebrows, signalling to Cam that it was his turn to go again with another rep. Cam bent down, getting the pipes on the right part of his traps before pushing.

The snow buried Pittsburgh outside, the two former best friends stepped back under the weight together.

***

Bryce Underwood moved through the football offices at the University of University of Michigan like he belonged there, because by now, he did. The halls were quieter with the holiday break in full swing, most of the building stripped down to coaches, analysts, and the handful of players still lingering around town. He carried a clear plastic container in one hand, filled with sliced oranges, grapefruit, and pineapple, shaking it lightly as he walked, the citrus juice sloshing at the bottom.

His headphones rested around his neck, and he nodded as he passed by a few staffers who greeted him on instinct. When he reached the offensive wing, he spotted Kenny Dillingham through the glass office wall, leaned back in a sleek black chair behind his desk, talking to two scouts with laptops open in front of them.

Bryce pushed through the door without much ceremony, nodding toward his head coach as he stepped inside.

“What’s up?” he asked, his voice casual, like he’d been summoned for something routine. With his free hand, he reached out and dapped up both scouts sitting across from Dillingham’s desk, exchanging quick greetings before turning his attention back to the coach.

He tilted his head. “Got your message to come through, but I can’t stay long. My moms got food cooking right now.”

Dillingham held both hands up in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll get right to it.”

Bryce stood there, lazily shaking his fruit container again, picking at a piece of pineapple with the plastic fork while Dillingham leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He explained that Michigan was going to have a few transfer portal recruits visiting in early January, and he wanted Bryce involved - showing face, helping sell the vision, making sure their quarterback was part of the process.

Bryce nodded slowly, chewing while listening, his eyes narrowing slightly as he worked through the information.

“Anybody I know?” Bryce asked.

Dillingham nodded. “We’re bringing in that junior edge rusher from Louisiana State University. The one who gave you hell in Baton Rouge.”

Bryce let out a breath through his nose and tilted his head back, remembering the game instantly. He could still feel the pressure collapsing around him in the pocket, that kid living in the backfield all night. He nodded once, acknowledging it. Dillingham leaned back in his chair, throwing his hands behind his head as he thought through the schedule, his eyes tracing the ceiling while he tried to recall who was slotted for what weekend.

Then he remembered.

His eyes snapped back down and locked onto Bryce.

“Oh,” Dillingham said, pointing at him. “And we’ve got Zane Jones coming in from Syracuse University.”

Bryce froze.

It was subtle - just a tightening in his shoulders, a pause in the movement of the fruit container—but it was there. His eyes narrowed almost immediately, disbelief flickering across his face before he could hide it.

“Really?” he asked.

Dillingham nodded, still reclined, calm as ever. “Really. Heard Sherrone Moore couldn’t lock him down when he came out of high school. But things are different now. Kid’s looking to pair up with a top quarterback and compete for a national title. We fit that.”

Bryce’s mouth flattened into a hard line as he stared at his coach, processing it. Of all the names he expected to hear, that wasn’t one of them. Zane Jones. The same Zane who was supposed to be out of the picture. The same Zane whose name still carried weight in circles Bryce had hoped were long settled.

Dillingham caught the shift immediately.

His eyes narrowed. “Something wrong?”

Bryce shook his head quickly, his dreads swaying with the motion. “Nah,” he said, his voice even. “I’m good. Whatever’s best for the team.”

Dillingham studied him for another second, like he wasn’t fully buying it, but Bryce had already turned on his heels and started toward the door. He gave the scouts a quick nod on the way out and stepped back into the hallway, the fluorescent lights suddenly feeling harsher than before.

The moment he was out of sight, his hand dipped into his pocket.

He pulled out his phone, thumb moving instinctively, already finding Bianca in his contacts.

His finger hovered over the call button.

He stared at her name for a long moment, jaw tightening as a dozen thoughts ran through his head at once - questions he didn’t want answers to, possibilities he didn’t want confirmed.

Then, after a beat, Bryce locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

For now, he decided, he’d wait.

***

The first thing Zane noticed about Matt Campbell was how meticulously put together he looked. It was almost jarring. His teeth were too white, the kind of polished smile that looked like it belonged on a billboard instead of behind a football desk.

His haircut looked fresh enough that Zane wondered if he had gotten it trimmed that morning just for this meeting. Even the Penn State polo stretched across his chest like it had just been pulled from the package, wrinkleless and crisp, the navy blue sharp against the bright office lighting. There was gray creeping in along the faded sides of his hair, just enough to make him look seasoned instead of old. Everything about him screamed control, preparation, order.

The office matched him.

Coach Campbell sat behind a broad oak desk with his hands clasped neatly in front of him, elbows resting beside scattered papers, folders, and recruiting sheets that looked like they had been sorted and re-sorted a dozen times. Framed pictures lined the walls - players holding trophies, sideline celebrations, draft-day handshakes. There was a rhythm to the room, a carefully manufactured image of success.

Across from him, Zane looked like the complete opposite.

He sat slouched in the black leather chair, his broad shoulders sagging into it, wearing light blue jeans and beige Timberlands that still carried faint salt stains from Pittsburgh snow. A black hoodie with the white Punisher skull stretched over his chest, the hood resting against the back of his neck. He looked less like the hottest receiver in the transfer portal and more like a kid who hadn’t fully caught up with his own life yet.

Because he hadn’t.

Tyson’s voice had been ringing in his ears all morning.

“This ain’t an interview for you, Zane. It’s an interview for them. Don’t forget that. They need to sell themselves to you. You’re the prize.”

Zane had nodded when Tyson said it over the phone, but sitting here now, inside one of the most powerful football programs in the country, it still felt ridiculous. Prize wasn’t the word he’d use for himself. Not lately.

Coach Campbell leaned back in his chair, studying him with a practiced ease.

“Adding someone like you,” he said, nodding to himself like the math was obvious, “is exactly what we need to bounce ourselves back to the top of the conference. Where we belong.”

Zane nodded once, though his mind barely registered the words. He had heard versions of this speech at Syracuse, at recruiting camps, at every major football event since he was sixteen. Coaches loved telling you how important you were before they had you.

Coach Campbell kept going.

“You step in here tomorrow, you’re WR1. No question. We’d build around you.”

That got a little more of Zane’s attention.

Campbell shifted in his seat and gestured toward one of the framed jerseys on the wall.

“You should’ve been here last year,” he said. “Truthfully. A Pennsylvania kid like you? We don’t let many like that leave the state. Guys like Saquon Barkley, Jahan Dotson - they stayed home. Built legacies here. That could’ve been you.”

Zane’s eyes flicked to the jersey, then back to Campbell. The mention of home sat strangely in his chest. Home had felt like anything but home lately.

Coach Campbell seemed to notice the shift.

He pivoted.

“What we offer isn’t just NIL money,” he said, tapping one of the folders. “Though we’ve got plenty of that. It’s not just marketing opportunities either. We’ll put you in front of every major brand in Pennsylvania if you want it. But what we’re selling here is bigger than that.”

He leaned forward now.

“A football team that makes you feel like family while never forgetting why we’re here.”

He paused.

“To win.”

That, at least, Zane understood.

Campbell cleared his throat and his tone softened.

“The staff knows what happened. About your grandmother.”

Zane’s jaw tightened immediately.

There it was; the part he hated.

The part every coach, every adult, every person who wanted something from him felt obligated to bring up.

His fingers fidgeted together in his lap, rubbing his thumb against his knuckles.

“Appreciate it,” he muttered.

Coach Campbell nodded. “We mean that.”

Zane stared at his hands. Coach Campbell continued carefully.

“We also take mental health seriously here. Counseling. Therapy. Support systems. Whatever you need. If you came here, you’d have every resource available to help carry-”

Zane’s eyes drifted up to the clock on the wall.

His leg bounced. This wasn’t what he needed.

Not from them.

Not from anyone.

He wanted football. He wanted noise.

Campbell must have seen it - the way Zane was slipping away, retreating into himself—because his entire demeanor shifted.

The polished recruiter disappeared. The football coach stepped in.

He leaned forward over the desk, eyes locking onto Zane’s.

“You’ve already proven you can survive.”

Zane looked up.

Coach Campbell’s voice was firmer now. Sharper.

“You’ve already proven you can carry weight most kids your age never could.”

Something twisted in Zane’s stomach. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Now come somewhere you don’t have to carry it alone.”

“Come win big,” Campbell said.

His eyes didn’t break.

“Come finish this the right way.”

And for the first time in the meeting, Zane actually felt himself listening.

His stomach lurched, not with fear, but with possibility.

Outside the office windows, snow had started falling over Penn State’s campus, soft white flakes drifting across the campus like ash.

Zane stared at Coach Campbell for another second, then leaned back in the chair, letting out a slow breath through his nose.

Penn State had his attention now.

And that made the choice ahead even harder.

[Caesar]

So WCW and Zane going to Penn State to be with weirdos just like them eh?

[Soapy]

“You’ve gotten big as shit - pause if needed,” Cam muttered.

Zane wiped his mouth with the bottom of his shirt.

[Captain Canada]

So WCW and Zane going to Penn State to be with weirdos just like them eh?

They ... ain't together?

“You’ve gotten big as shit - pause if needed,” Cam muttered.

Zane wiped his mouth with the bottom of his shirt.

You letting Caesar's brainrot get on your shit, brudda.

[redsox907]

“You’ve gotten big as shit - pause if needed,” Cam muttered.

Zane wiped his mouth with the bottom of his shirt.

Did Cam notice this while Zane was spotting him

real talk - Penn State ain't the play

[Captain Canada]

Season VI | Episode 13 - Choosin’ Texas

The burnt orange Longhorn decal stretched across the wall of the practice facility like a monument, its size almost absurd as Zane stood beneath it and tilted his head back to take it in.

It was the first thing that struck him when he arrived at the Longhorns football complex - the scale of everything. It was excessive in a way that somehow still felt intentional, like every inch of the place had been designed to remind you where you were and what it meant to be here.

Zane had heard the old saying his whole life - everything is bigger in Texas - but standing here now, seeing it with his own eyes, it felt less like a cliché and more like a warning. They had taken that idea and turned it into religion.

Even the campus itself had felt unreal.

Austin had felt like another planet compared to Pittsburgh or Syracuse. Warmer. Louder. Bigger in spirit and body. The roads stretched wider, the buildings reached higher, and there was a pulse to the place that made it feel alive in a way Zane hadn’t expected.

It was December, but there was no snow here. No bitter wind. Just dry air and sun hanging lazily overhead like football season never really ended.

The guide assigned to him, a junior named Anna, walked a half-step ahead, leading him through the facility with a practiced ease.

She was striking - blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders, bright blue eyes, long legs that seemed intentionally put on display in burnt-orange athletic wear that fit the school’s aesthetic a little too perfectly. Zane wasn’t stupid. He knew what this was.

Texas wasn’t recruiting him with just football.

They were selling a life.

They understood they didn’t need to win on money and knew they could outbid almost anybody.

Their job was different.

Their job was to make him want the experience.

Anna was in the middle of explaining the specs of the indoor practice facility - something about square footage and climate control and recovery pools that cost more than most houses - when a figure came striding across the turf toward them.

Steve Sarkisian.

He moved with purpose, hands loose at his sides, his white visor sitting low on his forehead with the Longhorn logo stamped proudly on the front.

His smile was immediate and polished, all teeth and confidence, the kind of smile Zane had seen on television a hundred times. Anna caught sight of him and instinctively stepped aside, folding her hands neatly in front of her and taking a respectful step back.

Coach Sarkisian took over without missing a beat.

He extended his hand. Zane shook it.

The grip was firm, aggressive almost, and Coach Sarkisian swung it once or twice like he was already welcoming him into the fold.

“How you doing, Zane?” Coach Sarkisian asked. “Travel into Austin alright?”

Zane glanced around again, his eyes tracing the endless ceiling beams, the pristine turf, the giant video boards hanging above the far end zone.

“Yeah,” he said honestly. “Everything here’s been, wow, breathtaking.”

Coach Sarkisian turned, following his gaze with a grin.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding proudly. “I don’t think it’s something you ever get used to. The scale of it all.”

He paused.

“But it’s something you learn to appreciate.”

He spread his arms slightly, gesturing around the facility.

“The Longhorns want to give their boys the Sunday experience on Saturdays.”

Zane nodded, though inwardly he couldn’t help but think the line felt rehearsed. Like something Coach Sarkisian had said a hundred times to recruits standing in this exact same spot.

Still, it landed. Namely, because standing here, it felt true.

Zane shifted his weight and asked, “We heading to your office to talk details?”

Coach Sarkisian looked almost amused by the question.

He shrugged. “What’s there to talk about?”

Zane blinked. For a second, he wasn’t sure if he had heard him right.

Coach Sarkisian smirked at his expression.

“The numbers?” he said. “That’s Tyson’s business.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Your agent and our people will figure that out. I’m sure you already know we want you here. Want you bad.”

He tilted his head.

“So do you really wanna spend your time talking contracts and percentages?”

Zane hesitated. He thought about Tyson, spreadsheets, NIL breakdowns, endorsement structures.

Then he shrugged.

“I guess not.”

Sarkisian smiled wider.

“Didn’t think so.”

He turned fully toward Zane now, the joking edge leaving his voice. His tone sharpened.

“We’re here to win.”

He pointed toward the giant SEC logo painted near midfield.

“This is the SEC,” Sarkisian said. “This ain’t cookie-cutter football. This ain’t soft. This ain’t safe.”

His eyes narrowed.

“This is where the best prove they’re the best.”

Zane felt himself straighten a little. Sarkisian kept going.

“You wanna win the Biletnikoff Award?”

He tapped Zane lightly on the chest.

“You do that here.”

“You wanna be a millionaire before you ever touch an NFL field?”

Another tap.

“You do that here.”

His voice lowered.

“You wanna win a national championship?”

That one sat heavier.

“You do that here.”

Zane felt his pulse quicken.

That was the thing. The one thing beneath all the grief, the confusion, the noise.

Winning.

He swallowed. “That’s all I want,” Zane admitted. “To win.”

Coach Sarkisian nodded immediately like that was the answer he had been waiting for.

“That’s all we do here.”

He turned and motioned toward the championship displays lining the hallway beyond the field.

“And we’re overdue to be yelling checkmate on all these motherfuckers out here.”

There was something dangerous in the way he said it. Hunger. Not desperation.

Expectation.

He stepped closer and rested one hand on Zane’s shoulder, gripping firmly.

“You weren’t made to disappear at Syracuse,” Sarkisian said. “You weren’t made to go be comfortable somewhere.”

His eyes locked on him.

“You were made for this.”

The facility hummed around them, alive with movement - trainers, players, staff, the endless machine of Texas football grinding forward.

Zane looked around again.

Penn State had made him feel understood. Texas made him feel dangerous.

***

The cabin of the plane at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport was half-lit in that strange, muted way late-night flights always seemed to be.

Zane sat near the middle of the cabin, his carry-on shoved beneath the seat in front of him, his long legs stretched as far as the cramped space would allow.

Outside his window, the tarmac glowed under harsh floodlights, the ground crew moving like shadows between orange cones and refueling trucks.

Passengers were still filing in one by one, dragging bags behind them, mumbling apologies as they squeezed past knees and armrests. The flight back to Pittsburgh would be just under five hours - long enough for him to try and sleep, though he already knew he probably wouldn’t.

It was a quick turnaround.

He would only be back in Pittsburgh for two days before his official visit to Miami Hurricanes football.

Tyson had built his schedule aggressively, knowing the portal moved fast and schools wanted answers quicker than ever.

Texas had just made their case, and Zane could still feel the weight of it sitting on him. The scale of the place. The money. The confidence. The expectation. It was hard to ignore.

But Pittsburgh still waited for him.

His phone rested in his hand, propped up against the tray table in front of him.

Through his AirPods, Marie’s voice filled the quiet as they talked over FaceTime. On his screen, she sat cross-legged in her dorm room back in Syracuse, her hair tied loosely up, a bowl of Southwest chicken salad balanced in her lap.

She was halfway through explaining her day - some annoying professor, some last-minute shift at the campus café, Alexis nearly spilling coffee on herself again - and Zane found himself mostly listening, letting the sound of her voice settle him.

It was normal.

And normal had become rare.

Marie stabbed her fork into the salad, chewing thoughtfully before looking at him through the screen.

“So,” she said, narrowing her eyes a little. “Are you seriously thinking about committing to Texas?”

Zane leaned his head back into the seat and thought about it. His head lulled side to side slowly, his dreads - longer now than they had ever been - falling over his forehead and brushing against his cheeks. He dragged a hand through them, pushing the strands back out of his face before exhaling.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’ve definitely thought about it.”

Marie raised an eyebrow.

“That fast?”

Zane shrugged.

“I could tell Coach Sark wanted me bad.” He stared at the seat in front of him for a moment. “He wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Marie smirked. “What, he tried to lock you in on the spot?”

Zane gave a small laugh through his nose.

“Pretty much.”

He shifted, glancing out the window as another baggage cart rolled by. “He looked damn near offended when I told him I was leaving Austin without committing.”

Marie shook her head and took another bite of her salad, chewing as she thought about it.

Zane looked back at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as a thought entered his mind. He inhaled slowly before speaking.

“Would you consider coming?”

Marie stopped chewing.

Her fork froze halfway to the bowl.

She swallowed.

“What?”

Zane shifted in his seat.

“If I picked a school,” he said carefully, “and it made sense for you academically, I’m asking if you would you come?”

Marie stared at him for a moment.

The plane around him buzzed with boarding announcements and the rustle of overhead bags, but her silence cut through all of it.

Then she shook her head.

“No.”

Zane blinked.

His chest tightened unexpectedly.

Marie leaned back, setting the bowl down beside her.

“No, probably not.”

He stared at her.

The answer had come so easily. He rubbed his jaw.

“What do you mean probably not?”

Marie leaned closer to her screen now, her face filling more of it, studying him through the dim cabin light overhead. Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm.

“I mean,” she said, “I would never follow a man wherever he went just because it was good for him.”

Zane sucked his teeth, frustration immediately rising.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Marie rolled her eyes.

“That’s exactly what you meant.”

“No,” Zane said, sitting forward now. “I asked if it made sense for you too.”

Marie laughed once - short and humorless.

“Zane, come on.”

He felt heat rising in his neck.

“I’m just asking what this means for us.”

Marie crossed her arms.

“And I’m telling you.” Her words were sharp now. “You’re the one leaving.”

That landed harder than he expected.

Zane frowned. “I’m not leaving you.”

Marie dropped her fork back into the bowl.

The metallic clink shot through his AirPods, loud enough to make him flinch.

“Yes,” she said. “You are.” Her eyes locked onto his. “You made the choice to enter the portal. You made the choice to leave Syracuse. I didn’t. Our relationship is already getting more complicated because you made it this way.”

Zane opened his mouth, wanting to argue, but the words stalled. Because she wasn’t wrong.

Marie shook her head.

“I have no obligation to compromise my life because you’re figuring yours out.”

The sentence hung between them.

Zane looked away toward the aisle.

He hated how right she sounded.

Marie’s voice softened a little.

“Call me when you’re back in Pittsburgh.”

He looked at her again.

“You clearly need time to think.”

Before he could respond, the screen went black.

Zane sat there, staring at his own reflection for a moment.

The weight of the conversation pressed into him harder than the seatbelt strapped across his lap. He leaned back and shut his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose.

He shook his head, annoyed at himself more than anything, and locked his phone. He pulled up one of his travel playlists, letting the familiar bassline fill his ears and drown out the thoughts threatening to swallow him whole.

As the plane doors finally shut and the cabin lights dimmed lower, Zane settled into his seat and stared out at the dark Texas runway.

***

Bianca ran at a steady pace on the treadmill, her shoes hitting the belt in a rhythmic pattern that had long since faded into background noise.

The machine overlooked the lower court of her local gym, where a pickup basketball game was unfolding beneath her. She had started the run hoping to disappear into her thoughts, to let the miles blur together the way they usually did when her mind was cluttered enough. But today, disassociating wasn’t coming easy.

Her thoughts kept snagging on too many things - Pittsburgh, Zane, Marie, Michigan, Katie, home. So instead of disappearing inward, she found herself actually watching the game below.

It was five-on-five, made up of men who looked like they had probably been decent athletes ten years ago and were still trying to convince themselves they had it.

Their movements were heavy, their knees stiff, their jump shots flatter than they probably remembered. One guy bricked a wide-open layup so badly it ricocheted off the underside of the rim and sent the other players groaning. Bianca smirked despite herself.

Another man threw a behind-the-back pass directly out of bounds and immediately blamed his teammate for not cutting. It was terrible basketball, but it was entertaining enough to distract her.

She glanced down at the treadmill display.

23 minutes.

Not even halfway.

Bianca let out a mental groan.

That was the curse of living in the north. Half the year, outdoor running was dead on arrival. Snow, ice, bitter wind - it forced her inside, trapped on treadmills where every second stretched longer than it should. At least when she ran outside, the scenery changed.

Here, it was just numbers.

Her pace. Her breathing. The God-awful basketball game below.

Then her phone buzzed in the cup holder.

She looked down and saw the screen light up with a name that immediately made her furrow her brows.

Bryce Underwood.

Bianca reached forward and tapped her AirPod.

“Hello?”

There was a beat.

“Yo.”

Bryce’s voice came through casual enough, but there was something tighter underneath it.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Bianca swallowed air, still running, her breath a little heavier.

“No,” she said. “I can talk. Just getting a few miles in.”

Bryce made a small sound of acknowledgment.

“You still in Pittsburgh?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Two more days.”

She adjusted her stride.

“Fly back to campus after that.”

Bryce paused. Bianca filled the silence.

“Katie already left before New Year’s.”

Bryce hummed.

Bianca kept going, almost out of habit.

“Her mom got back from Cabo earlier than expected, so she figured she’d go spend some time with her.” She smirked to herself. “Though honestly, I think she just got tired of dealing with my parents.”

That got a short laugh from Bryce.

Bianca shook her head.

“Can’t blame her - Mr. and Mrs. Anthopolos are a lot.”

Bryce made another quiet sound.

She waited a second.

“What’s wrong?”

Bryce didn’t answer immediately.

After another beat, he asked, “Something going on between you and Zane?”

The question made something tighten in Bianca’s chest. Her feet kept moving, but her body felt suddenly heavier.

“What?”

Bryce exhaled. “Coach Kenny Dillingham wants me to host him.”

Bianca blinked.

“Host who?”

“Zane Jones.”

The name hit harder than she expected.

Bryce continued. “He’s coming to Michigan for an official visit.”

Bianca nearly stumbled.

“What?”

Bryce’s voice sharpened.

“What am I - speaking in tongues? He’s thinking of transferring here.”

Her mind scrambled.

Bryce kept talking.

“I’m guessing that’s why you’ve been distant.”

Bianca’s eyebrows pinched.

“What?”

Bryce laughed bitterly.
“Is that all you know how to say? Come on, Bianca.” His tone changed. “You should’ve just told me.”

She slowed her pace slightly, trying to catch up to the conversation.

“Told you what?”

“That you were waiting on him.”

Bianca shook her head. “That’s not—”

Bryce cut her off. “You’ve been slow-playing me.”

Her jaw tightened.

Bianca looked down at the treadmill and hit the pause button hard, jumping her feet onto the side rails as the belt began slowing beneath her. Her breathing was heavy now, chest rising and falling as sweat clung to her skin.

“What are you talking about?”

Bryce scoffed. “You had every intention of getting back with him.”

Bianca wiped sweat from her forehead. “I had no idea he was visiting Michigan.”

“I don’t know what your game is,” he said. His voice was cold now. “But I’m done playing maybe-we-will, maybe-we-won’t with you.”

The call ended before Bianca could even contemplate a response.

She stared at her phone.

The screen reflected her own face back at her - flushed, sweaty, stunned.

Below her, someone on the court yelled after getting fouled.

The game continued.

[redsox907]

its all setting up perfectly. Marie doesn't want to move with Zane. Bryce cut off Bianca. Bianca is thinking about leaving Michigan with Katie anyways.

Send em down to Texas. Get Katie a cowboy, Zane his WCW. Zane wins a Natty in burnt orange

[Caesar]

“No, probably not.”

He stared at her.

The answer had come so easily. He rubbed his jaw.

“What do you mean probably not?”

Marie leaned closer to her screen now, her face filling more of it, studying him through the dim cabin light overhead. Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm.

“I mean,” she said, “I would never follow a man wherever he went just because it was good for him.”

Slandered Mireya Rosas for four seasons for this same sentiment.

Zane would have twos in his eyes because some blonde white woman smiled his way. Texas would crush that boy. Stick to Penn State, homie.

[Captain Canada]

its all setting up perfectly. Marie doesn't want to move with Zane. Bryce cut off Bianca. Bianca is thinking about leaving Michigan with Katie anyways.

Send em down to Texas. Get Katie a cowboy, Zane his WCW. Zane wins a Natty in burnt orange

That is one hell of a theory, I see the wheels spinning with this guy

“No, probably not.”

He stared at her.

The answer had come so easily. He rubbed his jaw.

“What do you mean probably not?”

Marie leaned closer to her screen now, her face filling more of it, studying him through the dim cabin light overhead. Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm.

“I mean,” she said, “I would never follow a man wherever he went just because it was good for him.”

Slandered Mireya Rosas for four seasons for this same sentiment.

Zane would have twos in his eyes because some blonde white woman smiled his way. Texas would crush that boy. Stick to Penn State, homie.

Ones a relationship of only a few months with a woman in the middle of a Law degree. The other is an idiot with a baby who wants to be a nurse being asked to follow her only prospect of not being a slum baby for the rest of her days (or otherwise, having to eat dick for a profession).

[Captain Canada]