Season II | Chapter II: BULLETPROOF
The tier was quieter than usual—quiet in the way a storm front is quiet, heavy and waiting. The evening count had just cleared, and most of the men drifted back to their routines: card games, workouts, the TV bolted behind scratched plexiglass.
Rasheed kept to his corner of the day room, the same way he’d been doing since he got transferred to G-Block. He sat at a metal table with a paperback open, his back to the wall, his eyes flicking up every so often to track movement the way he’d learned to. Not paranoid—just aware.
He had been doing his time clean. No affiliations. No colors. No debts. No problems.
Or so he’d hoped.
The room shifted in temperament the moment Slim walked in.
Slim wasn’t the biggest man in the block—not by a long shot—but size never mattered with someone like him. He had that slow, weathered gait of someone who had spent more years behind fences than outside them. Tattoos crawled up his neck like cracked earth, and his eyes were sharp enough to slice a man’s excuses in half.
He nodded once, and the two younger guys trailing him peeled off, standing just close enough to block any easy way out.
Rasheed closed his book.
Slim pulled out the chair across from him and dropped into it with a grunt. “You’ve been ducking me.”
Rasheed kept his voice even. “I’ve been minding my own business. That’s not the same thing.”
Slim chuckled, low and humorless. “In here? It is.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You know how many times I’ve had this conversation with you?”
“Too many.”
“Exactly. And you keep giving me the same line—‘I’m just here to do my time, keep my head down, go home.’” Slim mimicked him with a lazy drawl. “Respectable wish. Real noble.”
Rasheed’s jaw tensed. “It’s the truth.”
Slim’s eyes hardened, the respect still there but sitting behind something rougher. “Truth don’t mean a damn thing in here unless it keeps you alive.”
One of the guys behind him shifted, letting the message hang heavy in the stale air.
Slim folded his hands. “Look, Rasheed… I like you. Always have. You don’t run your mouth. You don’t start nothing. But liking you ain’t enough. You being solo? It’s becoming a problem. Makes you look unsure. And unsure reads as weak. And weak…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Rasheed kept his breathing slow, even. “I ain’t weak. I’m just not trying to be part of something that ain’t mine. I got a life on the outside. A son. A family waiting on me. When my time’s up, I’m gone. Clean.”
Slim tapped the table twice, slow and deliberate. “And I want you to make it out to that family. But these dudes?” He gestured to the tier. “They don’t care about your outside. They only care about what happens in here. And in here, if you’re not with somebody, you’re against everybody.”
Rasheed held his gaze. “I’m not joining a set. I’m not running with anyone’s banner. I didn’t come in here to owe nobody.”
Slim’s expression softened—for half a second—into something almost fatherly. Something worn by too many years of watching too many men fold under the weight of prison politics.
Then it shuttered again.
“I get it,” Slim said quietly. “I really do. But the time for choosing nothing is over. Lines are getting drawn, and tension’s climbing. You staying neutral?” He shook his head. “You’re painting a target on yourself.”
Rasheed swallowed. “So what—you’re here to threaten me?”
Slim leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “No. I’m here to warn you. ‘Cause if it was a threat, I wouldn’t be the one sitting here delivering it.”
Silence pressed between them.
Slim rose slowly, the chair scraping. “Think on it, Rasheed. I’m giving you one more chance to pick a side before someone else decides for you.”
He turned, his guys falling in behind him as he walked away.
Before he reached the stairs, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
“If you want to make it out,” he said, voice low but carrying, “you better stop pretending this place is gonna let you be invisible.”
Then he disappeared up the tier.
Rasheed sat there long after, his book untouched, the page still open but the words blurred.
Outside the fences, life waited for him. Inside them, survival demanded something else.
And for the first time since he’d arrived, Rasheed wasn’t sure he could keep those worlds separate.
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Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 5639
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Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 5639
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
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Season II | Chapter III: Stand On It
The fluorescent lights of the Upper St. Clair High's gymnasium buzzed softly overhead, casting long shadows over the freshly waxed floor. Folding chairs had been arranged in tight, precise rows—Coach Shazier’s style stamped on every detail. Spring camp hadn’t officially begun, but the meeting always came first. It was the line in the dirt separating last season from this one.
Zane stood near the entrance with his hands in his hoodie pocket, trying to look relaxed even though his stomach twisted with a familiar, electric anticipation. He had worked tirelessly to improve since turning over a new leaf prompted by his loved ones. His athleticism had improved dramatically, and his shoulders had broadened, but it was the shift inside - some quiet, unsettling weight - that reminded him he wasn’t just another Junior anymore.
Beside him, Cam bounced his knee restlessly, helmet tucked under his arm even though gear wasn’t required today. Ever the jokester, even Cam couldn't make light of the sense of anticipation in the room.
“You feel it too?” Cam muttered under his breath.
Zane raised a brow. “Feel what?”
“That thing. Like the air in here got heavier. Like we’re supposed to be… something.”
Zane exhaled through his nose. “Leaders,” he said. The word felt too big in his mouth. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re the only underclassmen who did anything last season.”
Cam chuckled. “Man, I barely did anything. You’re the one who turned into a highlight reel.”
Zane didn’t respond. Praise sat wrong with him lately - like he didn’t fully deserve any of it. Like the shine was brighter than the truth.
Around them, the rest of the varsity roster filtered in - some familiar faces, some brand new. Freshmen turned sophomores. Transfers. Walk-ons who’d survived winter conditioning. But two new guys stood off to the side, shoulders stiff, eyes scanning everything like they were trying to memorize the room.
One was tall and wiry with a shaved head and an expression that gave nothing away. The other was shorter, stockier, with forearms like tree limbs and a smile too eager for the atmosphere.
“Must be the new contributors,” Zane whispered. “Coach said we were gettin’ two dudes who would have the talent to play right away.”
Cam nodded, already stepping toward them. His instinct wasn’t swagger - it was responsibility. That was new too.
“Yo,” Cam called. The taller one turned first. “I’m Cam. That’s Zane.”
The stocky one lit up. “We know who you are,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Kwon. Running back. This is Malik - the new quarterback.”
Malik nodded once, polite but reserved. Zane clocked it, but decided to file it away for later contemplation.
“Welcome to Upper St. Clair,” Zane said, shaking both their hands. “Just stick close today. Coach Shazier doesn’t really ease anybody in.”
“That ain’t what we’re here for,” Kwon said, grin widening. “We’re here to contribute.”
Zane felt a flicker - something between respect and pressure. These weren’t kids just trying out. They were expecting to be part of the machine. And that changed things.
Before any more introductions could unfold, the double doors slammed shut.
Coach David Shazier strode to the center of the gym like a general marching to a podium. His whistle hung around his neck, glinting under the lights. His voice, when it came, echoed off the hardwood.
“Take your seats!”
The rows filled fast. Zane and Cam slid into the front row without thinking—the spots the seniors had once occupied. Zane swallowed at the realization.
Coach Shazier stood with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the team with that intense, unblinking stare that could peel paint off a locker.
“Last year,” he began, “we didn't measure up to the success we yearned for. We're losing a lot of guys that lost a lot now.. I don't know about you guys, but I'm tired of losing. We will no longer be part of a losing regime. I don't want guys who just want to win. I want guys -”
His voice rose.
“- who refuse to lose.”
He paused, letting the words crawl into every chest.
“This spring, I expect leadership. I expect discipline. I expect hunger. And I expect every returning starter to take that next step not just in ability, but in responsibility.” Shazier’s boots echoed as he walked slowly across the front row. “We lost veterans. Captains. Voices.”
He planted himself squarely in front of Zane.
“And when you lose voices,” Shazier said, pointing two fingers toward his star receiver, “you need new ones.”
The gym went silent.
Zane felt the eyes - every teammate, every newcomer, all fixed on him. His pulse hammered, but he forced himself to meet the coach’s gaze.
“You wanted the spotlight?” Shazier said. “Then you will accept the pressure that comes with it. It needs you to become the standard.”
Cam shot him a sideways look - something between sympathy and respect.
Coach Shazier moved on, addressing the rest of the roster. “I also want to welcome our new expected contributors. Raekwon Williams. Malik Richards. Both of them come in hungry. Both come in ready to compete. They’re here because they can help us take that next step forward.”
Kwon straightened in his seat. Malik stayed stone-faced but alert.
“But they’re not the only ones stepping up,” Shazier added, stopping once more near the front row. “You wanted the baton to greatness, Mr. Jones. Don't waste it. And don't think I haven't noticed your growth either, Mr. Wilson. You wanted an opportunity to showcase what you've got. Here it is."
Cam tried to hide it, but pride flickered across his expression.
Shazier spread his arms, voice rising.
“This spring camp is where we define who we are. Not as individuals -” he scanned the room again, “ - but as a team ready to win.”
A rumble of agreement swept through the gym.
Zane felt it in his chest, heavier than any weight he’d lifted. Expectation. Responsibility. The shift from being a kid making plays to being the player the team needed.
When the meeting broke and chairs scraped against the floor, Cam nudged him.
“You good?” he asked.
Zane stared at the center of the gym where Coach Shazier had stood. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Just… guess it’s real, now.”
Cam clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let’s be real with it.”
Zane looked at the rows of players filing out, at Kwon and Malik waiting awkwardly for direction, at the gym where every season seemed to remake him.
And for the first time, he didn’t feel overwhelmed.
He felt ready.
Or at least willing to become ready.
Either way, the next step was already in motion.
The late-afternoon sun spilled across the front steps of the gym, painting everything in a soft gold. Players filtered out in small groups - laughing, complaining, buzzing about spring camp - while Zane lingered near the railing, pulling in a slow breath. The meeting had lit a fuse inside him, one he wasn’t sure how to control yet.
“Zane!”
He turned just in time to see Bianca trotting across the parking lot, dark hair bouncing, a navy-and-maize Michigan hoodie hanging a size too big on her frame. The block M sat bold across her chest. She had never looked more proud - or more ready to prove something.
Before he could say a word, she wrapped her arms around his waist, burying herself briefly against him. Zane froze for a beat, heart kicking up. Even after the last couple months of dating, every touch from her still felt new - like someone had caught him off guard in the best way.
“You were great in there,” she said, leaning back to look at him, blue eyes bright. “Coach was basically giving you the keys to the whole program.”
Zane shrugged a little, trying to play it cool even though his face warmed. “I wasn't aware you managed to get a front row seat. But I really didn't do anything.”
She smiled softly and tugged at his hoodie string. “But you will, I cannot wait to be there for it as much as I can.”
He swallowed, trying not to look like a deer in headlights as she stayed close. Physical affection was still a terrain he was learning - when to put his hands on her waist, when to look into her eyes, when to fight off his weird, anti-social energy. He settled for gently holding her forearm, hoping it looked normal.
Bianca’s expression shifted just slightly - still sweet, but with something thoughtful behind it. “You know… Michigan’s gonna need receivers next year,” she said lightly, almost like a casual suggestion. “And it would be really nice having you up there with me.”
Zane blinked. “With you?”
“Yeah.” She nudged his shoulder. “I mean, if you wanted. You’re getting the looks. You’ll have choices. I'm just saying I wouldn’t mind if we ended up in the same place.”
He shifted his weight, eyes drifting to the parking lot. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “It’s too early. Whole lotta shit gotta happen before that.”
Her smile faltered—just a hair, but enough that he saw it.
“Right,” she said quietly. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m not saying no,” he added quickly. “I just don’t wanna- y’know - jump ahead.”
“I get it.” She stepped back ever so slightly, folding her arms. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t angry, wasn’t dramatic—but the lightness had dimmed.
Zane’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach for her hand, wanted to pull her back in, tell her he wasn’t trying to push her away. But the words clogged - like they always did when emotion wasn’t about football.
Bianca beat him to it, forcing a little smile. “Come on,” she said softly. “Walk me to my car?”
He nodded, falling in step beside her, hoping she didn’t hear the frustration in his breath - frustration at himself, mostly. He wasn’t sure how to talk about the future, but he didn’t want to lose the warmth she brought into his world.
And as they crossed the lot, her sleeve brushed his - light, fleeting, but enough to remind him he didn’t want that distance to grow.
The fluorescent lights of the Upper St. Clair High's gymnasium buzzed softly overhead, casting long shadows over the freshly waxed floor. Folding chairs had been arranged in tight, precise rows—Coach Shazier’s style stamped on every detail. Spring camp hadn’t officially begun, but the meeting always came first. It was the line in the dirt separating last season from this one.
Zane stood near the entrance with his hands in his hoodie pocket, trying to look relaxed even though his stomach twisted with a familiar, electric anticipation. He had worked tirelessly to improve since turning over a new leaf prompted by his loved ones. His athleticism had improved dramatically, and his shoulders had broadened, but it was the shift inside - some quiet, unsettling weight - that reminded him he wasn’t just another Junior anymore.
Beside him, Cam bounced his knee restlessly, helmet tucked under his arm even though gear wasn’t required today. Ever the jokester, even Cam couldn't make light of the sense of anticipation in the room.
“You feel it too?” Cam muttered under his breath.
Zane raised a brow. “Feel what?”
“That thing. Like the air in here got heavier. Like we’re supposed to be… something.”
Zane exhaled through his nose. “Leaders,” he said. The word felt too big in his mouth. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re the only underclassmen who did anything last season.”
Cam chuckled. “Man, I barely did anything. You’re the one who turned into a highlight reel.”
Zane didn’t respond. Praise sat wrong with him lately - like he didn’t fully deserve any of it. Like the shine was brighter than the truth.
Around them, the rest of the varsity roster filtered in - some familiar faces, some brand new. Freshmen turned sophomores. Transfers. Walk-ons who’d survived winter conditioning. But two new guys stood off to the side, shoulders stiff, eyes scanning everything like they were trying to memorize the room.
One was tall and wiry with a shaved head and an expression that gave nothing away. The other was shorter, stockier, with forearms like tree limbs and a smile too eager for the atmosphere.
“Must be the new contributors,” Zane whispered. “Coach said we were gettin’ two dudes who would have the talent to play right away.”
Cam nodded, already stepping toward them. His instinct wasn’t swagger - it was responsibility. That was new too.
“Yo,” Cam called. The taller one turned first. “I’m Cam. That’s Zane.”
The stocky one lit up. “We know who you are,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Kwon. Running back. This is Malik - the new quarterback.”
Malik nodded once, polite but reserved. Zane clocked it, but decided to file it away for later contemplation.
“Welcome to Upper St. Clair,” Zane said, shaking both their hands. “Just stick close today. Coach Shazier doesn’t really ease anybody in.”
“That ain’t what we’re here for,” Kwon said, grin widening. “We’re here to contribute.”
Zane felt a flicker - something between respect and pressure. These weren’t kids just trying out. They were expecting to be part of the machine. And that changed things.
Before any more introductions could unfold, the double doors slammed shut.
Coach David Shazier strode to the center of the gym like a general marching to a podium. His whistle hung around his neck, glinting under the lights. His voice, when it came, echoed off the hardwood.
“Take your seats!”
The rows filled fast. Zane and Cam slid into the front row without thinking—the spots the seniors had once occupied. Zane swallowed at the realization.
Coach Shazier stood with his hands clasped behind his back, surveying the team with that intense, unblinking stare that could peel paint off a locker.
“Last year,” he began, “we didn't measure up to the success we yearned for. We're losing a lot of guys that lost a lot now.. I don't know about you guys, but I'm tired of losing. We will no longer be part of a losing regime. I don't want guys who just want to win. I want guys -”
His voice rose.
“- who refuse to lose.”
He paused, letting the words crawl into every chest.
“This spring, I expect leadership. I expect discipline. I expect hunger. And I expect every returning starter to take that next step not just in ability, but in responsibility.” Shazier’s boots echoed as he walked slowly across the front row. “We lost veterans. Captains. Voices.”
He planted himself squarely in front of Zane.
“And when you lose voices,” Shazier said, pointing two fingers toward his star receiver, “you need new ones.”
The gym went silent.
Zane felt the eyes - every teammate, every newcomer, all fixed on him. His pulse hammered, but he forced himself to meet the coach’s gaze.
“You wanted the spotlight?” Shazier said. “Then you will accept the pressure that comes with it. It needs you to become the standard.”
Cam shot him a sideways look - something between sympathy and respect.
Coach Shazier moved on, addressing the rest of the roster. “I also want to welcome our new expected contributors. Raekwon Williams. Malik Richards. Both of them come in hungry. Both come in ready to compete. They’re here because they can help us take that next step forward.”
Kwon straightened in his seat. Malik stayed stone-faced but alert.
“But they’re not the only ones stepping up,” Shazier added, stopping once more near the front row. “You wanted the baton to greatness, Mr. Jones. Don't waste it. And don't think I haven't noticed your growth either, Mr. Wilson. You wanted an opportunity to showcase what you've got. Here it is."
Cam tried to hide it, but pride flickered across his expression.
Shazier spread his arms, voice rising.
“This spring camp is where we define who we are. Not as individuals -” he scanned the room again, “ - but as a team ready to win.”
A rumble of agreement swept through the gym.
Zane felt it in his chest, heavier than any weight he’d lifted. Expectation. Responsibility. The shift from being a kid making plays to being the player the team needed.
When the meeting broke and chairs scraped against the floor, Cam nudged him.
“You good?” he asked.
Zane stared at the center of the gym where Coach Shazier had stood. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Just… guess it’s real, now.”
Cam clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let’s be real with it.”
Zane looked at the rows of players filing out, at Kwon and Malik waiting awkwardly for direction, at the gym where every season seemed to remake him.
And for the first time, he didn’t feel overwhelmed.
He felt ready.
Or at least willing to become ready.
Either way, the next step was already in motion.
***
The late-afternoon sun spilled across the front steps of the gym, painting everything in a soft gold. Players filtered out in small groups - laughing, complaining, buzzing about spring camp - while Zane lingered near the railing, pulling in a slow breath. The meeting had lit a fuse inside him, one he wasn’t sure how to control yet.
“Zane!”
He turned just in time to see Bianca trotting across the parking lot, dark hair bouncing, a navy-and-maize Michigan hoodie hanging a size too big on her frame. The block M sat bold across her chest. She had never looked more proud - or more ready to prove something.
Before he could say a word, she wrapped her arms around his waist, burying herself briefly against him. Zane froze for a beat, heart kicking up. Even after the last couple months of dating, every touch from her still felt new - like someone had caught him off guard in the best way.
“You were great in there,” she said, leaning back to look at him, blue eyes bright. “Coach was basically giving you the keys to the whole program.”
Zane shrugged a little, trying to play it cool even though his face warmed. “I wasn't aware you managed to get a front row seat. But I really didn't do anything.”
She smiled softly and tugged at his hoodie string. “But you will, I cannot wait to be there for it as much as I can.”
He swallowed, trying not to look like a deer in headlights as she stayed close. Physical affection was still a terrain he was learning - when to put his hands on her waist, when to look into her eyes, when to fight off his weird, anti-social energy. He settled for gently holding her forearm, hoping it looked normal.
Bianca’s expression shifted just slightly - still sweet, but with something thoughtful behind it. “You know… Michigan’s gonna need receivers next year,” she said lightly, almost like a casual suggestion. “And it would be really nice having you up there with me.”
Zane blinked. “With you?”
“Yeah.” She nudged his shoulder. “I mean, if you wanted. You’re getting the looks. You’ll have choices. I'm just saying I wouldn’t mind if we ended up in the same place.”
He shifted his weight, eyes drifting to the parking lot. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “It’s too early. Whole lotta shit gotta happen before that.”
Her smile faltered—just a hair, but enough that he saw it.
“Right,” she said quietly. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m not saying no,” he added quickly. “I just don’t wanna- y’know - jump ahead.”
“I get it.” She stepped back ever so slightly, folding her arms. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t angry, wasn’t dramatic—but the lightness had dimmed.
Zane’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach for her hand, wanted to pull her back in, tell her he wasn’t trying to push her away. But the words clogged - like they always did when emotion wasn’t about football.
Bianca beat him to it, forcing a little smile. “Come on,” she said softly. “Walk me to my car?”
He nodded, falling in step beside her, hoping she didn’t hear the frustration in his breath - frustration at himself, mostly. He wasn’t sure how to talk about the future, but he didn’t want to lose the warmth she brought into his world.
And as they crossed the lot, her sleeve brushed his - light, fleeting, but enough to remind him he didn’t want that distance to grow.
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Captain Canada
Topic author - Posts: 5639
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Y'all better stop sleeping on Rasheed like he can't a body before.
My boy just trying to get out a be a person again, he just tryna mind his P's and Q's.
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redsox907
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boy already fumbling the play before he hits the fieldCaptain Canada wrote: ↑17 Nov 2025, 20:49It wasn’t angry, wasn’t dramatic—but the lightness had dimmed.
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Caesar
- Chise GOAT
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How you get the name of the board and the Spanish wrong…?
Zane telling Poor Little Rich girl that he king shit now so he about to kick her ass to the curb also because he knows she about to be getting DP’d by some 6’5” dreadheads from Chicago in the dorms