The Camp Begins

The date of the camp crept closer.

The venue was The Star in Frisco.

Located in Frisco, Texas, it was the practice facility of the NFL's Dallas Cowboys.

With the winter offseason currently underway, Nike and Under Armour—the sponsors—had been able to rent out the empty complex.

And a handful of the nation's top prospects had already arrived, easy to spot among the early crowd.

Raysheen Guillory, sitting in a car and scrolling through the news articles, was one of the prospects invited to the camp.

His primary position was running back.

But his raw athleticism was so exceptional that he often lined up at wide receiver or even took snaps at quarterback.

"Tch."

Suddenly, he clicked his tongue as if something had soured his mood.

At that, Kyler—his driver and agent, riding along in the car—turned around.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm having second thoughts about entering an event like this at all."

"Aw, come on. Opportunities like this don't come around often. Competing against prospects your own age—do you have any idea how valuable that experience is?"

"Everyone else here is a fraud, except for maybe a few of us. Prospects, my ass."

Just then, one particular headline caught Guillory's eye.

"Redline?"

A quick search revealed that the player was a running back, just like him. The MVP of this year's Kansas state championship.

"Oh please, now even this little nobody wants to run with the big dogs······"

Guillory let out a heavy sigh, his face going stone-serious.

Kansas? Where the hell was Kansas, anyway?

Raysheen Guillory was a Texas boy, born and raised in the state everyone thought of first when football came up—and he was a monster of a talent who had carved out a fearsome reputation even within that brutal proving ground.

To him, it was simply unthinkable to accept a prospect from some podunk state—not Florida, not California, not even Georgia.

"Guillory, watch your mouth once we're out there. Everyone's got eyes on this event."

"Yeah, yeah."

He answered without an ounce of sincerity.

National prospect skill camp, whatever.

What really grated on Guillory was that even the weirdest nobodies got lumped into the same category as him.

Whether or not he sensed Guillory's mood, Kyler glanced at his smartphone and spoke up.

"This is the first time Nike and Under Armour have ever collaborated, and a three-night, four-day skill camp is genuinely rare. But hey, Guillory—did you hear?"

"Hear what?"

"This camp is going to be different from every camp before it."

Even at that, Guillory just kept staring out the window, his expression betraying no interest.

"This camp has a rule where eliminations are decided after every single day's schedule."

"Excuse me?"

What on earth was he talking about?

Startled, Guillory turned his gaze back to Kyler.

Kyler, having caught Guillory's reaction in the rearview mirror, grinned slyly and continued.

"Just got word through the agent channels—this camp is running as a survival format across all three nights and four days. Looks like Nike and Under Armour decided to go sensational for the hype."

"Ooh."

The kind of news that would surely rub some people the wrong way.

But Guillory, far from displeased, was practically buzzing with excitement.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Whoever came up with that is one smart son of a bitch."

"Knew you'd love it. Anyway, from what I'm seeing, there's a whole slate of events lined up—looks like the lowest scorers in drills like skill training get cut, or the participants can knock each other out through head-to-head games."

"C-can I go warm up ahead of time?"

Yeah, now THAT sounds like an event worth entering.

A format like this would weed out the posers and the pretenders. He was all for it.

At the sudden brightness in Guillory's face, Kyler burst out laughing and nodded.

"Let's head in together. The other players all seem to be arriving anyway."

The moment the two of them stepped out of the car—

They ran headlong into another group.

"Urk!"

The instant Guillory recognized who it was, he flinched. The handsome Latin-American youth before him merely looked at him in silence, then walked past.

Only after he was gone did Kyler murmur.

"I didn't think a freshman would show up. Guess he did."

"Mateo Rodriguez."

Guillory spoke the name through gritted teeth.

Still nothing but a freshman, yet a genius quarterback who had put up monstrous numbers throughout the Texas regular season.

He hadn't taken the title, but no one could deny his genius.

Even the arrogant Raysheen Guillory could not casually run his mouth about him. That was the kind of man who had just walked past them—Mateo Rodriguez.

"Well, well······this might be even more interesting than I thought."

A grueling six-hour slog of a drive.

At long last, we arrived in Frisco.

"Ugh, I'm dying."

As I stepped out of the car and stretched out my stiff, aching body, David chuckled and clapped me on the back.

"I take it you're not used to riding in a car that long?"

"No, sir. But are you okay, Dave? You drove for over six hours."

"Long drives are a scout's daily bread. Ten-hour hauls aren't even unusual."

"Whoa."

Ten hours felt like pushing it a bit far.

Anyway, we'd made it in time, so we headed inside to rest up first.

Taking a look around, I found the place already packed with people—football staff and officials, reporters, and what looked like players' families, all milling about in a dense crowd.

"Huh?"

"It's an Asian guy?"

"Who's that?"

Needless to say, my entrance drew quite a few stares.

The neighborhoods really are different, huh.

Back home, there wasn't a soul who didn't know my face, but here everyone looked at me like I was some exotic animal at the zoo.

Just then, someone came rushing out of the throng and hurried over to us.

"David! You made it! Ah, and this must be Kim Jaehyuk. A pleasure to meet you, son. I'm Aaron, Alabama's promoter here in Texas."

Aaron shook my hand and even pressed a business card into it.

What am I supposed to do with this? I wondered, but I stuffed it into my pocket all the same.

"Seeing you in person, I'm even more moved. You look even younger than I imagined."

"Do I?"

"Ah! You've both come such a long way—you must be exhausted, and here I am holding you up. Come, let's get you inside."

Even as Aaron led us along, all manner of eyes stayed glued to me, but I was too busy drinking in the sights.

A single massive building that looked like some giant multi-purpose shopping complex dominated the area, and the surrounding blocks—a cluster of sleek, stylish structures—made for a seriously upscale district.

"Most of the camp schedule will take place indoors. And I just got some news that's a little... interesting."

"What is it?"

"It's a survival format. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠They're saying eliminations will happen continuously as things progress."

Oh, is that all.

Truthfully, I knew absolutely nothing about the camp going in, so the news didn't stir much in me.

Figured that's just how these things worked.

"This could be a wild card, though······"

David, oddly enough, looked far more troubled about it than I did. I turned to him.

"Don't worry. There's no scenario where I get eliminated."

"Ahem. R-right, of course not."

Why does he look so unconvinced?

Whatever. I'd just prove it with results.

"I told you our head coach is coming to watch, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just hold out until tomorrow, please. That's when he's scheduled to arrive."

"I'm telling you, I'm not getting cut."

Chattering away like that, we entered the adjacent building—a hotel serving as our lodging.

And the lodging was spectacular.

It felt less like a hotel and more like a modern designer home, the kind of penthouse where the seriously wealthy would live.

"Ooooh."

I wandered from room to room, unable to stop marveling. Eventually, I gave in to the urge and snapped photos to post in the family group chat.

These kids.

If Mom and Dad see this, I'm getting an earful.

Having finished my round of showing off, I started unpacking.

Come to think of it, the guys who get eliminated will have to pack everything right back up and leave, won't they? Can't say I envy them.

Knock knock knock.

"Jaehyuk, you done unpacking?"

"One sec. I'll get the door."

Thankfully, we each had our own room.

The moment I opened the door, David tilted his head toward the hallway—it was time to move.

"Let's head down early and get warmed up."

"Yep."

A short walk from the hotel basement led straight into the indoor training facility.

The field spread out beneath bright floodlights gave the place a distinctly different atmosphere. World-class facilities, obvious at a glance.

And we weren't the only ones here—quite a crowd had arrived early and was already loosening up.

Every last one of them tall and long-limbed, players who looked like blue-chip prospects to anyone's eyes.

Good grief, what is with that size?

There were even monsters who looked nearly two meters tall.

At that size, shouldn't you be doing MMA instead of football?

Whish—!

Up he went!

"Ooooh!"

"Nice!"

"Hell yeah, that's what I'm talking about!"

But even amid all those top prospects—

There was one spot where the crowds were thickest.

"Dakorien Moore, the wide receiver, and quarterback Mateo Rodriguez. Both of them are absolute monsters as prospects."

At David's words, curiosity stirred in me.

"Did you try to recruit those two?"

"Those two? I didn't step in personally, but I did send some of the junior scouts after them."

"Oh? So that means you rate me even higher than them?"

"Obviously."

David nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world—like the question wasn't even worth asking.

"And yet you were worried I'd get cut earlier."

"Survival formats have too many wild cards. Even you have to be bad at something. If fate decides to cut you over that one thing, wouldn't that be heartbreaking?"

"...Fair point."

Light stretching first, then.

After about fifteen minutes of loosening up from head to toe, I started jogging easy laps around the field.

Instantly, the stares came flooding in—just like outside.

Not just the staff and officials, either. The prospects sharing the field with me all wore looks of fascination.

"Was that guy invited too?"

"Isn't he Asian?"

"Oh! That's him! The kid from Destroying's YouTube channel!"

"Ahhh, I think I've seen it! Did Destroying film him?"

Even mid-lap, the voices kept drifting my way. Nobody seemed to be bothering to whisper behind my back, either.

And now that I looked closer, a lot of these guys seemed to know each other. The prospects had their own connections networked separately, it seemed.

"REDLINE!!"

"Hm?"

Someone suddenly bellowed my nickname at the top of their lungs.

I turned to see a Black guy striding toward me, his face lit up with a mix of shock and delight.

"Can't believe I'm running into you HERE!"

"······?"

Do I know this guy?

A fan who saw me on YouTube, maybe?

"You're not seriously telling me you forgot who I am?"

"??"

Wait, so he IS someone I know?

Not a player from our school, though. Then who—?

"······."

I stopped and stared at him hard.

Still nothing. Not a clue.

"Ha! It's me—Steve Hopkins from Derby High!"

"Huh? Four-star······?"

"That's right. The four-star who dipped to three stars because of you and clawed his way back up. You remember now?"

Whoa, never thought I'd run into him here.

But if the guy I stomped can make it to a camp like this, then the rest of these players must all be roughly the same caliber.

Not like anyone here looked a cut above me, anyway.

"Oh, right, you're a sophomore too."

"But how could you NOT recognize me? We went head-to-head twice!?"

"You were wearing a helmet."

I meant it, too.

Honestly, he'd had a helmet on the entire game. How was I supposed to recognize him? Recognizing HIM would've been the miracle.

That said, seeing him again like this did jog something loose.

A strikingly handsome face that popped even for a Black guy. Even I, who was never great at telling faces of other races apart, had to give a small nod of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠appreciation.

Tap tap tap tap tap!

Just then, a wall of sound came swelling toward us.

Someone came skimming past us dangerously close.

The figure pulled up short, scowled, and picked a fight.

"Who the hell told ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠people to stand around in the middle of a walkway. You're in the damn way."

Who's this clown now?

Wondering if maybe Hopkins knew the guy, I glanced over—only for Hopkins to answer my reaction with a look of sheer disbelief.

"We're not all friends just because we're both Black, you know?"

Ah. So my thoughts were showing.

I kept my face a perfect poker blank.

"Hey, Asian."

"It's Kim Jaehyuk."

"Why would I care what your name is? Look, you're going home soon anyway, so stop cluttering up the place and get your ass off the field."

At his words, I looked to Hopkins again. Hopkins sighed and explained, exasperated.

"He wasn't talking to me, he was talking to YOU. Why are you looking at me?"

"To me? Why you? Aren't you worse than me?"

"······."

Within seconds, both Hopkins and the loudmouth were wearing identical expressions of bewilderment.

"Anyway, what's your name? I gave you mine—figures you'd offer yours too, right?"

At my words, the instigator shot Hopkins a sideways glance that plainly asked, What is wrong with this guy?

"Raysheen Guillory, right? Aledo High. Pleasure meeting you."

"Retards. Both of you."

With that parting shot, he turned and walked off.

What's with that thin-skinned little punk?

And before long—

The start time of the camp finally arrived.

"Ahem. Your attention, please."

An old man appeared out of nowhere.

And the moment everyone laid eyes on him, they could hardly contain their shock.

"No way—nobody said HE was going to be here······"

"So THAT'S why this camp's format was so unusual······"

"No freaking way! It's Nick Saban!"

I had no idea who he was.

I just figured he must be somebody famous and kept watching, when Hopkins beside me started making a scene.

"Hey, hey! That's Nick Saban! Nick Saban is HERE!"

"Who's that?"

"The former Alabama head coach! A legendary one, at that! Word is he retired and became a college football analyst for ESFN, but I never dreamed he'd show up at a camp!"

And before Hopkins had even finished explaining, Nick Saban dropped a bombshell declaration.

"You've all heard about the survival format by now. So let's start by trimming the field—cut it down to about half."

"?!!"

Every head snapped toward Nick Saban in stunned silence.

Hopkins beside me stared blankly and muttered.

"H-half? Right out of the gate······?"

Half, huh.

I looked around at the crowd.

Hmm. Yeah, there really are a lot of people here.

Cutting it down by half would make things a lot roomier, honestly.

"Good. I was getting tired of all this crowding anyway. Old man's got one refreshingly direct personality, I'll give him that."

"What?"

Hopkins stared at me, utterly flabbergasted.

At the same time, the players nearby had caught my voice and turned to look at me.

Even Nick Saban himself paused at my remark and fixed his gaze on me.

What are you all looking at? Did I say something wrong?

Smirk.

For some reason, the old man flashed a small smile in my direction. And thanks to that, even the guys who hadn't heard me were now all staring too.

"Now then—the camp begins. First event: one-on-one evaluations by position. If you want coaching, beat your opponent and survive."