The stadium emptied in layers of echo and shadow, the roar dissolving into the soft thud of cleats and the hum of maintenance carts circling the lower bowl. Brandon Antonio stayed behind after most of the staff filtered out, standing alone near the fifty-yard line. The turf still held the heat from the night, warm through the soles of his shoes. He stared at the scoreboard one last time before it went dark.
63–0.
The number didn't move him the way it moved fans. Scores were surface-level. What mattered lived underneath them.
Clean first game. Too clean sometimes means you haven't been tested yet. The real mistakes show up when someone punches back.
Inside, the locker room had shifted from celebration to exhaustion. Players slumped against lockers, ice bags forming along shoulders and knees. Trainers worked quietly. The air was heavy with sweat and adrenaline on its way out. Brandon moved through the room without ceremony.
Milroe sat with his helmet between his feet, towel over his head. Brandon stopped in front of him.
"You took the scramble when the safety bit early," Brandon said calmly. "Good instinct."
Milroe looked up. "Saw his hips turn."
"Don't rely on it," Brandon replied. "Better defenses disguise that." Then, softer, "But you trusted yourself. That matters."
Milroe nodded, absorbing it. Brandon moved on.
Across the room, Keon Sabb replayed his interception in his head, miming the catch once more before Brandon cut that loop with a quiet, "Eyes were higher than your shoulders. That's why you got there first."
Sabb smiled. "Learned it fast, Coach."
Fast learners survive here. Slow ones get replaced by NIL money and younger hunger.
The celebration never got out of control. Not because Brandon killed joy — but because no one needed to be told not to overdo it. The tone had been set before kickoff.
Later that night, long after the buses pulled out and the last media crew disconnected cables, Brandon sat in his office with the lights low. The building itself made small noises — vent hums, distant hallway footsteps, the muted clank of ice machines. He kicked his shoes off under the desk and pulled his phone from his pocket.
Before film.
Before press.
Before the next opponent.
He opened TikTok.
Not posting. Just watching. Scrolling. Practice clips fans had taken from outside the gates. Edits with dramatic music. Slow-motion catches. Some tagging him like he was already a legend. Others mocking the schedule.
He smirked. They're already building a myth. Dangerous. Useful.
Then he switched apps.
Twitter.
Highlights everywhere. Debates about whether the season even "starts" yet. Analysts praising discipline. Trolls saying Western Kentucky never stood a chance. He liked one tweet without thinking:
"New coach, same Alabama problem."
By morning, Twitter would argue over whether that meant arrogance or confidence.
He didn't care which.
Sunday morning came quietly.
Brandon brushed his teeth with one hand, phone in the other, ESPN playing softly on the bathroom TV. A graphic flashed behind his reflection:
"Is Alabama Back or Was Week 1 a Mirage?"
Stephen A. Smith's voice climbed in volume as Brandon spit and leaned closer to the sink.
"You don't overhaul culture in thirty days unless somebody in that building knows exactly what he's doing."
Brandon rinsed, wiped his mouth, watched his own eyes in the mirror.
They're starting to feel it. Not yet understand it.
At the facility, the mood had shifted. Not celebratory anymore — focused, heavy with routine. Film room dark. Screens alive. Brandon stood at the back while the first-quarter defensive series rolled.
Every frame triggered silent calculations.
Safety drifted early on second down. That habit will get punished by play-action. Correct it now before it becomes identity.
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. When he paused the film himself, everyone leaned forward.
"This," he said quietly, frame frozen on a split-second of hesitation, "is the difference between dominating Western Kentucky and surviving the SEC."
No one blinked.
By Tuesday, the outside noise grew louder.
Boosters called. Donors sent texts. Recruits reposted highlights. Parents of five-star juniors liked every official clip Alabama uploaded. NIL collectives buzzed with opportunity. Brandon stayed invisible between phone calls, letting staff handle logistics while he handled people.
In one closed-door meeting, a booster leaned across the table and said, "You've got momentum now. You could leverage this."
Brandon met his eyes steadily. "Momentum is borrowed. Control is owned."
The man leaned back, recalculating.
Good. Let them fear losing access more than losing money.
Midweek brought the first crack in perfection.
A heated exchange during practice between two starting linemen. Shoved masks. Words that carried. The rest of the line stiffened, waiting to see what Brandon would do.
He didn't blow a whistle.
He walked into the middle of it.
Soft voice. "Again."
They ran the rep again.
Cleaner.
Still tension.
"Again."
Third rep — perfect.
Brandon leaned in, barely above a whisper. "Talent makes noise. Discipline makes legacies. Decide which one you want."
No more arguments after that.
But later that night, alone again, Brandon replayed it in his head.
This team hasn't faced loss yet. When it hits, the fault lines show. My job is to know where they'll crack before they do.
Friday night, he left the facility late and stopped at a quiet restaurant on the edge of town. No cameras. No fans. Just food and distance.
That's where he saw her — not at a practice, not at a podium — but standing near the bar, notebook in hand, arguing with someone softly.
The reporter.
The one who had questioned his hire from Day One. The one whose articles always carried just enough doubt to sting. He didn't approach. He didn't smile.
Not yet. Let the tension breathe. Let the season decide if I'm the villain or the inevitable.
He left before she noticed him.
Back at home, the lights stayed off. Film paused halfway through the next opponent's red-zone tendencies. Brandon stood at the window, city lights scattered beneath the dark.
A month ago, they called this job cursed. Now they call it reborn. Same building. Same pressure. Different era. Different weapons.
NIL money. Players with brands. Boosters with agendas louder than playbooks.
He exhaled slowly.
The game didn't change. The battlefield did.
On his desk, a single sticky note waited:
Week Two. Real Test Begins.
Brandon smiled faintly.
Not because he was confident.
Because he was ready.