The Good, The Bama, and the Ugly
I wiped the last of the tears and the slick of snot onto my sleeve, my face raw, before I finally pushed the door open.
“Jesus, Briggs.” Tate leaned in, his face carved with annoyance, though his tone was more empathetic than I’d ever heard it. “You can’t just sit here all night. Somebody’s gonna think you OD’ed.”
I blinked at him, slow, the way you do when you’re running on fumes.
“No one leaves a Brother like this,” he muttered, slipping an arm under mine and hauling me upright. He smelled faintly of cologne and beer, like he’d just come from the Strip. “C’mon. Up. Let’s get you back home.”
The air hit me as I stumbled out, thick with that late-summer Alabama heaviness. Tate steered me with steady pressure, his grip surprisingly firm for a guy I’d only seen picking out golf clubs and cracking jokes.
“What happened?” he asked as we crossed the sidewalk.
“Went to Bham,” I muttered, voice raspy.
He gave a sharp nod, his jaw tightening. “Family or girl stuff back in Birmingham. Got it. You don’t have to explain. Just means you’re carrying heavier shit than most. That’s fine.”
I almost laughed. The truth was sitting right there between my teeth, but I didn’t have the air to correct him. Bham196. Hoodie. Sweatpants. The church parking lot.
Riverside loomed ahead, yellow light spilling from the windows. Tate half-dragged, half-walked me up the stairs and through the entryway, looking around like he was deciding where to stash me. Then, without hesitation, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted toward the lit third floor.
“Hey! RA! We need a hand down here!”
A shadow shifted against the light. The window banged open. Adam’s face appeared, hair mussed like he’d been reading or asleep.
“What’s going on down there?” Adam yelled down at us.
“Got a kid here who can’t make it upstairs.” Tate jerked his head toward me. “Need a hand.”
Moments later, Adam was jogging to the front door in sandals, a lanyard bouncing against his chest. His eyes flicked to me, professional, assessing. No judgment, just calculation.
“Alright, let’s get him inside.”
Between the two of them, I was nothing but weight. They each took an arm and guided me through the door, my sneakers scuffing the tile. Students glanced up from the lounge couches, then quickly looked away. No one wanted to be involved.
The hallways blurred past until suddenly I was in my room, lowered on the mattress. The air smelled faintly of detergent and sweat, my mess, my space.
“He’s your problem now,” Tate said, a half-smirk on his lips, though his eyes flickered with something harder. Then he was gone, footsteps fading down the stairs.
Adam lingered. He took out his phone and used the flashlight to look into my pupils, then set a bottle of water on my desk, his tone clipped but not unkind. “Drink that when you can. My door’s down the hall if you need anything.”
Then he, too, left.
And I was alone again.
The silence pressed in, heavier than before.
Sunday morning came in slow waves. My head felt hollow, my body leaden. I stayed cocooned in my room, muted my phone, blinds drawn, the hum of the AC filling the silence. Thank God for the in-suite bathroom; I didn’t have to face anyone in the hall. No small talk, no “rough night, bro?” Just me, the mirror, and the ache in my chest.
I unpacked in fits and starts. Shirts on hangers, jeans folded, stacks of polos and khakis shoved into drawers. My Denali fob found its place on the desk. By dinner, I ventured out only because my stomach forced me, slipping into the dining hall late when most trays were already cleared.
Over the next week, Rush Week blurred past in a haze of heat, name tags, and Greek letters stitched into polo shirts. Everyone already knew where I’d land. By Bid Day, I had the white envelope in my hand and the DKE pin on my chest. It didn’t feel like a choice so much as a script I’d been written into years ago. Between everything going on, I didn’t check Grindr at all. In fact, I removed the notifications from my home screen and only scrolled on it once when I had a chance to catch my breath.
The rest of that week, I drifted between Caroline’s world and the fraternity’s. She dragged me to a brunch at her sorority house, smiling like she owned the place, and for a few hours, I could pretend we were just two kids in Tuscaloosa, figuring things out. But every night ended at the DKE house, surrounded by legacies and alumni who already spoke to me like I was theirs.
That next Monday hit even harder. Classes, pledge life, the whole of Alabama University roaring to life.
DKE had its calendar posted in crisp navy font: four events, “strongly encouraged” for legacies, basically mandatory for me. I made three.
The cocktail hour at the house felt like stepping into a museum that had been frozen in bourbon and cedar polish. Sepia photos of tuxedoed men lined the walls, their dead eyes staring down like they knew every name in the room already. Brothers circled in seersucker and navy blazers, all smiles that mirrored my performance.
“Legacy Briggs,” one of them said by way of introduction, like that was all I was.
Brody, a tanned junior with a jawline carved out of stone, cornered me by the bar and rattled off the fraternity’s founders, dates, and mottos like a priest reciting scripture. Miles, already glassy-eyed, shoved a sweating bourbon into my hand with a grin.
“Legacy boys drink first. House rule.”
I forced a smile, the glass heavy in my palm. I’d barely said a word, and already I felt stamped, claimed.
The second event was the golf range mixer, sunset pink behind the tees, air thick with cigar smoke. Carter, a broad-shouldered senior in wraparound shades and a cream polo, lined up a shot like it was just another Tuesday.
“Your dad kept us afloat back in ’08,” he said, his tone playful but weighted. “Everybody knows the Briggs name belongs here.”
He sent the ball straight and clean into the fading sky. A couple of pledges nearby laughed too loudly at his Auburn joke, eager to please. I smiled, but my chest tightened. It wasn’t about me. It was never about me.
The third event was a private Alumni dinner, chandeliers low over white tablecloths, every detail humming with old money formality. I sat pinned between men I didn’t know but who seemed to know everything about me.
“Finance in Atlanta,” Mr. Abernathy said, his Crimson ‘A’ tie catching the light. His voice was smooth, practiced, like he’d given the same advice to every Briggs before me. “Keep your grades passable and your brothers close. DKE handles the rest.”
I nodded, chewing too long on a piece of steak, the taste of iron filling my mouth. Across the table, Elliot, a nervous sophomore pledge I’d seen hanging around the edges, caught my gaze, then quickly looked away, as if he felt the same weight pressing down.
Each time I showed up, the message was the same: I wasn’t here because of who I was. I was here because of the name on my chest, like a dealership badge on the back of a tailgate.
In class, my focus drifted. Professors’ voices blurred into background noise. My notebook filled with half-scribbled lecture points and absent-minded sketches of trucks, cleat spikes, the curve of a singlet. I couldn’t shake the static in my head.
By Thursday, the week felt like a haze. I left my math lecture with my backpack half-zipped, just wanting fresh air.
The late summer sun beat down on the Crimson Promenade. Between the booths hawking credit cards and free T-shirts, the blue canopy of Briggs Chevrolet Tuscaloosa stood out. I drifted over, my hands in my pockets, circling the two vehicles on display: a hulking, black Colorado ZR2 and a sleek, blue electric Equinox EV.
I was running a finger along the Equinox door seam when a voice cut through the hum of the crowd behind me.
“What’s this thing get, twelve miles to the gallon?”
I turned. Leaning against the grille of the Colorado was a guy I recognized from a distance but was never on friendly terms with: Grant Gibson.
Where my hair was all dirty-blonde waves and easy grins, Grant’s look was razor-clean. Short brown hair, pale eyes that never seemed to blink, and a jawline that looked like it was carved for a Navy recruiting poster.
He was a sophomore built with compact strength, wearing a well-fitted athletic shirt from a brand I didn’t recognize. A knowing smirk played on his lips. While Tate, Caroline, and I were considered old money, Grant’s family was new to the scene. His family lived in Vestavia Hills.
“It’s got the TurboMax,” I said, my reply automatic, defensive. “It’ll get closer to thirty on the highway.”
Grant pushed off the truck, his eyes scanning it with mock appraisal. “Thirty. Impressive. For 2010.” He took out a gleaming Mercedes key fob from his pocket. Daddy just lent me an EQS. Built right here in Alabama. But I guess you’ve got to stick with Detroit, right?”
The dig was perfectly aimed. The Gibson family’s Birmingham metro dealership empire: Honda, Ford, Kia, Hyundai, and crucially, the home-state Mercedes-Benz, was their constant talking point against our statewide GM network.
“We’re doing just fine,” I said, the words sounding empty even to me.
“Oh, I know you are. Heard you’ve got a room in Riverside all to yourself. Guess that Briggs name still has some weight around here.” Grant teased, his smile a mere curve of his lips. He was in Phi Delt, I remembered. A house known for being just as powerful as DKE, but with a sharper, more competitive edge. “It’s just fun to see the competition up close. See you around, DKE.”
He gave the Colorado’s fender a patronizing pat and melted back into the crowd, leaving me standing there, suddenly feeling less like a scion of an automotive empire and more like a used car salesman at a poorly attended lot.
I walked back to Riverside with Grant’s voice still needling me. Guess that Briggs' name still has some weight. It replayed in my head on a loop, cutting deeper with every step. By the time I shut my dorm door, I was pacing, my body restless like I’d drunk three Rockstars.
Everyone had an opinion about me: DKE, the Briggs name, now Grant with his smug Mercedes and Phi Delt smirk. Legacy, dealership kid, old money. All the labels I hadn’t done a thing to earn. No one saw me as anything else. No one saw me as mine.
That’s when I thought about the guys who wore the crimson not because their dad’s name carried weight, but because they’d run the sprints in the mud, lifted the weights, and earned the gear. When they pulled on a singlet or a jersey, it wasn’t a costume. It was proof, validation of their effort.
I flipped open my laptop, the screen’s glow filling the dim room. A couple of clicks later, I was spiraling. Google tabs stacked up like poker chips: Alabama Nike Apparel, Authentic Crimson Tide Gear, Crimson Tide Team Issue.
Half the sites were trash. Replicas. Fake crimson that looked more like maroon. Then, buried on eBay, I found it:
University of Alabama SEC Track & Field Singlet Men’s Size M – Team Issued.
Crimson with a quarter zipper on the front. The white swoosh clean on the chest. Brand New, but real. The kind of thing no bookstore or alumni shop could sell, and I wondered how the Alabama seller had more than one in each size. Price: eighty bucks. Free shipping.
My heart jolted like it was something illicit. I wanted it more than I wanted anything, more than I wanted to prove anything to Grant.
The catch? Shipping. No way I could send it home to Mountain Brook. My mom would open the package, and then there’d be questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
I stared at the “Buy It Now” button, my finger hovering. Then, like I was sneaking out after curfew, I grabbed my room key and crossed the hall.
Adam’s door had a whiteboard on it with RA On Duty scrawled in block letters. I knocked, pulse loud in my ears.
A shuffle of movement, then the door cracked open. Adam blinked at me, black framed glasses perched on his nose, a Crimson Tide lanyard around his neck. He looked like someone who actually read the student handbook.
“Hey, Wyatt,” he said cautiously. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah. Um.” My voice came out thin, awkward. “If I needed to get something mailed to me here… like, to Riverside, how would that work?”
His expression shifted from suspicion to RA-neutral helpfulness. Without a word, he reached over to his desk, grabbed a printed sheet, and handed it to me.
“This is your mailing address,” he said. He picked up a clipboard and found my name. “This is your individual mailstop code. Make sure you include it in that address. All packages go to the Campus Mail Center, and you can either pick them up there or have them leave them in a lock box. Easy.”
“Cool. Thanks.” I shoved the paper into my pocket before he could ask what I was ordering.
Adam gave me one last appraising look before closing the door behind me.
Back in my room, I hit ‘Buy it Now’ and carefully typed in my mail stop address. The confirmation email felt like contraband.
After my one class on Friday, the weekend dragged on: Caroline dragging me to a sorority lunch, DKE mixers that reeked of bourbon and expectation. I smiled, I shook hands, I played the role. But all I could think about was constantly checking that USPS tracking number.
Your item will arrive on Tuesday by 6:00 PM. Damn the long weekend.
On the weekend, I drifted between Caroline’s world and the fraternity’s. She dragged me to a brunch at the Kappa Delta house, smiling like she owned the place, her letters stitched neatly on her dress. The countdown ticked in the back of my skull, louder than any fraternity cheer or lecture note.
By Tuesday morning, the obsession had me by the throat.
I sauntered through classes like a ghost. My econ professor was scrawling supply-and-demand graphs on the board, but all I could see was the email app on my phone, refreshed every two minutes. No new messages.
History was worse. I caught nothing past “Reconstruction” because my brain was stuck on the same loop: the tracking number, the confirmation page, the photo from the eBay listing. Crimson. The zipper. The swoosh.
Every time I checked my phone, my stomach dropped when the unread mail count didn’t go up. By the afternoon, I wasn’t even pretending to take notes. My laptop screen was open, but I was refreshing the USPS page under the desk: ‘Your item was delivered to AGENT at 2:03 pm on September 2, 2025 in TUSCALOOSA, AL 35487.’
The words hit me like a shot of caffeine. I was practically vibrating through the last 20 minutes of the lecture.
Caroline texted around three, asking if I wanted to grab dinner before a DKE thing. I thumbed out a vague excuse: “have to handle something first” and shoved my notebook into my bag.
By three fifteen, the mail room in the Student Center was a zoo. Students swarmed the counter, waving their phones like they were at a concert, each one waiting for the clerk to hand over some box of textbooks, shampoo, or Amazon impulse buys.
When it was my turn, I slid my phone under the glass with the pickup code pulled up. The clerk scanned it without looking at me and disappeared into the back. My heart stuttered like I was about to be handed classified documents.
Then she came back with a slim gray package, bubble mailer crinkling in her hand. She slid it under the glass, my name printed across the front: Wyatt J. Briggs.
It was small, almost nothing. But in my hand, it felt heavy.
As I turned from the counter, Carter was there, sunglasses pushed up on his head, a DKE polo tucked crisp into his shorts, balancing a bulky cardboard box stamped with the Greek letters in blue marker. He gave me a quick nod.
“Briggs. Brotherhood order: new embroidered hats for the pledges. Better wear yours with pride.”
He grinned, tapping the side of the box before striding toward the exit, already talking into his phone.
I shoved the package into my backpack before anyone could see, before someone could ask what was inside. My pulse didn’t settle until I was back outside, the late-afternoon sun blinding, the weight of the package pressing against my spine with every step back toward Riverside.
The lock clicked shut behind me. Finally, silence. My backpack slid off my shoulder and hit the floor with a thud. I stood there for a second, just breathing, the only sound the hum of the AC unit.
I unzipped the main compartment. The gray bubble mailer looked innocuous, almost cheap. I pulled it out. It was light, impossibly so for what it represented.
My fingers didn’t fumble. They were precise, almost surgical, as I found the perforated seam and tore it open in one sharp rip. The shriek echoed in the quiet room. I reached in and pulled out the fabric.
It was folded into a tight, perfect square. I unfolded it, letting it drape over my hands.
The crimson was deeper than I’d imagined, a rich, almost blood-like red. The white Nike swoosh on the chest was stark and clean. I ran my thumb over the quarter-length zipper, cold and metallic. This was it. Not a replica. The real deal.
I didn’t hesitate. I stripped off my polo, khakis, and underwear, letting them pool on the floor. I stood naked in the middle of the room, the afternoon light slanting through the blinds.
Then I stepped into it.
The material was different from my own compression shorts: thicker, more technical. It whispered as I pulled it up my skinny legs. It hugged my thighs, my hips, snugger than any clothing I owned. I worked my arms through the straps, settling them on my shoulders. The pressure across my chest was a constant, tight reminder.
I turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
The guy staring back was a stranger, and for a heart-stopping second, he was exactly who I wanted to be. The crimson against my skin, the sharp lines of the cut: it wasn’t me, but it was the image I’d been chasing since I first walked into Mal M. Moore.
My hands went to the hem, pulling it down, smoothing it over my hips. The fabric felt like a second skin. I turned, watching the way it stretched across my back, the way the straps framed my shoulders.
But the fantasy in the mirror curdled as I stared. The excitement, the days of waiting, the humiliation from Grant, it all condensed into a single, frantic energy. The contrast between the powerful garment and my own body wasn't a failure; it was the point. It was the degradation that fed the need.
My hand moved slowly at first, tracing the seam that ran from my hip down the inner thigh of the singlet. The touch was tentative, almost curious. Then my palm pressed against myself, rubbing through the thick, slick Lycra. A jolt, sharp and electric, overcame me. I was instantly, fully hard, the pressure constricting and intense.
A low groan escaped my throat. I leaned forward, bracing one hand against the doorjamb, my eyes locked on my reflection. My other hand moved with more purpose now, kneading and pressing through the fabric, the friction a dull, maddening tease. It wasn't enough. The barrier was the whole point, but I needed to feel myself properly.
I fumbled for the zipper first, a tiny, cool tab of metal. I tugged it down a few inches, the hissing loud in the still room. The singlet gaped open at my chest, but it still wasn't enough. The fabric was still taut against my stomach.
A frustrated groan escaped me. I hooked my thumbs into the armholes and the neckline, and in one rough, graceless motion, I shoved the whole top half down, straps, zipper, and all, until the tight elastic waist was pinning the bundle of fabric just below my hips and my erect dick poked over the top. The air-conditioned air hit my exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat building under the singlet. The crimson straps dangled uselessly at my sides.
I wrapped my hand around my penis, hissing at the direct contact. My eyes stayed fixed on the mirror, on the athlete’s torso, the crimson straps loose, and my own manic hand moving below. My breathing turned ragged, puffing little clouds onto the glass. I was close already, the tension of the past weeks coiling tight in my gut.
"Fuck," I breathed out, the word a plea and a curse aimed at my own reflection.
My hips began to pump in short, involuntary thrusts against my fist. The image in the mirror blurred at the edges; all I could see was the crimson, the swoosh still on my thigh, the desperate face. It wasn’t about pleasure anymore; it was about expulsion. Expelling the pressure, the expectation, the hollow feeling in my chest.
The climax crashed over me with a force that buckled my knees. A strangled cry tore from my throat as my release striped the mirror, obscuring the reflection. I slumped against the door, forehead pressed to the cool wood, gasping for air.
I was still wearing the singlet, damp with sweat, the waistband digging into my thighs. The room was silent except for my ragged breaths. The high of the fantasy had already drained away, replaced by a sticky, shameful reality. I’d gotten what I thought I wanted, but not the one thing I craved: the validation, the proof of being a real SEC athlete.
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