The week didn't start on the field.
It started in Brandon Antonio's kitchen, barefoot on cold tile before the sun came up, coffee brewing while the house stayed quiet.
He leaned against the counter scrolling his phone, half watching a debate clip from ESPN replaying on mute in the corner of the screen. Someone was breaking down the Western Kentucky game like it meant everything. Someone else was dismissing it like it never mattered.
They argue about the result. I argue about the reaction speed of my left guard.
He locked the phone and stared through the window. Tuscaloosa barely moved this early. Just headlights and joggers and the occasional delivery truck.
This was the only quiet he got.
By 7 a.m., the building swallowed him again.
The inside of the Mal Moore Athletic Facility smelled like disinfectant, turf rubber, and burnt coffee. Meetings stacked on meetings. Film. Install. Corrections. Recruiting calls squeezed in between everything else. By Tuesday, his voice was already tired.
Not from yelling.
From restraint.
On Tuesday night, he sat alone in his office while rain hammered the windows. His laptop was open to cut-ups of the South Florida defense. He watched their corners bite on early motion again and again.
They gamble early. They always gamble early. That's why they'll jump out fast… and burn late.
His phone buzzed once.
Unknown number.
A text:
"You really think you can run Alabama like a chessboard?"
No name. No follow-up.
Brandon stared at it for three seconds.
Then he typed back:
"Only takes one queen to end the game."
He turned the phone face-down and went back to film.
Wednesday night, he left the facility later than everyone else. Stopped at a grocery store near campus. Hoodie up. Hat low. No cameras. No incidents.
That's where he ran into her by accident.
The reporter.
Not at a podium. Not across a row of microphones. Just standing near the self-checkout with a basket full of notebooks and protein bars.
They locked eyes for half a second.
She broke it first.
He almost didn't speak.
Almost.
"Tough week coming," he said casually as he walked past.
"Tough season coming," she replied without looking at him.
He smiled to himself as he exited.
Good. She still thinks I'm temporary.
Thursday was pressure disguised as routine.
A closed-door booster meeting. Heavy men in expensive jackets pretending they weren't nervous.
One of them leaned forward. "You fall behind 16 again this week, the narrative will shift."
Brandon nodded once. "Narratives always shift."
"What if it shifts against you?"
Brandon met his eyes. "Then you'll still be rich. And I'll still be right."
The room didn't laugh.
But they didn't challenge him either.
That night, alone again, Brandon lay on his couch with film paused on his TV and scrolled TikTok with the sound off. Fans were already predicting chaos. Some believed. Some wanted blood. Some wanted him fired just for being new.
One viral clip showed him from Week 1 walking the sideline stone-faced while Alabama scored again.
Caption:
"Bro never celebrates 😭"
He almost laughed.
Celebration is for people who think the job ends at the scoreboard.
Friday was the longest day.
Final install. Final corrections. Final mistakes.
One receiver ran the wrong split. Brandon stopped the rep instantly.
Walked over.
Quietly adjusted his foot six inches outward.
Ran it again.
Perfect.
Brandon nodded once and walked away.
Inside, his mind never stopped.
They'll try to hit us early with tempo. Crowd will tighten. My defense will bend on purpose without knowing it yet. Good. Pressure reveals who's lying to themselves.
That night, when the city started buzzing for game weekend, Brandon went nowhere. No bars. No events. No boosters.
Just him.
Lights off.
Film on.
And the slow, calculated certainty that the storm was coming.