The 19-year-old bought his car in cash. Twenty grand. Straight up. A midnight black 2021 BMW X-3, lined inside with peanut butter-colored leather and a panoramic sunroof. It’s not new. But it’s his. Eddie Tuerk, the 6-foot-4, 320-pound left guard at Illinois, sinks into the front seat, sweat dripping from his fiery-red mullet. His oversized hands, calloused from barbells and blocking drills, grip the steering wheel. Two tight metal knee braces have been pressing into his skin for hours. He’s tired. And sore. But it soon fades as his phone buzzes. It’s an email. His share just hit.
Across the country, phones are lighting up the same way. Each notification signals a new era: the NCAA’s revenue-sharing model, which allows 319 Division I schools to pay athletes up to $20.5 million directly. That’s a theoretical $6.5 billion in year one. The cash flow is real. And visible. Florida’s football parking lots gleam with Dodge Chargers and Challengers. Michigan’s star quarterback, Bryce Underwood, can be seen flashing his diamond pendants on Saturdays. Money is moving fast, and mostly into the hands of 18-to-22 year-olds. Few will say where their checks go. But it’s not hard to guess. Let your imagination run wild.
This Galleria mall in Houston, Texas is huge. Three million square feet. Three floors. More than 400 stores, two Westin hotels, a skating rink, and a private health club. It’s tied for second largest mall in the United States. The pure white porcelain floors feel fancy to even look at. On level one, outside the Louis Vuitton store, Brian Allen is window shopping. The Iowa football defensive end is repping black crocs, a black and red Chicago Bulls shirt and gray Iowa sweatshorts. Janelle and Ephraim Lee, his siblings, stand beside him. Ephraim played football at Penn. Janelle, basketball at Holy Cross. Both competed before the era of revenue sharing. Brian is the lucky one. And he’s treating them to a shopping spree.
“Since we’re all grown now we’re not in the same house that often,” Allen said. “I wanted to do something nice for them.”
They meander beneath the towering glass balconies, scents of high-end fragrances seeping from luxury perfume stores. At LIDS, a baseball cap store, Brian purchases a tan Los Angeles hat with a black brim for his sister. $50. He snags a Kill Bill t-shirt for his brother from Prestige. $70. When it’s time to shop for himself, his eyes lock onto a denim jacket from Dior. He flips the tag over, revealing the price. $8,000.
“I had never been inside these boujee stores before,” Allen said, chuckling. “But I quickly put that back on the shelf.”
On the same level of the mall, Allen strolls into Balenciaga, the sunset orange floor contrasting the black shirt he spots. Printed on the center is a “B” logo, crowned by orange and gold flames. The same flames are stamped on each sleeve.
“Only a couple hundred,” he said.
Every year, the game of college athletics shifts closer to a business. Christian Lorenzo, a defensive lineman at Illinois State, knows this better than most. He’s transferred twice, first from Illinois, then Georgia State. He’s been chasing the best fit. And the best offer. Now, he uses his revenue sharing checks to help his little sister, Natallia, pay for her cancer treatments.
That kind of movement doesn’t surprise Kyle Strongin, a certified NFL and collegiate sports agent.
“Somebody’s always gonna pay more for you somewhere else,” Strongin said. “It’s like unrestricted free agency.”
Strongin, an agent for Brian Allen’s teammate and Iowa safety Xavier Nwankpa, is also managing more than $80 million in NFL contracts for 15 players this year. Many of these athletes he’s been with since college. Before NIL and revenue sharing, Strongin’s job with these athletes was much different. Getting paid to play was a distant dream. Now, in a changing world, naivety takes precedent.
“Their first experience with taxes is always a shock,” Strongin said. “Whatever you think you’re going to get, you get 50% of that.”
“Uncle Sam takes a lot of your money.”
It’s not just agents and players who have to adapt to this new system. Brennan White, the assistant athletic director and general manager of NIL at Illinois State, is constantly attempting to stay afloat. A mid-major like ISU, White says, was set up to fail from the start. And while he tries to work as seamlessly as possible with players like Lorenzo, it’s tough to keep them around.
“It’s all one big game of blind poker,” White said. “We have to guess what they’re being offered to leave, which is way more than we can ever afford.”
And he’s right. Larger schools can hit the $20.5 million threshold set by the settlement, while the Redbirds can’t come close, according to athletic director Jeri Beggs. The financial gap shapes recruiting, retention, and even daily operations. White feels the pressure.
“I can’t get athletes to respond unless I have checks,” White said. “We were destined to fail from the start.”
Others were destined to succeed. Or, at least, neglect the food chain beneath them.
Brandon Hansen doesn’t fish. He doesn’t even really play video games that much. But he has no problem shelling out cash to partake. With the help of his new funds, Hansen has dropped a whopping $900 on fishing rods and lures. He’s drained another $1,200 on PC equipment. A teammate of Tuerk’s at Illinois, Hansen has fallen into the temptation trap of revenue sharing freedom.
“He’s kind of a habitual spender,” Tuerk said. “He’ll just go out and get anything.”
This summer, with the rise of pickleball, Hansen decided to have some fun on the paddle market. You know, as one does.
“He got the most expensive paddle out there,” Tuerk added. “He just buys shit like that.”
But not every program takes such a laissez-faire approach. At Iowa, head football coach Kirk Ferentz is wary of certain spending habits. And there’s one he despises most: food delivery.
The concern isn’t the meals themselves but how the money flows. Hawkeyes use Black Card, an app-based platform that allows student-athletes to purchase meals and groceries at local restaurants. Delivery services like Doordash aren’t included.
“He always tells us not to use it,” Iowa receiver Dayton Howard said. “He’ll say, ‘it’s three bucks to a dollar.’”
If you’ve ever Doordashed before, you’d know he’s right. Ferentz doesn’t oppose all the benefits of the new system, though. At Iowa’s media day on August 26, the coach often criticized for his stubbornness to change seemed just fine with the new rules.
“I think that’s really so deserved,” he said. “The world has changed, I think it’s great that money is going back to athletes.”
When the money is used right, of course. Many who do follow his frugal advice reap the benefits. Last year, former Hawkeye linebacker Nick Jackson put all of his NIL money into VOO, an S&P 500 mutual fund. Where the average high-yield savings account earns 4–5% annually, VOO has returned 14% since 2010.
His lake house has to have jetskis. A big deck. Maybe a boat. Definitely a slide. And a diving board. When he’s ready. When he’s skinnier. That’s what Iowa football’s starting center Logan Jones would buy if he had “throwaway” money. For now, he’s putting his hard-earned revenue shares toward something more meaningful: supporting local missionaries at the Newman Catholic Student Center in Iowa City.
“We’ve really been able to help people,” Jones said. “It’s been super gratifying to see them get closer to God.”
He’s done more than lend a hand. Every dollar Jones contributes helps missionaries spend time with students, attend conferences, and build relationships that go beyond the football field. Father Jeff Belger, who works closely with the team, sees a greater purpose in Jones’ giving.
“Sooner or later, these players will need an identity that sticks with them,” Belger said. “I think this brings balance and a bigger picture to something that can be consuming.”
For Jones, that “something” is money. It has swallowed young minds. He’s trying to avoid that. And for a player who wasn’t even baptized last year, his mission and commitment with Newman keeps him grounded. Faith funding now. Lineman cannonballs later.
The finger of Eddie Tuerk presses into his car’s push-to-start button. His infotainment system flickers to life. The odometer reads 94,000 miles. Outside the football complex, leaves tumble across asphalt, stirred by the Autumn breeze. He leans back against the leather seats, hands on the wheel once again. This season, he’s carved out a role on special teams, inching closer to something that finally feels earned.
“There’s a lot of guys who deserve money but don’t have the recognition,” Tuerk said. “Revenue sharing evens it out. We’re all putting in a shit ton of work.”
Every dollar in their pockets carries the sweat of unseen hours. And whether that spending goes to faith, fun, fashion, or foolishness; each choice tells a story. They’re no longer just playing the game. Now, they own a piece of it.