NEWS FLASH. Buckeye Breakfast: An Ohio State football player’s purchasing habits have changed as a result of his fame.

Every Saturday in the fall, more than 100,000 fans fill Ohio Stadium in Columbus to watch the Buckeyes. For many Ohio State football players, the cheers, cameras, and coverage quickly become part of their everyday lives. Yet, behind the scenes, the fame that comes with wearing the scarlet and gray jersey often transforms even the most mundane routines. For one player, the simple act of buying breakfast has become a study in how celebrity alters the rhythms of daily life.

Before the fame, mornings were ordinary. The player—let’s call him Marcus to preserve anonymity—used to enjoy early walks to the local coffee shop just a few blocks from campus. A quiet kind of guy, Marcus preferred the solitude of early hours, often arriving before the rush. A black coffee, two eggs over medium, and wheat toast became his go-to order. There was no need for fanfare. He paid in cash, sat near the window, and occasionally nodded to familiar faces. Back then, he was just another college student, albeit one with a bigger build and a faster stride.

Everything started to shift after his breakout sophomore season. By mid-October, Marcus had become a regular feature on ESPN highlight reels, his name trending on Twitter after each game. His jersey started to appear more often around campus. His stats fueled debates on sports radio. And slowly, his life began to change—starting with the way he approached the simple task of buying breakfast.

The first signs were subtle. A longer pause at the cash register as the barista recognized his name. A stranger asking for a selfie while Marcus waited for his coffee. People staring, whispering, angling their phones discreetly. It was a far cry from the quiet comfort he used to enjoy. By November, Marcus stopped sitting near the window. He started wearing a hoodie with the drawstrings pulled tight. On occasion, he sent a teammate to grab his food while he waited in the car.

But the changes weren’t just social—they were financial too. Fame opened up new opportunities, thanks in large part to the NCAA’s updated Name, Image, and Likeness (NIL) policy. Marcus, like many other high-profile student-athletes, started receiving sponsorship deals and endorsements. Local businesses offered free meals in exchange for shoutouts on social media. He received gift cards, free gear, and invitations to promotional events. The once cash-paying, quiet customer became a walking brand.

Breakfast, once a \$10 routine, now varied based on the day and the deal. Some mornings it was avocado toast and cold brew from a trendy downtown spot that partnered with Marcus on Instagram. Other days it was a catered smoothie bowl from a nutrition-focused startup trying to break into the student-athlete market. When he walked in, staff greeted him by name—part customer, part celebrity, part investment. No longer just a hungry college kid, Marcus had become a micro-influencer, his purchasing habits shaped as much by algorithms and branding strategies as by appetite.

Yet the benefits were not without trade-offs. Privacy became a premium. Choices felt curated. Marcus found himself analyzing what he ordered, wondering if a greasy breakfast sandwich clashed with the fitness image he projected online. Would posting a photo of pancakes harm the protein bar brand he was representing? Was it worth declining a free meal to avoid an awkward conversation with a fan while wearing slippers and no sleep?

Over time, he adapted. Marcus developed what he called his “rotation”—a curated list of five or six spots that struck the right balance between visibility and comfort. One place, a low-key diner just off campus, became his safe space. The owner was a retired coach who didn’t allow phones in the dining area, and whose staff had known Marcus since before his rise. It was there that he could still order his eggs and toast without a dozen eyes watching. No cameras, no tags, just coffee and peace.

Yet even within this refuge, his fame lingered. On the wall above the counter hung a framed newspaper clipping from a Buckeyes win, with Marcus diving into the end zone. The owner had put it up proudly, not as a shrine, but as a nod of respect. It was both a celebration and a reminder. Fame, once gained, is not so easily left behind.

The new purchasing habits extended beyond breakfast, too. Grocery runs became less frequent. Marcus used delivery apps more often—some paid partnerships, others for convenience. He signed up for a meal subscription service after receiving a promo code in a direct message. Shopping in person had become an exercise in vigilance, with the risk of being stopped mid-aisle for a photo or autograph.

Brand loyalty shifted accordingly. Where Marcus once bought generic orange juice, he now favored a locally bottled version he’d featured in a TikTok ad. His granola brand had changed three times—first out of preference, then due to an endorsement, and later because the company sent him a crate of free samples. Choices that were once based on taste and price had morphed into strategic decisions. Even his protein powder came with a contract.

Still, not all of it felt like a burden. There was a thrill to it—the validation, the visibility, the sense that his game-time performance translated into real-world value. His parents were proud. High school teammates messaged him in awe. And the breakfast spots loved it. Several small businesses saw spikes in foot traffic after he posted about them. One café sold out of cinnamon rolls within two hours of his endorsement.

But Marcus also learned to be cautious. He hired a financial advisor—another byproduct of the lifestyle—and started tracking not just his spending, but how his image influenced what he bought. He started saying “no” more often, skipping sponsored meals if they felt disingenuous. Sometimes, he still missed the quiet anonymity of his freshman year, when a morning walk and a hot coffee felt like rituals rather than routines loaded with expectations.

In conversations with teammates, Marcus discovered he wasn’t alone. Others had their own versions of the breakfast dilemma. Some had entire meals comped, others received prepaid debit cards for promoting certain brands. One lineman joked that he hadn’t paid for a bagel since August. A wide receiver admitted he started wearing sunglasses indoors just to avoid eye contact at the cafeteria. They all laughed about it, but there was an undercurrent of truth. Fame, they realized, doesn’t just bring money—it reshapes how you move through the world.

These shifts come at a formative time in their lives. College is when most young people start to understand their relationship to money, food, and independence. For student-athletes, those lessons are accelerated, often distorted by public attention and corporate interest. When breakfast becomes a brand decision, how do you retain your sense of self?

For Marcus, part of the answer lies in creating boundaries. He set screen-time limits. He separated personal meals from promotional content. He learned to differentiate between what he wanted and what he felt compelled to order for optics. And when things felt overwhelming, he returned to his quiet diner, ordered his usual, and sat with his thoughts—no cameras, no filters, no hashtags.

He knows this phase won’t last forever. The NFL may or may not call. The endorsements could dry up. New faces will take his place on the field and in the spotlight. But for now, he navigates this strange middle ground—part student, part star—with increasing self-awareness.

His breakfast, like his life, may look different now. But in the steam rising from his coffee and the crunch of toast, there are still echoes of the routine that once grounded him. The changes may be permanent, but so too is the discipline that got him here. And perhaps, in those quiet, early-morning bites, Marcus finds not just fuel for his body, but something deeper: a reminder of who he is beneath the jersey, beyond the fame.