How on the way to North Carolina, Kyan Evans and his father outwitted the NIL game

On a warm spring morning just outside of Kansas City, Kyan Evans stood at the edge of the high school gym, his bag slung over his shoulder, his mind already three steps ahead. His senior season had ended weeks ago, but he wasn’t done—not with basketball, not with proving people wrong, and certainly not with navigating the chaotic world of college recruitment in the age of NIL.

For most kids, the NIL game was confusing. A whirlwind of agents, third-party reps, brand deals, and university collectives throwing around numbers that didn’t even sound real. For Kyan, it was a trap waiting to be stepped into. But his father, Darren Evans, a former D2 player turned small business owner, had seen enough of the world to know that not everything glittering with dollar signs was worth grabbing.

“Son,” he had told him back in December, “your name is a brand. But your name is not for sale.”

At first, Kyan didn’t get it. He was 18, with followers, rankings, mixtapes, and enough hype to fill a mid-major gym. Coaches texted daily. Offers rolled in weekly. But by spring, it wasn’t just about who wanted him. It was about who could pay him.

That’s when the phone started ringing with a different tone. Not just coaches—but “representatives,” “marketing liaisons,” and “brand advisors.” They dangled deals. One school hinted at six figures just to commit. Another offered a Tesla lease. There were promises of custom shoes, clothing lines, personal logos. And in some cases, shady deals buried in vague contracts.

But Darren had been ready. He wasn’t a lawyer, but he knew people. He had friends who ran small agencies, accountants who read fine print for fun, and former teammates who had seen the underbelly of semi-pro leagues overseas. And so, he built what he called “Team Evans.” Not an entourage, but a team of watchdogs. They reviewed every offer, every DM, every NIL clause that mentioned “exclusivity” or “lifetime rights.”

Kyan didn’t love it at first. He wanted to believe in the dream. He had grown up watching documentaries about athletes rising to fame, about young Black kids using basketball as a vehicle out. And in a way, he had. But Darren reminded him: “What good is the car if someone else is driving?”

So, while other players chased the biggest offers, Kyan and his dad got methodical. They built spreadsheets. Darren made Kyan list what he actually wanted out of college—development, playing time, exposure, community. And then, they mapped the NIL game onto it.

What they found was this: some schools offered big deals but had three other point guards already locked in. Others promised exposure but buried players behind two-year marketing contracts. One school offered $250K—but only if Kyan signed over 40% of future brand revenues. That was the moment Darren sat him down again.

“This is slavery with paperwork,” he said. “But if we play it right—we flip the script.”

So they started doing the unthinkable. Saying no.

Kyan turned down five high-major offers. Coaches were stunned. One told him flat-out, “You’re walking away from a quarter million.” But Kyan, backed by his father’s research, saw the bigger picture. He wasn’t a short-term investment. He was building something longer than a single season.

By March, rumors swirled. “Kyan’s being difficult.” “His dad is too involved.” “He doesn’t care about NIL.” But none of that was true. They cared. They just weren’t playing the same game.

And then came North Carolina.

At first, it was just another conversation. A Zoom call with an assistant coach. A follow-up with a rep from their athlete branding team. Then a full-court press from the head coach himself. But UNC didn’t come with wild NIL promises. They came with a development plan. They laid out his role, his progression, how he’d be featured—not sold.

What made them different wasn’t just tradition. It was transparency.

Instead of pushing third-party brands at him, they asked him what he wanted to do. Did he want to run a camp back in Kansas City? Create content? Partner with a cause? They offered support, not control.

That night, Darren looked over their proposal.

“No upfront bag,” he said. “No car. No trapdoor contracts.”

Kyan nodded.

“But if you ball out,” Darren continued, “everything else follows.”

That was the plan. Let the game speak first. Let the brand follow.

Still, they didn’t rush. They asked UNC hard questions. They brought their accountant onto Zoom calls. They interviewed players already in the program. They looked into Carolina’s actual NIL ecosystem—not the headlines, but the day-to-day.

What they found was simple: the program didn’t need to bribe. It developed. The players made money because of performance, not promises. And there were stories—guys who stayed four years and left with degrees and businesses. That was rare.

By April, the decision was made. Kyan committed to North Carolina.

The backlash was immediate. “He could’ve made more at [insert school]!” “This generation doesn’t know how to secure the bag!” But Kyan just smiled. He knew they didn’t understand.

What no one saw was that while other players were chasing deals, he was building leverage.

Because behind the scenes, Darren and “Team Evans” had been working. They had filed trademarks. Locked down a logo. Created a holding company under Kyan’s name. Built a digital infrastructure so that when the moment came—when he dropped 20 points in a nationally televised ACC game—he’d already be in control of every stream of revenue that followed.

It wasn’t about being against NIL. It was about owning it.

Three weeks into summer workouts, Kyan got a call from a national apparel brand—not because of his school, but because of a vlog he had posted showing his workouts, his dad’s influence, and his decision-making process. The brand offered a partnership. Not a traditional NIL deal, but a collaboration. Co-branded merchandise. Revenue share. Full creative input.

Why? Because he had a story—and he owned it.

The kid who “walked away” from NIL had become one of the most watched freshman athletes in the country.

By the time the season tipped off, Kyan’s name was everywhere. Not because he was loud. But because he had been intentional. He averaged solid numbers—not superstar, not benchwarmer, but consistent. He made the all-freshman team. He didn’t just “play the game”—he learned it.

Back home, Darren kept the operation moving. Every deal was reviewed. Every opportunity vetted. And slowly, other players started calling. Parents. High school teammates. Even assistant coaches. They wanted to know how they did it.

So Darren started writing it down.

The blueprint.

By spring, he’d turned his notes into a downloadable PDF. Then a YouTube series. Then a small consulting group. Kyan helped, recording short videos explaining “how not to get finessed.” It wasn’t preachy—it was practical. And it spread.

That summer, instead of chasing money, Kyan made it. His own way. He launched a summer clinic in Kansas City. Partnered with a tech startup that built NIL dashboards for athletes. Spoke at a local college about personal branding. All while staying NCAA compliant—because Darren made sure they followed the rules.

Other parents called it luck.

But it wasn’t.

It was planning. Patience. And the refusal to sell what they didn’t yet understand.

By year two, Kyan was a starter. His brand was solid. His finances were clean. He had no agents pressuring him, no companies ghosting him after injury, no regrets about quick cash offers that would’ve tied up his name for years.

He wasn’t just surviving the NIL era.

He was winning it.

And the craziest part? They never had to outbid anyone. Just outthink them.

One night, after a home win, Kyan and Darren sat in the same spot they had back in high school—outside a quiet gym, just talking.

“You think we did it right?” Kyan asked.

Darren smiled. “We didn’t chase the wave. We built the boat.”

And that boat was still moving—one deal, one decision, one step at a time.

Because in a world where everyone wanted fast fame and faster checks, Kyan Evans and his father chose something different.

Ownership. Strategy. Legacy.

And that, more than any NIL number, was the real win.