Looking like this as you put these Black women through the toughest trials and tribulations.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Big Fish Theory - Episode 8
Keshawn rose up, squaring his shoulders as he got around the imaginary defender and extended his arms out as he flicked his wrist, shooting the ball towards the basket but it clanked out yet again.
“I’m not asking for the world here,” Coach Bronstein seethed, grabbing the rebound and firing a pass towards Keshawn chest, “Again.”
He went through the same motions again, going between his legs in front of the cones before coming off an imaginary screen, sizing up his imaginary defender before driving towards the basket, switching hands on the dribble, turning the corner and rising up for a shot.
“Jesus, boychik,” Coach Bronstein shook his head, “Should we just start the entire workout over?”
Keshawn slapped his hands together in frustration, letting his head hang low as he jogged back towards the first cone, awaiting for the ball in anticipation of going through the drill once more.
“You got any tests today? Some big quiz?” Coach Bronstein asked his star player as he continued to examine his face. Being a part time psychologist was part of being a coach.
“No, coach,” Keshawn shook his head, bracing himself for an even longer workout than usual to start the day. His morning was already off to a hectic start with the impact of his tweet already being felt. Coaches from Pepperdine, Santa Clara, Loyola and the likes were blowing up his phone, trying to get him to reconsider his position. His friends, even those from Thornwood that acted like he stopped existing, were reaching out to congratulate him. And yet there was still a collect call that he was dreading.
“Shower up and meet me in the parking lot,” Coach Bronstein commanded, letting the ball roll to Keshawn’s feet.
…
Keshawn was no stranger to luxury but even he had to stop his jaw from hitting the floor as they drove up the never-ending marble driveway. Even from the front, the enormity yet simplicity of the house was breathtaking, far grander than what Keshawn expected when he got into Coach Bronstein’s ten-year old Lexus.
He knew little about Coach Bronstein, mostly from the locker room chatter that he was a legendary high school coach in the area that was an assistant in college and the pros for a little while before retiring over a decade ago. None of that would explain the mansion that was sitting in front of Keshawn as he got out of the car.
“You’re a young person,” Coach Bronstein commented as he shook his head at the other parked car in the driveway, a sleek Audi, “Wouldn’t you want to live on campus and I don’t know, actually stay there?”
“I guess,” Keshawn shrugged, a bit confused by it all.
“I guess there are worse places to be,” Coach Bronstein laughed to himself as he opened up the door to the spacious home, artfully decorated by an interior designer surely, “You’ve got company!”
Keshawn expected to see Coach Bronstein’s wife, who he had seen at the games before but instead it was a petite blonde. She sat at the marble island in the heart of the kitchen, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding her golden hair in soft waves. Her complexion was radiant, kissed by a warmth that hinted at a life spent near the ocean.
“Hey Papa,” she looked up, scooping up a handful of granolas as she tossed them into her mouth.
“Playing hooky today?” Coach Bronstein teased, leaning over and kissing her on the forehead before grabbing two water bottles from the refrigerator, tossing one to Keshawn.
“No one calls it that anymore,” she shook her head as she examined Keshawn, trying to determine his purpose. Her sea-green eyes, sharp yet inviting, flicked briefly to the window, reflecting the shimmering Pacific beyond.
“We’ll be out of your hair,” Coach Bronstein laughed, “Boychick, this is my granddaughter, Esther.”
“Nadia,” she quickly corrected him, accompanying it with a death stare before making brief eye contact with Keshawn.
“I forget,” he held his hands to his heart, “Nadia, this is Keshawn, he plays for your uncle’s team.”
“Isn’t it your team too?” she asked, never letting her gaze linger on Keshawn for too long.
“I just stay out the way,” Coach Bronstein smiled, giving her another kiss on the forehead, “If you’re still here when Nina is back, tell her I’m out on the boat.”
“You can text her that, you know that, right?”
“Why would I do that when I have my own personal messenger?” Coach Bronstein joked, “Esther—I’m sorry, Nadia here is a freshman at UCLA, boychick. I don’t know, maybe you guys will be running into each other next year, spending study hall together or something. If she ever actually goes.”
“You’re going to UCLA?” she asked, addressing Keshawn for the first time, which froze him up for a few seconds.
“I don’t know about that,” Keshawn blushed, “They really haven’t spoken to me since the summer and I think they sent that letter to every kid in the state.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Coach Bronstein assured him as he grabbed a set of keys that were hanging on a hook near the kitchen along with a jacket, “Don’t have too much fun without us, Nadia.”
…
The acrid smell of motor oil and burnt rubber permeated the air as Loraine stepped into the garage. She navigated her way between hulking vehicles propped up on hydraulic lifts, her eyes scanning for a familiar face. Sweat beaded on her brow in the oppressive heat, the air thick with the scent of gasoline and sweat.
"Excuse me," she called out to a burly man wiping his hands on a rag, "I'm looking for Dro. Is he here?"
The mechanic jerked his thumb towards the back of the shop without a word. Loraine nodded her thanks and pressed on, her determined stride belying the anxiety churning in her stomach. As she rounded a corner, she finally spotted Dro's frame silhouetted against the harsh glare of a welding torch.
He was deep in conversation with Fat Stacks, their heads bent close together as they examined something on a battered cell phone. Fat Stacks' booming laugh cut through the din of the shop, but Dro's expression remained impassive, his eyes hard and calculating.
"Dro?" Loraine called out, her voice wavering slightly.
Both men's heads snapped up at the sound of her voice. Recognition flashed across Dro's face, quickly replaced by a guarded wariness. Fat Stacks' eyes squinted as he tried to place her face.
"You Keshawn’s momma, right?" Fat Stacks asked, stuffing his phone into his pocket.
Dro silenced him with a sharp look before turning back to Loraine. "Neph, give us a minute," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
Stacks raised his hands in mock surrender, a grin growing on his face. "Aight, aight. I know when I ain't wanted. I’ll politic with you later."
Dro waited until Fat Stacks was out of earshot before addressing Loraine, his posture tense and wary. "I already squared you away, girl. Don’t worry about the interest, consider that a friends and family discount.
Loraine took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. The air between them crackled with unspoken history and long-buried emotions. She met Dro's gaze unflinchingly, “I know and thank you so much but—”
“I’m going to stop you there,” he took a seat on a nearby bench, “Wherever this conversation is heading, I can tell you by the end of it, none of us gonna be happy about it.”
“It’s for Elijah, Dro. He’s got a potential early release coming up and I can’t afford to cut any corners with a public D.A.”
“I thought you had folks doing pro bono or something.”
“They dropped us,” she explained, “It’s a long story but I need just enough to get through some consultations, a retainer and then I can figure out a payment plan for the lawyers.”
“At which point, you’d need a payment plan to pay back said loan,” Dro scoffed, “You’re smarter than this, Raine. I mean, it ain’t like he got new evidence or something for an appeal. An early release hearing? Shit, a crackhead can be his lawyer for that. The judge done made his mind up that morning by the time he’s having his breakfast. You just wasting bread at that point.”
“Maybe, but I can’t risk it,” she was adamant, “It ain’t like I ain’t good for it.”
“I know you are, which is the problem,” Dro countered, “You’re gonna kill yourself trying to pay me back and end up worse off than you is right now. He’s not even in a dangerous module or nothing, he gonna be fine.”
“Do you grill everyone that asks you for a loan? Make sure it’s a wise decision on their part?” she sucked her teeth, “I don’t see why none of this shit matter. You don’t run the crackhead’s credit report when you selling dope.”
“You’re real funny, you know that?” Dro peeled himself off the bench, “The answer is no, take that shit somewhere else.”
“Come on,” Loraine pleaded, “I just need enough for the retainer.”
“You know me well enough to know I ain’t budging,” he shook his head, “Or has it been that long?”
“Fine,” Loraine's face hardened, her jaw clenching as she fought back tears of frustration. She spun around, her footsteps echoing through the garage as she stormed towards the exit.
As she neared the doorway, a hulking figure stepped into her path. Fat Stacks loomed before her, his eyes, usually cold and calculating, now held a spark of interest.
"Yo, hold up a sec," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I couldn't help but overhear your situation."
Loraine tensed, her hand instinctively tightening on her purse strap. "I don’t have a situation," she snapped, attempting to sidestep him.
Fat Stacks raised his hands in a placating gesture, a sly grin spreading across his face. "I'm just trying to help out a fellow member of the community, you feel me? I can front you that bread, it don’t matter to me. A loan is a loan and I know you Dro people so whatever rate he gave you before, I’m willing to honor it.”
…
The gentle rocking of the boat lulled Keshawn into a state of tranquility he hadn't felt in months. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in a breathtaking array of oranges and pinks that reflected off the calm Pacific waters.
Coach Bronstein stood at the helm, his weathered hands confidently guiding the sleek vessel through the water. The coach's usually intense demeanor had softened throughout the day, replaced by a relaxed, almost paternal air.
"You know, boychik," Coach Bronstein began, his voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of waves against the hull, "I might need to make you my new co-captain. My sons, they always wanna blare some music or want to go fishing or drink a bunch of beers while we’re out here. You’re cool with just hanging out, not doing nothing. Your generation needs more of that. "
Keshawn nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon that led to nowhere and everywhere. The day had been a welcome respite from the chaos of his life - no buzzing phones, no expectations, just the open water and Coach Bronstein's surprisingly easy company.
"I've been meaning to ask you," Coach Bronstein continued, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as he studied Keshawn's face, "Stewie told me you’re thinking of Howard. They’ve got a solid program.”
Keshawn's shoulders tensed slightly, the peaceful mood suddenly tainted by the reminder of his looming decision. He sighed, running a hand over his face. "I don't know, Coach. I don’t know why I tweeted that. I mean, I do, and I do like Howard and Texas Southern but I don’t know, just wanted to make a decision I guess, help bring some finality to it.”
“Narrowing your choices always makes it easier,” Coach Bronstein agreed, “Like I said, I can’t speak too much for Southern but Howard is…they’re legit. Certainly offers something…different than those other schools.”
“I don’t know, I feel like I can make a big impact going to a school like Howard.”
“You certainly can,” Coach Bronstein chimed in, “I’m not going to be one of those that act like our plight is the same but in a lot of ways, I can relate to what you’re going through. If I had the opportunity to do the same thing coming out of high school, if there was like some top Jewish programs or something, maybe I’d have gone. I don’t know, my mother certainly would have loved it, God bless her soul.”
“Exactly,” Keshawn found comfort in Coach Bronstein’s words, “Why not put on for your people, right?”
“I’m too old to act like I know what ‘put on’ means but I can tell you this. You’d be doing a lot of good for your community by going to a school like Howard and they’ll prop you up and you’ll inspire a lot of other kids to do something similar.”
“I feel like a ‘but’ is coming,” Keshawn leaned in, resting his elbows on his legs.
"I’m not saying money is everything and it certainly isn’t but financial freedom? Financial power? It’s the only way to make change, boychick,” Coach Bronstein explained, “Sure, you can be a figurehead at Howard or Southern or any other school really but do you even remember the name of that five-star kid that went there a few years ago?”
“Not really,” Keshawn scoffed.
“Bounced around in the G-League last I checked,” Coach Bronstein shrugged, “I’m not saying that’s your path or you’ll not make it if you go to Howard or any of those schools but make the decision that’s right for you and your family. You’ll have the rest of your life to be an activist but for now? Maximize your talent and your earning potential. Trust me on that, boychick.”
…
Angela leaned against Vic’s car, her breath visible in the crisp night air. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, bouncing on the balls of her feet to keep warm.
Angela's heart quickened as she heard the doors burst open, spilling out a stream of excited fans and players. She scanned the faces, searching for Vic. Finally, she spotted him, walking with his head down, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. As he approached, Angela's smile faded. The furrow in Vic's brow and the tight set of his jaw told her something was wrong.
"Hey, baby," she called out, trying to inject some cheer into her voice. "Great game out there tonight, you were killing it.”
Vic grunted in response, barely looking up as he reached the car. He tossed his bag into the backseat with more force than necessary, the thud echoing in the near-empty lot.
Angela's brow furrowed. "You okay?”
Vic whirled around, his eyes flashing with anger. "Yeah, I’m straight.”
“You sure?”
“I ain’t getting into it with you right now, I promise I’m not.”
Angela took a step back. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't act like you don't know," Vic spat. "This whole Howard and Texas Southern thing? That's got your fingerprints all over it."
"Excuse me?" Angela's voice rose, indignation coloring her tone. "What are you even talking about right now?”
"You've been in Keshawn's ear for months, filling his head with all this 'Black excellence' talk. And now he's throwing away his shot at playing for a high major and for what? Some misguided sense of loyalty to fucking Black people?"
Angela's eyes widened, her own anger rising to match Vic's. "Misguided? Are you serious right now? There's nothing misguided about wanting to support HBCUs. And I didn't force Keshawn to do anything. He made his own decision. I didn’t even know he was going to do that."
"Yeah, right," Vic scoffed. "Just like I 'made my own decision' to stay here. You're always manipulating, always pushing your agenda."
"My agenda?" Angela's voice cracked with disbelief. "You mean caring about our community? Wanting to see us succeed on our own terms?"
"No, I mean you thinking you know what's best for everyone else," Vic shot back. "You always gotta fucking control everything.”
“If that ain’t the motherfucking pot calling the kettle black,” she scoffed, “You practically smothered that boy all last year!”
“Smothered?! I kept that motherfucker head on his shoulders,” he countered, “Why you think no one ever jumped him or stole some shit from him? You think shit is just that sweet for a lame ass nigga like him? Motherfuckers can smell pussy from a mile away if it wasn’t for me.”
“Anyway, what is this fucking bullshit about be making you stay here? You’re the one that wanted to go to this bigot ass school.”
“Bullshit,” Vic sucked his teeth, “It was always us going to school together in LA with you at CDU and me at wherever-the-fuck because it’s always been about you and what your fucking vision is.”
“Don’t blame me for your shortcomings,” she grabbed her purse from car, “I’ve had enough of that in my life!”
Keshawn rose up, squaring his shoulders as he got around the imaginary defender and extended his arms out as he flicked his wrist, shooting the ball towards the basket but it clanked out yet again.
“I’m not asking for the world here,” Coach Bronstein seethed, grabbing the rebound and firing a pass towards Keshawn chest, “Again.”
He went through the same motions again, going between his legs in front of the cones before coming off an imaginary screen, sizing up his imaginary defender before driving towards the basket, switching hands on the dribble, turning the corner and rising up for a shot.
“Jesus, boychik,” Coach Bronstein shook his head, “Should we just start the entire workout over?”
Keshawn slapped his hands together in frustration, letting his head hang low as he jogged back towards the first cone, awaiting for the ball in anticipation of going through the drill once more.
“You got any tests today? Some big quiz?” Coach Bronstein asked his star player as he continued to examine his face. Being a part time psychologist was part of being a coach.
“No, coach,” Keshawn shook his head, bracing himself for an even longer workout than usual to start the day. His morning was already off to a hectic start with the impact of his tweet already being felt. Coaches from Pepperdine, Santa Clara, Loyola and the likes were blowing up his phone, trying to get him to reconsider his position. His friends, even those from Thornwood that acted like he stopped existing, were reaching out to congratulate him. And yet there was still a collect call that he was dreading.
“Shower up and meet me in the parking lot,” Coach Bronstein commanded, letting the ball roll to Keshawn’s feet.
…
Keshawn was no stranger to luxury but even he had to stop his jaw from hitting the floor as they drove up the never-ending marble driveway. Even from the front, the enormity yet simplicity of the house was breathtaking, far grander than what Keshawn expected when he got into Coach Bronstein’s ten-year old Lexus.
He knew little about Coach Bronstein, mostly from the locker room chatter that he was a legendary high school coach in the area that was an assistant in college and the pros for a little while before retiring over a decade ago. None of that would explain the mansion that was sitting in front of Keshawn as he got out of the car.
“You’re a young person,” Coach Bronstein commented as he shook his head at the other parked car in the driveway, a sleek Audi, “Wouldn’t you want to live on campus and I don’t know, actually stay there?”
“I guess,” Keshawn shrugged, a bit confused by it all.
“I guess there are worse places to be,” Coach Bronstein laughed to himself as he opened up the door to the spacious home, artfully decorated by an interior designer surely, “You’ve got company!”
Keshawn expected to see Coach Bronstein’s wife, who he had seen at the games before but instead it was a petite blonde. She sat at the marble island in the heart of the kitchen, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, gilding her golden hair in soft waves. Her complexion was radiant, kissed by a warmth that hinted at a life spent near the ocean.
“Hey Papa,” she looked up, scooping up a handful of granolas as she tossed them into her mouth.
“Playing hooky today?” Coach Bronstein teased, leaning over and kissing her on the forehead before grabbing two water bottles from the refrigerator, tossing one to Keshawn.
“No one calls it that anymore,” she shook her head as she examined Keshawn, trying to determine his purpose. Her sea-green eyes, sharp yet inviting, flicked briefly to the window, reflecting the shimmering Pacific beyond.
“We’ll be out of your hair,” Coach Bronstein laughed, “Boychick, this is my granddaughter, Esther.”
“Nadia,” she quickly corrected him, accompanying it with a death stare before making brief eye contact with Keshawn.
“I forget,” he held his hands to his heart, “Nadia, this is Keshawn, he plays for your uncle’s team.”
“Isn’t it your team too?” she asked, never letting her gaze linger on Keshawn for too long.
“I just stay out the way,” Coach Bronstein smiled, giving her another kiss on the forehead, “If you’re still here when Nina is back, tell her I’m out on the boat.”
“You can text her that, you know that, right?”
“Why would I do that when I have my own personal messenger?” Coach Bronstein joked, “Esther—I’m sorry, Nadia here is a freshman at UCLA, boychick. I don’t know, maybe you guys will be running into each other next year, spending study hall together or something. If she ever actually goes.”
“You’re going to UCLA?” she asked, addressing Keshawn for the first time, which froze him up for a few seconds.
“I don’t know about that,” Keshawn blushed, “They really haven’t spoken to me since the summer and I think they sent that letter to every kid in the state.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Coach Bronstein assured him as he grabbed a set of keys that were hanging on a hook near the kitchen along with a jacket, “Don’t have too much fun without us, Nadia.”
…
The acrid smell of motor oil and burnt rubber permeated the air as Loraine stepped into the garage. She navigated her way between hulking vehicles propped up on hydraulic lifts, her eyes scanning for a familiar face. Sweat beaded on her brow in the oppressive heat, the air thick with the scent of gasoline and sweat.
"Excuse me," she called out to a burly man wiping his hands on a rag, "I'm looking for Dro. Is he here?"
The mechanic jerked his thumb towards the back of the shop without a word. Loraine nodded her thanks and pressed on, her determined stride belying the anxiety churning in her stomach. As she rounded a corner, she finally spotted Dro's frame silhouetted against the harsh glare of a welding torch.
He was deep in conversation with Fat Stacks, their heads bent close together as they examined something on a battered cell phone. Fat Stacks' booming laugh cut through the din of the shop, but Dro's expression remained impassive, his eyes hard and calculating.
"Dro?" Loraine called out, her voice wavering slightly.
Both men's heads snapped up at the sound of her voice. Recognition flashed across Dro's face, quickly replaced by a guarded wariness. Fat Stacks' eyes squinted as he tried to place her face.
"You Keshawn’s momma, right?" Fat Stacks asked, stuffing his phone into his pocket.
Dro silenced him with a sharp look before turning back to Loraine. "Neph, give us a minute," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
Stacks raised his hands in mock surrender, a grin growing on his face. "Aight, aight. I know when I ain't wanted. I’ll politic with you later."
Dro waited until Fat Stacks was out of earshot before addressing Loraine, his posture tense and wary. "I already squared you away, girl. Don’t worry about the interest, consider that a friends and family discount.
Loraine took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. The air between them crackled with unspoken history and long-buried emotions. She met Dro's gaze unflinchingly, “I know and thank you so much but—”
“I’m going to stop you there,” he took a seat on a nearby bench, “Wherever this conversation is heading, I can tell you by the end of it, none of us gonna be happy about it.”
“It’s for Elijah, Dro. He’s got a potential early release coming up and I can’t afford to cut any corners with a public D.A.”
“I thought you had folks doing pro bono or something.”
“They dropped us,” she explained, “It’s a long story but I need just enough to get through some consultations, a retainer and then I can figure out a payment plan for the lawyers.”
“At which point, you’d need a payment plan to pay back said loan,” Dro scoffed, “You’re smarter than this, Raine. I mean, it ain’t like he got new evidence or something for an appeal. An early release hearing? Shit, a crackhead can be his lawyer for that. The judge done made his mind up that morning by the time he’s having his breakfast. You just wasting bread at that point.”
“Maybe, but I can’t risk it,” she was adamant, “It ain’t like I ain’t good for it.”
“I know you are, which is the problem,” Dro countered, “You’re gonna kill yourself trying to pay me back and end up worse off than you is right now. He’s not even in a dangerous module or nothing, he gonna be fine.”
“Do you grill everyone that asks you for a loan? Make sure it’s a wise decision on their part?” she sucked her teeth, “I don’t see why none of this shit matter. You don’t run the crackhead’s credit report when you selling dope.”
“You’re real funny, you know that?” Dro peeled himself off the bench, “The answer is no, take that shit somewhere else.”
“Come on,” Loraine pleaded, “I just need enough for the retainer.”
“You know me well enough to know I ain’t budging,” he shook his head, “Or has it been that long?”
“Fine,” Loraine's face hardened, her jaw clenching as she fought back tears of frustration. She spun around, her footsteps echoing through the garage as she stormed towards the exit.
As she neared the doorway, a hulking figure stepped into her path. Fat Stacks loomed before her, his eyes, usually cold and calculating, now held a spark of interest.
"Yo, hold up a sec," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I couldn't help but overhear your situation."
Loraine tensed, her hand instinctively tightening on her purse strap. "I don’t have a situation," she snapped, attempting to sidestep him.
Fat Stacks raised his hands in a placating gesture, a sly grin spreading across his face. "I'm just trying to help out a fellow member of the community, you feel me? I can front you that bread, it don’t matter to me. A loan is a loan and I know you Dro people so whatever rate he gave you before, I’m willing to honor it.”
…
The gentle rocking of the boat lulled Keshawn into a state of tranquility he hadn't felt in months. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in a breathtaking array of oranges and pinks that reflected off the calm Pacific waters.
Coach Bronstein stood at the helm, his weathered hands confidently guiding the sleek vessel through the water. The coach's usually intense demeanor had softened throughout the day, replaced by a relaxed, almost paternal air.
"You know, boychik," Coach Bronstein began, his voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of waves against the hull, "I might need to make you my new co-captain. My sons, they always wanna blare some music or want to go fishing or drink a bunch of beers while we’re out here. You’re cool with just hanging out, not doing nothing. Your generation needs more of that. "
Keshawn nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon that led to nowhere and everywhere. The day had been a welcome respite from the chaos of his life - no buzzing phones, no expectations, just the open water and Coach Bronstein's surprisingly easy company.
"I've been meaning to ask you," Coach Bronstein continued, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as he studied Keshawn's face, "Stewie told me you’re thinking of Howard. They’ve got a solid program.”
Keshawn's shoulders tensed slightly, the peaceful mood suddenly tainted by the reminder of his looming decision. He sighed, running a hand over his face. "I don't know, Coach. I don’t know why I tweeted that. I mean, I do, and I do like Howard and Texas Southern but I don’t know, just wanted to make a decision I guess, help bring some finality to it.”
“Narrowing your choices always makes it easier,” Coach Bronstein agreed, “Like I said, I can’t speak too much for Southern but Howard is…they’re legit. Certainly offers something…different than those other schools.”
“I don’t know, I feel like I can make a big impact going to a school like Howard.”
“You certainly can,” Coach Bronstein chimed in, “I’m not going to be one of those that act like our plight is the same but in a lot of ways, I can relate to what you’re going through. If I had the opportunity to do the same thing coming out of high school, if there was like some top Jewish programs or something, maybe I’d have gone. I don’t know, my mother certainly would have loved it, God bless her soul.”
“Exactly,” Keshawn found comfort in Coach Bronstein’s words, “Why not put on for your people, right?”
“I’m too old to act like I know what ‘put on’ means but I can tell you this. You’d be doing a lot of good for your community by going to a school like Howard and they’ll prop you up and you’ll inspire a lot of other kids to do something similar.”
“I feel like a ‘but’ is coming,” Keshawn leaned in, resting his elbows on his legs.
"I’m not saying money is everything and it certainly isn’t but financial freedom? Financial power? It’s the only way to make change, boychick,” Coach Bronstein explained, “Sure, you can be a figurehead at Howard or Southern or any other school really but do you even remember the name of that five-star kid that went there a few years ago?”
“Not really,” Keshawn scoffed.
“Bounced around in the G-League last I checked,” Coach Bronstein shrugged, “I’m not saying that’s your path or you’ll not make it if you go to Howard or any of those schools but make the decision that’s right for you and your family. You’ll have the rest of your life to be an activist but for now? Maximize your talent and your earning potential. Trust me on that, boychick.”
…
Angela leaned against Vic’s car, her breath visible in the crisp night air. She pulled her jacket tighter around her body, bouncing on the balls of her feet to keep warm.
Angela's heart quickened as she heard the doors burst open, spilling out a stream of excited fans and players. She scanned the faces, searching for Vic. Finally, she spotted him, walking with his head down, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. As he approached, Angela's smile faded. The furrow in Vic's brow and the tight set of his jaw told her something was wrong.
"Hey, baby," she called out, trying to inject some cheer into her voice. "Great game out there tonight, you were killing it.”
Vic grunted in response, barely looking up as he reached the car. He tossed his bag into the backseat with more force than necessary, the thud echoing in the near-empty lot.
Angela's brow furrowed. "You okay?”
Vic whirled around, his eyes flashing with anger. "Yeah, I’m straight.”
“You sure?”
“I ain’t getting into it with you right now, I promise I’m not.”
Angela took a step back. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't act like you don't know," Vic spat. "This whole Howard and Texas Southern thing? That's got your fingerprints all over it."
"Excuse me?" Angela's voice rose, indignation coloring her tone. "What are you even talking about right now?”
"You've been in Keshawn's ear for months, filling his head with all this 'Black excellence' talk. And now he's throwing away his shot at playing for a high major and for what? Some misguided sense of loyalty to fucking Black people?"
Angela's eyes widened, her own anger rising to match Vic's. "Misguided? Are you serious right now? There's nothing misguided about wanting to support HBCUs. And I didn't force Keshawn to do anything. He made his own decision. I didn’t even know he was going to do that."
"Yeah, right," Vic scoffed. "Just like I 'made my own decision' to stay here. You're always manipulating, always pushing your agenda."
"My agenda?" Angela's voice cracked with disbelief. "You mean caring about our community? Wanting to see us succeed on our own terms?"
"No, I mean you thinking you know what's best for everyone else," Vic shot back. "You always gotta fucking control everything.”
“If that ain’t the motherfucking pot calling the kettle black,” she scoffed, “You practically smothered that boy all last year!”
“Smothered?! I kept that motherfucker head on his shoulders,” he countered, “Why you think no one ever jumped him or stole some shit from him? You think shit is just that sweet for a lame ass nigga like him? Motherfuckers can smell pussy from a mile away if it wasn’t for me.”
“Anyway, what is this fucking bullshit about be making you stay here? You’re the one that wanted to go to this bigot ass school.”
“Bullshit,” Vic sucked his teeth, “It was always us going to school together in LA with you at CDU and me at wherever-the-fuck because it’s always been about you and what your fucking vision is.”
“Don’t blame me for your shortcomings,” she grabbed her purse from car, “I’ve had enough of that in my life!”
Neighborhood.
From the river to the sea.
Vic gives Herschel Walker tbh.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Big Fish Theory - Episode 9
‘Elbows tucked, rise up follow through. Elbows tucked, rise up follow through.’
Keshawn did his best to ignore the growing buzz around him as he went through his pre-game routine. Westchester, and more importantly, Tajh Ariza was on the other side but not matter how much Keshawn wanted to take a peek to see if he had grown over the summer, he kept his eyes fixated on the basket.
‘Elbows tucked, rise up follow through. Elbows tucked, rise up follow through.’
The murmurs around Keshawn kept getting louder and louder, until he couldn’t ignore them anymore.
“Is that Cronin?”
Keshawn whipped his head around, immediately spotting the familiar face that was on the poster that was mailed to him over the summer. He donned the legendary bright blue colors on a polo with the golden letters scripted on his chest. He was relaxed, surrounded on all sides by staffers wearing similar attire.
Surely he was there to watch Tajh, Keshawn told himself as he returned to his routine. He practiced a few more form shots before finally giving in. He turned around just in time to see Coach Bronstein next to Cronin, left hand on his shoulder as he pointed towards Keshawn.
“Me?” Keshawn thought to himself.
…
“I don’t see the hype,” Fat Stacks shook his head, tossing a handful of popcorns towards his mouth.
“Come on,” Vic scoffed, “The motherfucker nice with it, pause.”
“He’s cool,” Fat Stacks shrugged as he watched Keshawn collapse Westchester’s defense before kicking it out to A.J. for the open shot, which drilled in, “There you go, boy!”
"Shoot that bitch, Jabari!” Vic celebrated as well before returning to their seats and conversation, “He’ll probably be top five by his senior year once he puts some weight on.”
“If he’s top five, Keshawn top three,” Fat Stacks kept his eyes on the court, “He way better than that nigga and his daddy ain’t in the NBA neither.”
“Nah, Tajh really a guard and he’s Keshawn size,” Vic pointed out Tajh’s fluid dribbling as he brought the ball up the court, “Ke just athletic as fuck so that shit don’t work on him.”
“Put Ke on Westchase and this game a blowout,” Fat Stacks countered, motioning to the scoreboard where Hamilton held a two-point lead over the favored Comets. A.J. went up and got the rebound, pushing the ball up the court.
“What’s the situation with that?” Vic looked at Fat Stacks as A.J. went up and got the rebound, pushing the ball up the court.
“The niggas that jumped A.J.?” Fat Stacks asked.
“And Keshawn,” Vic corrected him, “I mean, he willingly walked himself into that but still.”
“That’s politics,” Fat Stacks brushed him off, “But it’ll be handled, believe that. When the time comes.”
…
Coach Stewie paced the sideline, wishing for the final two minutes of the game to tick away. Hamilton clung to a precarious one-point lead, the electric atmosphere in the gym crackling with tension. He motioned for a timeout, retreating back to the bench as the brain trust gathered around him.
He walked over to his father, who had been seated for most of the second half. "We gotta put Keshawn at the point, run a 5-out. Let him create, he's been unstoppable all night."
Coach Bronstein's brow furrowed, his lips pursing as he considered the suggestion. "Too risky," he growled, shaking his head. "We keep Keshawn in the post. Bleed the clock, dump it to him with five left. They can’t fake the double that late, they gotta commit and if they do, we live with whatever decision the kid makes.”
Stewie persisted, gesturing animatedly. "But Coach, their bigs can't stay in front of him. If we spread the floor, he'll either get to the rim or find the open man when they collapse."
The players watched the exchange, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Keshawn stood silently, sweat glistening on his forehead, his eyes darting between the two coaches. Truth be told, the idea of a slower pace was appealing to him but so was running the court and potentially avoiding having Tajh guarding him.
“When you’ve got a couple of these things,” Coach Bronstein held one of his state championship rings up, “Then we can have a fucking debate. Boychick, in the post, work their ass.”
…
Cronin's gaze followed Keshawn's every move, studying the young player's footwork, his positioning, the way he communicated with his teammates. The game slowed to a crawl as Hamilton bled the clock on each possession. Cronin watched with growing interest as Keshawn established himself in the post time and time again. Despite the methodical pace, there was an undeniable grace to Keshawn's movements. Each time he received the ball, he seemed to glide effortlessly past his defender, his long arms extending to lay the ball gently off the glass.
Cronin could see the strain on the opposing team's coaches as they barked orders, desperately trying to find a way to stop Keshawn's dominance in the paint and their own star wasn’t the answer.
As the game crawled to a finish, the crowd rose to its feet. Hamilton worked the ball around the perimeter, the seconds ticking away. With five seconds left on the shot clock, the ball found its way to Keshawn in the post. This time, Westchester was ready. Two defenders converged on him, their arms outstretched, determined to force the ball out of his hands.
But Keshawn was ready. In a move that drew an appreciative murmur from Cronin, he spun away from the double team, creating just enough space. Time seemed to slow as Keshawn rose up, his form perfect – elbows tucked, rising up, following through. The ball arced through the air, the gym holding its collective breath.
Swish. Nothing but net.
The crowd erupted as the lead stretched to six points, effectively sealing the game. Cronin nodded to himself, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He'd seen enough.
…
Gayle looked into the mirror and took a deep breath, carefully analyzing every corner of her face. She wasn’t a fan of makeup and never have much need for it but this particular endeavor required a different look, an older more mature one. Her phone buzzed once again, grabbing it out of instinct only to see the same called ID that had been flashing throughout the night.
‘Keshawn’
He’d have to wait, she told herself, as she patted down her face once more, making sure everything looked perfect. She finally stepped out of the bathroom, the heat of the party immediately swallowing her up. The posh vibe of the previous gathering they had attended was now replaced by a pulsating intensity that was unrelenting from the minute they walked in.
Money on the floor, dancers everywhere, clothing optional. She scoured the sea of bodies and faces looking for Aida and Shawna, finally meeting their gaze as they had settled onto a couch, both of them adorning the shoulder of the party’s host.
“I’m just going to have to go back and forth, honestly,” he boasted as he passionately kissed Aida and then turned his head to stick his tongue down Shawna’s throat, “Y’all not sisters, right?”
“That’s my bitch but nah,” Aida laughed.
“Damn,” he grinned, “I guess I’ll just have to pretend.”
“I don’t give a fuck if they was real sisters,” a member of his entourage, Terrance, teased, catching Gayle’s attention as he motioned her over, “You missing out on the best one, my boy.”
Heeding Aida’s advice, Gayle took a seat on his lap, strategically sitting in a way so that his hands could feel her warmth. He practically couldn’t help himself, attacking her neck with his lips and playful bites.
She pulled away, offering a longing look instead as she took a sip from her drink. He didn’t mind and almost seemed to relish in the challenge to break down the barrier she had put up all night.
“I need y’all in my video,” the host, also known as Tay Dizzle told Aida and Shawna, “Some real freak shit but on some classy shit, you feel me?”
“I ain’t no Superhead bitch, nigga,” Aida joked.
“Shit, I am,” Shawna teased, springing to her feet and began dancing on Tay, twerking on him as he and Aida threw money in the air, slapping her mostly bare bottom with a handful of dollar bills.
“I can make it rain on you for real,” Terrance whispered in Gayle’s ears, “I promise you it’ll be nothing like anything you experienced before, girl.”
“Yeah?” she kept leading him on, ever so conscious of the dwindling night, “We gonna have to see about that.”
‘Elbows tucked, rise up follow through. Elbows tucked, rise up follow through.’
Keshawn did his best to ignore the growing buzz around him as he went through his pre-game routine. Westchester, and more importantly, Tajh Ariza was on the other side but not matter how much Keshawn wanted to take a peek to see if he had grown over the summer, he kept his eyes fixated on the basket.
‘Elbows tucked, rise up follow through. Elbows tucked, rise up follow through.’
The murmurs around Keshawn kept getting louder and louder, until he couldn’t ignore them anymore.
“Is that Cronin?”
Keshawn whipped his head around, immediately spotting the familiar face that was on the poster that was mailed to him over the summer. He donned the legendary bright blue colors on a polo with the golden letters scripted on his chest. He was relaxed, surrounded on all sides by staffers wearing similar attire.
Surely he was there to watch Tajh, Keshawn told himself as he returned to his routine. He practiced a few more form shots before finally giving in. He turned around just in time to see Coach Bronstein next to Cronin, left hand on his shoulder as he pointed towards Keshawn.
“Me?” Keshawn thought to himself.
…
“I don’t see the hype,” Fat Stacks shook his head, tossing a handful of popcorns towards his mouth.
“Come on,” Vic scoffed, “The motherfucker nice with it, pause.”
“He’s cool,” Fat Stacks shrugged as he watched Keshawn collapse Westchester’s defense before kicking it out to A.J. for the open shot, which drilled in, “There you go, boy!”
"Shoot that bitch, Jabari!” Vic celebrated as well before returning to their seats and conversation, “He’ll probably be top five by his senior year once he puts some weight on.”
“If he’s top five, Keshawn top three,” Fat Stacks kept his eyes on the court, “He way better than that nigga and his daddy ain’t in the NBA neither.”
“Nah, Tajh really a guard and he’s Keshawn size,” Vic pointed out Tajh’s fluid dribbling as he brought the ball up the court, “Ke just athletic as fuck so that shit don’t work on him.”
“Put Ke on Westchase and this game a blowout,” Fat Stacks countered, motioning to the scoreboard where Hamilton held a two-point lead over the favored Comets. A.J. went up and got the rebound, pushing the ball up the court.
“What’s the situation with that?” Vic looked at Fat Stacks as A.J. went up and got the rebound, pushing the ball up the court.
“The niggas that jumped A.J.?” Fat Stacks asked.
“And Keshawn,” Vic corrected him, “I mean, he willingly walked himself into that but still.”
“That’s politics,” Fat Stacks brushed him off, “But it’ll be handled, believe that. When the time comes.”
…
Coach Stewie paced the sideline, wishing for the final two minutes of the game to tick away. Hamilton clung to a precarious one-point lead, the electric atmosphere in the gym crackling with tension. He motioned for a timeout, retreating back to the bench as the brain trust gathered around him.
He walked over to his father, who had been seated for most of the second half. "We gotta put Keshawn at the point, run a 5-out. Let him create, he's been unstoppable all night."
Coach Bronstein's brow furrowed, his lips pursing as he considered the suggestion. "Too risky," he growled, shaking his head. "We keep Keshawn in the post. Bleed the clock, dump it to him with five left. They can’t fake the double that late, they gotta commit and if they do, we live with whatever decision the kid makes.”
Stewie persisted, gesturing animatedly. "But Coach, their bigs can't stay in front of him. If we spread the floor, he'll either get to the rim or find the open man when they collapse."
The players watched the exchange, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Keshawn stood silently, sweat glistening on his forehead, his eyes darting between the two coaches. Truth be told, the idea of a slower pace was appealing to him but so was running the court and potentially avoiding having Tajh guarding him.
“When you’ve got a couple of these things,” Coach Bronstein held one of his state championship rings up, “Then we can have a fucking debate. Boychick, in the post, work their ass.”
…
Cronin's gaze followed Keshawn's every move, studying the young player's footwork, his positioning, the way he communicated with his teammates. The game slowed to a crawl as Hamilton bled the clock on each possession. Cronin watched with growing interest as Keshawn established himself in the post time and time again. Despite the methodical pace, there was an undeniable grace to Keshawn's movements. Each time he received the ball, he seemed to glide effortlessly past his defender, his long arms extending to lay the ball gently off the glass.
Cronin could see the strain on the opposing team's coaches as they barked orders, desperately trying to find a way to stop Keshawn's dominance in the paint and their own star wasn’t the answer.
As the game crawled to a finish, the crowd rose to its feet. Hamilton worked the ball around the perimeter, the seconds ticking away. With five seconds left on the shot clock, the ball found its way to Keshawn in the post. This time, Westchester was ready. Two defenders converged on him, their arms outstretched, determined to force the ball out of his hands.
But Keshawn was ready. In a move that drew an appreciative murmur from Cronin, he spun away from the double team, creating just enough space. Time seemed to slow as Keshawn rose up, his form perfect – elbows tucked, rising up, following through. The ball arced through the air, the gym holding its collective breath.
Swish. Nothing but net.
The crowd erupted as the lead stretched to six points, effectively sealing the game. Cronin nodded to himself, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He'd seen enough.
…
Gayle looked into the mirror and took a deep breath, carefully analyzing every corner of her face. She wasn’t a fan of makeup and never have much need for it but this particular endeavor required a different look, an older more mature one. Her phone buzzed once again, grabbing it out of instinct only to see the same called ID that had been flashing throughout the night.
‘Keshawn’
He’d have to wait, she told herself, as she patted down her face once more, making sure everything looked perfect. She finally stepped out of the bathroom, the heat of the party immediately swallowing her up. The posh vibe of the previous gathering they had attended was now replaced by a pulsating intensity that was unrelenting from the minute they walked in.
Money on the floor, dancers everywhere, clothing optional. She scoured the sea of bodies and faces looking for Aida and Shawna, finally meeting their gaze as they had settled onto a couch, both of them adorning the shoulder of the party’s host.
“I’m just going to have to go back and forth, honestly,” he boasted as he passionately kissed Aida and then turned his head to stick his tongue down Shawna’s throat, “Y’all not sisters, right?”
“That’s my bitch but nah,” Aida laughed.
“Damn,” he grinned, “I guess I’ll just have to pretend.”
“I don’t give a fuck if they was real sisters,” a member of his entourage, Terrance, teased, catching Gayle’s attention as he motioned her over, “You missing out on the best one, my boy.”
Heeding Aida’s advice, Gayle took a seat on his lap, strategically sitting in a way so that his hands could feel her warmth. He practically couldn’t help himself, attacking her neck with his lips and playful bites.
She pulled away, offering a longing look instead as she took a sip from her drink. He didn’t mind and almost seemed to relish in the challenge to break down the barrier she had put up all night.
“I need y’all in my video,” the host, also known as Tay Dizzle told Aida and Shawna, “Some real freak shit but on some classy shit, you feel me?”
“I ain’t no Superhead bitch, nigga,” Aida joked.
“Shit, I am,” Shawna teased, springing to her feet and began dancing on Tay, twerking on him as he and Aida threw money in the air, slapping her mostly bare bottom with a handful of dollar bills.
“I can make it rain on you for real,” Terrance whispered in Gayle’s ears, “I promise you it’ll be nothing like anything you experienced before, girl.”
“Yeah?” she kept leading him on, ever so conscious of the dwindling night, “We gonna have to see about that.”
Neighborhood.
Class of 2024 Forward Keshawn Chase Picks Up
UCLA Men's Basketball Offer
The Hampton (CA) prospect earned an offer after impressing the Bruins' coaches
Michael McGregor | January 8, 2024
The Bruins' staff has sent out another offer as they continue to evaluate the local high school talent ahead of the approaching CIF Championship.
Class of 2024 power forward Keshawn Chase reeled in an offer from UCLA men's basketball, the Hampton Yankees revealed Monday on Twitter. The Bruins are officially the first high major team in on the 6-foot-7 prospect from Hamilton (CA).
Chase's other offers are from Loyola Marymount, UC Irvine, Pepperdine, Santa Clara, San Diego, Texas Southern, Howard, Hampton and Prairie View A&M. According to 247Sports' Bruin Report Online, coach Mick Cronin and assistant coach Rod Palmer were in attendance for Chase's 24-point performance against Westchase (CA). Chase is coached by former UCLA player and Mater Dei head coach Alon Bronstein who is an assistant coach on his son's Stewart Bronstein's staff at Hamilton.
Over the years, several players that played for Bronstein's Mater Dei squad have landed at UCLA such as Travis Wear, Tyler Lamb and Katin Reinhardt.
Chase is a three-star prospect, according to 247Sports and ESPN, although he is not rated by Rivals or On3. In 247Sports' rankings, Chase is the No. 18 player in California and the No. 43 power forward in the country. He is not in the database's top 100 nationally but has been a rising prospect since transferring from Thornwood and leading the Yankees to a surprising 14-5 record this season which is Hamilton's first winning record since the 2016-17 season.
UCLA has now offered 12 players in the class of 2024, and Chase is the only one who is not rated as a four-star or above by 247Sports.
Neighborhood.
Hold on. Ain't Gayle 17? So now only is she engaging in prostitution but them dudes gonna catch stat rape charges, too?! Dastardly.
Neighborhood.
Big Fish Theory - Episode 10
Loraine fidgeted around in her seat, trying to find something to occupy her mind as the group of lawyers and paralegals were huddled on the other end of the conference table. The downgrade was evident as the table wasn’t oak wood but instead pine with water rings and chipped pieces all over.
“There it is,” one of the younger associates, an eager young woman named Mikala, proudly held the stacks of papers, passing them around, “We reviewed the impact statements from your sentencing and something just stood out to us.”
“It really jumped out,” a paralegal that couldn’t have been much older than Simone chimed in, always feeling the need to contribute something to the conversation, “We think this can be a big game changer.”
“Like we said over the phone, these statements are going to be the crux of our agreement for early release,” Mikala continued.
“We’re still going that route?” Loraine interjected as she quickly flipped through the pages, “The judge already read all of these during our initial sentencing. It’s not exactly new information.”
“Except it would be,” Vincente, the senior of the bunch, jumped in, feeling his younger associates’ were sinking away, “When they read these, who were you? You were, and I mean no offense by this, just another rich couple that tried to embezzle millions of dollars from the U.S. government.”
“I don’t know if I would put it that way,” Loraine contested, having to stop herself from rolling her eyes.
“Of course not but that’s how it was presented,” Vincente explained, “The high-priced lawyers, the million dollar homes, the luxury vehicles. Your outfit was phenomenal, trust me, I loved it, but it just gave up rich, entitled, conniving, scheming millionaires that finally got their comeuppance.”
“This is a very expensive roasting,” Loraine chuckled.
“We change the picture,” Vincente put his two hands together before spreading them apart, “You’re not Loraine Chase, wife and business partner of Elijah Chase, heir to a booming business with the perfect home. You’re Loraine Chase, single Black mom that’s been working two, three jobs to make ends meet, raising two kids. He’s not Elijah Chase, greedy business owner that just couldn’t keep his hand out of the cookie jar. He’s Elijah Chase, the father of a young star athlete that really needs his dad around to help guide him through these uncertain times. These impact statements, from the sentencing? It’s former nannies, maids, tennis instructors, business partners and all your rich and upper middle-class friends. We need the heart of LA, the real grit-and-grind, rank-and-file of Los Angeles in our next round of impact statements. The janitor at Keshawn’s school, his coaches, fellow teammates, classmates. Your parole officer, the COs at the facilities you both were at. You’ve been punished, you’ve learned your lesson and most of all, you’ve been humbled and are better for it. That’s the picture, Loraine, we’re going to paint of the Chase’s and that’s what your high-priced lawyers were missing. Some soul.”
…
“You need to come by the house,” Coach Bronstein suggested as they walked the empty halls of Hamilton High, the once raucous hallway was now eerily calm as students had filed into their first period classes, “Nina would love to host you and the wife.”
“I’m sure she’d love that too. You know how it is with the grind, man, you never get a moment to catch your breath. You might as well be on the other side of the state,” Coach Palmer laughed to himself, “By the time I get to your house, it’s a kid threatening to enter the portal and another got his side piece pregnant.”
“I don’t miss that,” Coach Bronstein shook his head, “How’s the California breeze treating you, Mick?”
“The winter is certainly a lot better,” Coach Cronin responded as they made their way into the athletic complex, which was nothing more than four locker rooms, a shared weight room and a utility closet turned into a trainer’s room, “My favorite part of these visits is when we show up and the kid ain’t there and the coaches got to scramble for him.”
“Don’t got to worry about that here,” Coach Bronstein told them as he escorted them into the varsity locker room, “The only time he’s not in class is when he’s with me. Like I said, he’s a little tightly wound but besides that, you’re never going to get a call about him. I’d let him date my granddaughter, God’s honest truth.”
“Don’t remind me, she’s all grown up now,” Coach Palmer scoffed, “I feel old every time I see her.”
Coach Bronstein opened the door to the coach’s offices where Coach Stewie had began his morning routine of reviewing the week’s opponent.
“Coach Cronin,” Coach Stewie abruptly got up, shaking his hand. He attempted to do the same with Coach Palmer but he shooed him away, bringing him in for a big hug.
“Just Mick is fine,” Coach Cronin told him, taking in the cramped office space that was shared by all of the varsity coaches, reminding him of his Woodward High School days.
“I don’t mean to steal your office but can we get a moment here, Stew?” Coach Bronstein told his son, stopping him in his tracks as he got ready to sit back down.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he stammered, trying to mask the embarrassment as he hurried himself out of the room, “Let me know if you need anything guys, I’ll be…somewhere.”
Coach Bronstein waited for the office door to close and then waited an extra moment until he heard the sound of the locker room door opening and closing.
“So, let’s talk about this official visit coming up.”
…
The building was non-descript to say the least as Shawna checked the address a few times on her phone before finally opening the door. Inside was a bit more cozy than the brick exterior walls that were more fitting for a warehouse than a creative space. They followed the signs that led them to Room 107, tucked away in the corner of the one-story building.
They tried opening the door but it was locked. Shawna knocked once, then twice.
“They fucking with us?” Aida suggested, her patience beginning to run low.
Just in time, the door swung open, inviting them into a suddenly intimate environment. The room was dimly lit, with only a few strategically placed lamps casting a warm, amber glow. The walls were covered in a mix of acoustic panels and vintage music posters, creating a cozy, retro vibe.
To their right, a plush leather couch sagged under the weight of three young women, all dressed in revealing outfits despite the early hour. They were passing around a blunt and giggling softly. On the other side of the room, two guys in oversized hoodies were hunched over a laptop, nodding their heads to a beat only they could hear through their shared earbuds.
The focal point of the room was a large mixing console, its surface a maze of knobs, faders, and blinking lights. Behind it sat a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks and thick-rimmed glasses. He swiveled in his chair to face them, a welcoming smile spreading across his face.
"The talent has arrived," he said, his voice deep and smooth. "I'm DJ Cosmo. Come on in and make yourselves comfortable, we’ll get started pretty soon."
As they moved further into the room, Gayle's eyes were drawn to the recording booth. It was a small, glass-enclosed space, lit from above by a single, harsh fluorescent light. Inside, Tay was pacing back and forth, his lips moving silently as he rehearsed his lines. His diamond-encrusted chain caught the light with each turn, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the booth's walls. He finally noticed them through the sound proof glass, flashing a smile and holding his arms out.
Gayle wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Terrance, who she had spent most of the night with, wasn’t here. She certainly didn’t want to get the reputation of a homie hopper so she kept to herself, retreating to an available corner as she watched the magic unfold.
“Hmmm, Tay Dizzle, you know what we want,” Cosmo mimicked the voice of a woman as he coached Aida and Shawna.
They repeated it back to him but were somehow less sexy than a heavy set, middle aged Black man.
“You guys have to like time up the ‘hmmm’ and sort of blend it into the Tay,” he told them through the talk-back as they giggled inside the recording booth.
Tay was now on the outside, smoking a blunt as his eyes kept flickering towards Gayle. He had already been with Aida and Shawna, she wasn’t going to let him hit for the cycle so she avoided his eyes, keeping her focus on her phone or the booth.
Aida and Shawna tried different variations, none of them quite pleasing Cosmo as he grew frustrated by the minute. After another failed attempt, he spoke into the talk-back, “Let’s take a break, ladies, you’re doing great.”
He swiveled around in his office chair, his glare mistakenly landing on Gayle. He forced a smile while she didn’t, keeping her guard up at all time. His gaze lingered and lingered, testing Gayle’s ability to ignore it. Just as he broke away, he tapped the console with his hand and turned around once more to face Gayle, “Want to take a stab at it?”
Loraine fidgeted around in her seat, trying to find something to occupy her mind as the group of lawyers and paralegals were huddled on the other end of the conference table. The downgrade was evident as the table wasn’t oak wood but instead pine with water rings and chipped pieces all over.
“There it is,” one of the younger associates, an eager young woman named Mikala, proudly held the stacks of papers, passing them around, “We reviewed the impact statements from your sentencing and something just stood out to us.”
“It really jumped out,” a paralegal that couldn’t have been much older than Simone chimed in, always feeling the need to contribute something to the conversation, “We think this can be a big game changer.”
“Like we said over the phone, these statements are going to be the crux of our agreement for early release,” Mikala continued.
“We’re still going that route?” Loraine interjected as she quickly flipped through the pages, “The judge already read all of these during our initial sentencing. It’s not exactly new information.”
“Except it would be,” Vincente, the senior of the bunch, jumped in, feeling his younger associates’ were sinking away, “When they read these, who were you? You were, and I mean no offense by this, just another rich couple that tried to embezzle millions of dollars from the U.S. government.”
“I don’t know if I would put it that way,” Loraine contested, having to stop herself from rolling her eyes.
“Of course not but that’s how it was presented,” Vincente explained, “The high-priced lawyers, the million dollar homes, the luxury vehicles. Your outfit was phenomenal, trust me, I loved it, but it just gave up rich, entitled, conniving, scheming millionaires that finally got their comeuppance.”
“This is a very expensive roasting,” Loraine chuckled.
“We change the picture,” Vincente put his two hands together before spreading them apart, “You’re not Loraine Chase, wife and business partner of Elijah Chase, heir to a booming business with the perfect home. You’re Loraine Chase, single Black mom that’s been working two, three jobs to make ends meet, raising two kids. He’s not Elijah Chase, greedy business owner that just couldn’t keep his hand out of the cookie jar. He’s Elijah Chase, the father of a young star athlete that really needs his dad around to help guide him through these uncertain times. These impact statements, from the sentencing? It’s former nannies, maids, tennis instructors, business partners and all your rich and upper middle-class friends. We need the heart of LA, the real grit-and-grind, rank-and-file of Los Angeles in our next round of impact statements. The janitor at Keshawn’s school, his coaches, fellow teammates, classmates. Your parole officer, the COs at the facilities you both were at. You’ve been punished, you’ve learned your lesson and most of all, you’ve been humbled and are better for it. That’s the picture, Loraine, we’re going to paint of the Chase’s and that’s what your high-priced lawyers were missing. Some soul.”
…
“You need to come by the house,” Coach Bronstein suggested as they walked the empty halls of Hamilton High, the once raucous hallway was now eerily calm as students had filed into their first period classes, “Nina would love to host you and the wife.”
“I’m sure she’d love that too. You know how it is with the grind, man, you never get a moment to catch your breath. You might as well be on the other side of the state,” Coach Palmer laughed to himself, “By the time I get to your house, it’s a kid threatening to enter the portal and another got his side piece pregnant.”
“I don’t miss that,” Coach Bronstein shook his head, “How’s the California breeze treating you, Mick?”
“The winter is certainly a lot better,” Coach Cronin responded as they made their way into the athletic complex, which was nothing more than four locker rooms, a shared weight room and a utility closet turned into a trainer’s room, “My favorite part of these visits is when we show up and the kid ain’t there and the coaches got to scramble for him.”
“Don’t got to worry about that here,” Coach Bronstein told them as he escorted them into the varsity locker room, “The only time he’s not in class is when he’s with me. Like I said, he’s a little tightly wound but besides that, you’re never going to get a call about him. I’d let him date my granddaughter, God’s honest truth.”
“Don’t remind me, she’s all grown up now,” Coach Palmer scoffed, “I feel old every time I see her.”
Coach Bronstein opened the door to the coach’s offices where Coach Stewie had began his morning routine of reviewing the week’s opponent.
“Coach Cronin,” Coach Stewie abruptly got up, shaking his hand. He attempted to do the same with Coach Palmer but he shooed him away, bringing him in for a big hug.
“Just Mick is fine,” Coach Cronin told him, taking in the cramped office space that was shared by all of the varsity coaches, reminding him of his Woodward High School days.
“I don’t mean to steal your office but can we get a moment here, Stew?” Coach Bronstein told his son, stopping him in his tracks as he got ready to sit back down.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he stammered, trying to mask the embarrassment as he hurried himself out of the room, “Let me know if you need anything guys, I’ll be…somewhere.”
Coach Bronstein waited for the office door to close and then waited an extra moment until he heard the sound of the locker room door opening and closing.
“So, let’s talk about this official visit coming up.”
…
The building was non-descript to say the least as Shawna checked the address a few times on her phone before finally opening the door. Inside was a bit more cozy than the brick exterior walls that were more fitting for a warehouse than a creative space. They followed the signs that led them to Room 107, tucked away in the corner of the one-story building.
They tried opening the door but it was locked. Shawna knocked once, then twice.
“They fucking with us?” Aida suggested, her patience beginning to run low.
Just in time, the door swung open, inviting them into a suddenly intimate environment. The room was dimly lit, with only a few strategically placed lamps casting a warm, amber glow. The walls were covered in a mix of acoustic panels and vintage music posters, creating a cozy, retro vibe.
To their right, a plush leather couch sagged under the weight of three young women, all dressed in revealing outfits despite the early hour. They were passing around a blunt and giggling softly. On the other side of the room, two guys in oversized hoodies were hunched over a laptop, nodding their heads to a beat only they could hear through their shared earbuds.
The focal point of the room was a large mixing console, its surface a maze of knobs, faders, and blinking lights. Behind it sat a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks and thick-rimmed glasses. He swiveled in his chair to face them, a welcoming smile spreading across his face.
"The talent has arrived," he said, his voice deep and smooth. "I'm DJ Cosmo. Come on in and make yourselves comfortable, we’ll get started pretty soon."
As they moved further into the room, Gayle's eyes were drawn to the recording booth. It was a small, glass-enclosed space, lit from above by a single, harsh fluorescent light. Inside, Tay was pacing back and forth, his lips moving silently as he rehearsed his lines. His diamond-encrusted chain caught the light with each turn, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the booth's walls. He finally noticed them through the sound proof glass, flashing a smile and holding his arms out.
Gayle wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Terrance, who she had spent most of the night with, wasn’t here. She certainly didn’t want to get the reputation of a homie hopper so she kept to herself, retreating to an available corner as she watched the magic unfold.
“Hmmm, Tay Dizzle, you know what we want,” Cosmo mimicked the voice of a woman as he coached Aida and Shawna.
They repeated it back to him but were somehow less sexy than a heavy set, middle aged Black man.
“You guys have to like time up the ‘hmmm’ and sort of blend it into the Tay,” he told them through the talk-back as they giggled inside the recording booth.
Tay was now on the outside, smoking a blunt as his eyes kept flickering towards Gayle. He had already been with Aida and Shawna, she wasn’t going to let him hit for the cycle so she avoided his eyes, keeping her focus on her phone or the booth.
Aida and Shawna tried different variations, none of them quite pleasing Cosmo as he grew frustrated by the minute. After another failed attempt, he spoke into the talk-back, “Let’s take a break, ladies, you’re doing great.”
He swiveled around in his office chair, his glare mistakenly landing on Gayle. He forced a smile while she didn’t, keeping her guard up at all time. His gaze lingered and lingered, testing Gayle’s ability to ignore it. Just as he broke away, he tapped the console with his hand and turned around once more to face Gayle, “Want to take a stab at it?”