Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Do What Thou Will - Episode 4
“I’d be more worried if you weren’t nervous,” Coach Bronstein assured Keshawn, tossing him a Liquid Death can from his cooler, "Nothing like playoff basketball."

Keshawn nodded his head before tilting it back, taking a sip of the frosty sparkling water as he looked out into the abyss, the cool ocean breeze calming his once frantic nerves. The frantic few days that followed his UCLA offer paled in comparison to the aftermath of his commitment. The usual suspects — ESPN, 247Sports, Yahoo Sports — had all reached out for comments while even non-sports entities that focused on HBCUs or Black culture in general wanted to get a sit-down with him. This was on top of the friends, family and coaches that were blowing up his phone, the latter trying to convince him to change his mind.

He had wanted to avoid this with the playoffs now hours away but cornered in that office room, he had detonated a bomb without realizing its true impact. Coach Bronstein could read it on his young pupil’s face during their morning workout, opting to once again play hooky and take him out on his boat, away from it all.

“How much a boat like this cost?” Keshawn asked, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“You’ve got ways to go,” Coach Bronstein laughed, “NIL ain’t that good, at least not yet.”

“I’d like something like this,” Keshawn quipped, “Just chill out, turn my phone off and vibe out for a few hours every weekend.”

“I try,” he scoffed, “Life always seems to get in the way.”

“Don’t it,” Keshawn shook his head.

“You’re a Division-I scholarship player, boychick,” Coach Bronstein reminded him, “I know it feels like a lot of pressure right now but its a privilege, not a burden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The challenges you’ll face next year or five years from now, you’ll be wishing all you had to worry about was Castaic’s sorry ass press.”

“They looked good to me,” Keshawn shrugged, “I just don’t know if we can hold up all game against it.”

“There’s definitely going to be a two to three minute period that's decide the game,” Coach Bronstein said earnestly, “For them, it could be any one of their players that'll decide it. For us, it's only you."

“That’s reassuring,” Keshawn laughed, appreciating how honest Coach Bronstein always was.

“We don’t have the guys,” he said plainly, “We have a guy which is why I’m so hard on you all the time, boychick. These kids? I can yell at them until I pass out, only so much they can give me. Not a single one of them is going to be playing basketball in two, three years. So when that two minute stretch is developing, just be ready."

“Yes, coach,” Keshawn took another sip, wishing it was something stronger.

“It’d be good practice for you in the tournament next year,” Coach Bronstein finally broached the topic, “You feeling good about Howard?”

“Honestly,” Keshawn sighed, “I ain’t really walk in that room ready to commit to nothing, coach. Coach Blakeney was just so…”

“He was just really good at his job,” Coach Bronstein chuckled, “My son can be a chickenshit sometimes, he should have never let that happen.”

“I like them, I really do,” Keshawn stammered, “Maybe they’re the right pick after all but I don’t know, it just didn’t play out how I thought it would.”

“Just remember, you haven’t signed anything,” Coach Bronstein reminded him, “I’m sure UCLA is going to turn up the heat and a little birdie told me SC is probably losing the James kid so they could use another defender. You don’t know it but your recruitment process really just started.”

…

A six point lead, 2:10 remaining. Keshawn kept looking up at the game clock, wishing it would vanquish. Just as he returned his line of sight to the field to play, a Castaic ball handler came screaming into the paint. Keshawn reached over, blocking his shot against the backboard with his right hand and grabbing it off the glass with his left.

With the defender now on his hip, Keshawn pushed up the court, taking long strides to eat up space. He thought about slowing down the pace, eating some more clock but his momentum kept pushing forward, coming downhill before throwing the lob to Dante who laid it in.

Eight point lead, 1:58 to go.

Keshawn clapped his hands together, trying to will himself and his teammates through the final two minutes. Castaic’s once ball control offense was now frantic, passing the ball around the perimeter as they tried to look for an open shot with both the game clock and now shot clock becoming a problem. Keshawn switched onto their shifty point guard who tried to get him with an up and under but even after getting Keshawn to bite on the first shot attempt, Keshawn’s length would prove to be too much, recovering in time to swat it away towards A.J.

A.J. pushed it past halfcourt before slowing down, dumping it back to Keshawn who took two steps into the paint, drawing in the defense and then kicked it back outside to A.J. who never turned down an open look.

Eleven point lead, 1:24 to go.

Keshawn continued to clap his hands, each clap more aggressive and louder than the previous one. He backpedaled into his defensive position, a watchful eye on the clock. The Coyotes could no longer afford to be selective in their shots, swinging the ball to their best offensive player who tried to barrel their way towards the rim but Manny forced them to adjust their path to the basket just long enough to allow Keshawn to come over, blocking the ball with such force towards the ground that it bounced off the court and nearly hit him in the face.

Adrian leaped for the loose ball, holding it close to his chest as Coach Stewie instructed him to advance it to the halfcourt as the Coyotes player had fallen to the ground following the block. Keshawn trailed the play, receiving the ball just as he reached the three-point line. The nearest defender pealed off their man and Keshawn threw up a shot fake, getting them in the air before putting the ball back on the ground. He was quickly trapped and he dumped it off to a cutting Dante who took the attention away from Keshawn just long enough to throw up the lob who hung on the rim.

Thirteen point lead, 57 seconds to go. Game, set, match.

…

Keshawn stuck with water while his other teammates indulged in the more finer things, fully aware that another one of these was far from guaranteed. He returned to the wall where Gayle was posted up, nursing her last drink which was mostly ice by this point.

“You’re on your sober shit like me?” Keshawn asked, knowing Gayle was never one to turn down free liquor.

“I might hit the studio after this,” she replied, the string words still foreign to her as it left her mouth, “That probably sounded so obnoxious.”

“You’re a superstar,” Keshawn laughed, “Multi-talented.”

“I don’t know about superstar,” she shook her head, “He mostly writes the shit that I’m saying, he’s really just using my voice honestly.”

“Still a talent,” Keshawn shrugged, “Is that why you’ve been ghosting me? I was beginning to get jealous.”

“No one’s been ghosting you,” she rolled her eyes, “Between the club and now this, a bitch barely home honestly.”

“You still work there?”

“Yes, Keshawn, I still work there,” she scoffed, “You still play basketball, don’t you?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Keshawn held his hands up, “I ain’t shooting at you, I was just asking.”

“You weren’t just asking,” she sucked her teeth, “It was a loaded ass question.”

…

“Bitch, I said what I said!” Vic rapped along to the song as he held a cup over Angela’s head, holding tight to her waist as he danced.

As talented as Doja Cat was, she wasn’t the sole reason for Vic’s enthusiasm as it was filled by seeing his former team finally win a playoff game for the first time in school history, frustration from a wasted season at Life Pacific, the lingering feelings from that fateful night in the Beverly Hills and of course, Hennessy.

“You need some water, babe?” Angela looked back at her boyfriend, the affects of the alcohol evident on his drooping face.

“Man, fuck no,” Vic scoffed, “Real nigga don’t need no fucking water. I paint the town red!”

…

“No one is saying to quit your job,” Keshawn sighed in frustration, “Matter of fact, I ain’t even saying nothing, I was just surprised you are still working there.”

“What’s so fucking surprising about that, Keshawn? You got a job for a bitch?” Gayle fired back, her hand on her hips.

“I’m not even coming at you like that,” Keshawn scrunched up his face, “It was just a question, damn.”

“You must of forgot this ain’t no questions type situation,” she shook her head, “I don’t be asking you no motherfucking questions about what you got going on.”

Keshawn opened his mouth but instead was distracted by some commotion near the other side of the party. Over the mountains of body, he could see Vic engaged in an animated discussion with Angela in between him and Ronnie.

“Hold on,” he told Gayle as he began walking over, pushing the bodies that stood in his path out of the way.

“I’m just telling you to chill, bro, that’s all,” Ronnie could be heard saying, holding his hands up in surrender, “I ain’t mean nothing by it, bro.”

“Ain’t no chilling, nigga,” Vic waved him off, “Fuck is you talking about?”

Keshawn reached the heart of the circle, now standing next to Angela as she looked at him with a defeated face. Ronnie also sighed once he met eyes with Keshawn, “I was just telling bro to relax a bit, Keshawn, he spilling his drink and shit on Angela.”

“Nigga, let me worry about my bitch!” Vic screamed towards Ronnie, lunging towards him. He managed to get through Angela and Keshawn, shoving Ronnie back a few steps.

Ronnie gathered himself and started charging towards Vic but Keshawn stuck out his arm, planting his palm in Ronnie’s chest with Keshawn’s strength surprising the both of them.

“Fuck you talking about my bitch for? That’s my bitch, nigga!” Vic kept yelling, now drawing the attention of the entire party.

“I got it,” Keshawn told Angela, letting Ronnie go and putting his arm around Vic, engulfing him almost entirely, “Let’s go, cuz.”

“Nah, man, this nigga got me fucked up,” Vic contested with words but was too drunk to put up a fight as Keshawn escorted him out of the house.

The lawn was mostly empty, outside of a few partygoers sharing a joint. The fresh air seemed to sober up Vic, who pulled out his phone.

“Just let that situation breathe,” Keshawn told Vic, looking inside to see if he could spot Gayle but he couldn’t.

“What you talking about?” Vic looked up from his phone.

“Angela, man.”

“Oh, forget that bitch,” he cackled, “Fucking up my motherfucking vibe and shit. I’m trying to get active, you feel me? I know Stacks got some shit jumping off tonight.”

…

Vic was right, the house was absolute pandemonium as they walked in, the party bleeding red. The energy was high and the tension was thick as Keshawn and Vic made their way through the house, receiving the occasional dap and head nod from familiar faces. This wasn’t technically a party for the set but it might as well have been, they were heavily represented.

“Nigga, I’m from BPT!”

They made their way to the back of the living room where Fat Stacks was posted up on a couch, a few ladies around him as he smoked a blunt. His eyes lit up once he spotted Keshawn and Vic shortly afterwards, inviting them to sit near him.

“You did your thing out there, little nigga,” Fat Stacks dapped Keshawn up, exchanging a head nod with Vic, “When is y’all next game?”

“Probably Tuesday,” Keshawn responded, taking a seat which relaxed him, mostly due to who he was sitting next to.

“Shit, they working y’all niggas,” he went into his pockets, taking out a few bills and handing them to Keshawn, “Enjoy yourself tonight, little nigga.”

Keshawn could feel Vic’s stare but pocketed the money anyway, not like he had a choice, “Appreciate it, Stacks.”

“I don’t ever remember you breaking me off, nigga,” Vic scoffed, “I need my reparations, motherfucker.”

“If I gave you a dollar for every game y’all won I’d barely need to break a twenty, nigga,” Fat Stacks joked, “Not my fault y’all was sorry as hell.”

“Shit, your team was worse than mine,” Vic contested, “You know you’re sorry when Trey your best player.”

“Speaking that crazy nigga,” Fat Stacks’ tone changed, “What the fuck wrong with that nigga?”

“I don’t know,” Vic shrugged, “He was already crazy when I met him.”

“Nah, for real, Vic,” he continued, “I’m getting calls about this nigga, every day, squabbling some motherfucker. From a rival, from his own module, he just fading niggas off the back in there. I don’t know what got into him.”

“Nigga, I ain’t that niggas fucking keeper,” Vic got up from the couch, “He in there for you, right? You figure that shit out.”

…

“Ronnie, wait,” Angela picked up her pace, reaching her arm out to grab his shoulder.

Ronnie instinctively pulled away before calming down, “I’m sorry, I just need to go. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” she told him as he turned around to face her, the streetlights putting her piercing brown eyes into focus, “Vic isn’t normally like that, I’ve never seen him do something like that before.”

“Come on, Ang,” Ronnie scoffed, “I can’t say I blame him.”

“What? He’s just drunk,” she assured him.

“I’m sure he sees how I look at you, Angela,” Ronnie muttered, “I try not to, I just can’t help it.”

Angela’s mouth was agape, unsure what to say or how to say it. She had noticed those looks as well, how they would linger for a half a second too long. She had simultaneously ignored them while also cherishing them, sometimes wishing they lingered for a second longer.

“Ronnie, I—”

“It’s okay,” he got into his car, “You’re good to get home?”

…

The once energizing music was now aggravating’s Keshawn’s senses as he looked for a reprieve in the porch, taking a seat on the top step. Vic was somewhere in there, enjoying his sixth cup of Hennessey on ice. A ‘DNP (coaches’ decision')’ was on the horizon for him as LPU had a game the next day.

Keshawn couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he thought about where his day began, on a likely half-a-million dollar boat, and was now ending on the front porch of a neighborhood party with Damus and parolees. Outside of the bumping house, the street was quiet as the night bled into the early morning.

A lone car, a blue Challenger, drove down the street, its color sticking out like a sore thumb. Keshawn shook his head, laughing at the absurdity of someone’s favorite color potentially ruining their night. He noticed the car once more, this time heading the opposite direction as it drove down, its windows rolled down. It made a U-turn at the intersection, coming down the street once more before parking a few houses down from the party.

Keshawn stood to his feet, taking a long look at the car as his heart began to pound nearly out of his chest. He hurried inside, frantically looking for Vic, no, Stacks. He considered grabbing Vic and heading out but the car was right next to where they had parked. He found Fat Stacks, sharing a dance with a young lady.

“Hey, Stacks,” Keshawn tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m kind of busy right now, young blood,” he laughed, “You need more money or something? Don’t let these bitches run your pockets, little nigga.”

“It’s some guys outside,” he warned him, “I don’t know, they just keep driving back and forth.”

The music seemed to stop as Fat Stacks’ entire demeanor change, pushing the girl away from him. He quickly began assembling a group of guys, leading them towards the door. Keshawn hung behind, both curious and afraid of what was going to happen next. He looked for Vic but couldn’t find him and didn’t want to be left behind as Fat Stacks and about six or seven guys walked out the house, hands on their waistband.

“Where they at?” Fat Stacks asked, turning around to face Keshawn.

As if on cue, the blue Challenger skirted onto the road, speeding past the house as one of the passengers stuck their hand out of the window. Keshawn noticed the large black object right away, ducking before the first round went off, followed by a few others. Screams could be heard from inside as Fat Stacks and the others returned fire as the fleeing car who disappeared into the night.

“Y’all good? Anybody hit? We good?”

Keshawn kept patting himself, making sure he hadn’t been hit. From the looks of it, they didn’t even appear to hit the house as everyone began murmuring and nodding, indicating they were okay.

“What the fuck was that about?” one of Fat Stacks’ guys asked him.

“A bunch of punk ass, crab ass, fuck niggas,” Fat Stacks laughed, putting his arm around Keshawn, “That ain’t nothing! Motherfuckers don’t want to look soft so they did a little fake get back. Man, them niggas weak! Matter of fact, we flooding the streets this week, I don’t give a fuck about no territories, you hear me? If you got dope and a motherfucker need it, serve that motherfucker.”

[Soapy]

You were on my ass dominating at Hawaii so what goes around comes around

at least I'm doing it for the culture

[Soapy]

Do What Thou Will - Episode 5
“The wife wants me to have a salad a day,” Coach Bronstein shook his head as he handed the menu to the waiter, “Can you believe that?”

“I’m sure she just wants you around,” the waiter smiled politely, “Anything else, gentlemen?”

“We’re good,” Sam, a tall and wiry man in his 70s, took a sip of his drink.

The backdrop to their early dinner was picturesque as the sun was beginning to set, still looming over the lush green rolling hills of the golf course. Neither man nearly golfed as often as they wanted to, their expensive golf clubs remaining idle in the trunk of their respective SUVs.

“Our doors are always open for him,” Sam resumed the conversation, “What you guys did this year is incredible. I’ll admit, I thought he sent his career to die when he went to, what is it, Freeman or some shit?”

“Hamilton,” Coach Bronstein chuckled, “Me and you both. Stewie’s always been a bit of a glutton for punishment. I don’t know, runs in his mother’s family or something.”

“You still should have called me,” Sam shook his head, “It never should have went down like that, not over some weed.”

“It was a little bit more than that,” Bronstein scoffed, “Alas, sins of our children, am I right?”

The two man shared a toast as they looked over the course, examining its beauty or more accurately, going over in their heads how to broach the important topic at hand.

“I like the Chase kid a lot,” Sam began, “The people at Thornwood love him, was one of their better performing students there.”

“I told Palmer the kid is fantastic off the court,” Bronstein nodded, “No one is calling you about him at two in the morning, ever.”

“I wish we got to see him more over the summer,” Sam tilted his head from side to side, as if weighing his options, “The coaching staff really likes the kid.”

“What are we doing here, Sam? Come on,” Bronstein leaned forward, “He’s a high GPA, high character kid that’s probably going to be All-City, if not All-State, and a top-75 recruit by the time he puts pen to paper.”

“We’re not in the business of bidding wars,” Sam interjected, “We like him and we want him, I just don’t want to hear about him visiting USC next week once we send over our offer.”

“The kid wants to be a Bruin,” Bronstein explained, “Don’t make him pick somewhere else.”

“Didn’t he commit to some other school the other day, Howard?”

“Don’t worry about that shit,” Bronstein laughed it off, “He wants to be at UCLA, he wants to play for you guys, even if he doesn’t know it yet. You and the collective do your part, don’t fuck it up and he’ll be a Bruin.”

…

As Loraine settled into the chair across from Elijah, the creak of the wooden frame echoed softly through the quiet evening air. It wasn’t that long ago that they were in a similar situation, stacks of paper documents and open letters sprawled in front of them as Elijah tried to make sense of it all. The main difference being the square footage of the living room, the number of zeroes on the paystubs and their recent shared past.

Elijah, his presence as steady and strong as ever, leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped together in a thoughtful gesture. His eyes, deep and reflective, mirrored the calm exterior that had always been his shield. "I just don’t see it,” he picked up another bank statement, detailing their minimum monthly payment, “Even if he gets me some overtime…”

“You have a job now,” Loraine sighed, “That’s what we were looking for and we have it now. Rosa’s brother works there and they’re good people, I’m sure they’ll see you’re more than qualified for some of the management positions at the warehouse within a few months.”

“Loraine, even if I double my pay, we’re still short,” Elijah furrowed his brow in frustration, “How the hell were you staying afloat? I noticed you only recently got the pay bump at the bakery.”

“You get paid, you pay the bills you can,” she scoffed, “Your daddy wasn’t that rich for that long, Jah, you know this.”

“All of our accounts are in good standing,” he countered, having had the entire afternoon to go through them. As daunting as it was, there was something calming about going through it all, facing the problem head one only to find out they were better situated than Elijah had anticipated.

“Shit, even our lawyer fees are mostly caught up,” he flickered through another set of receipts.

“I took out some payday loans, just enough to get us going when I first got the job,” Loraine explained, “I didn’t want Ke staying over there any longer than we needed to.”

“I got both our credit reports right here, don’t see nothing there,” Elijah examined the document once more, holding it like a prized trophy.

“Not the type of loan that shows up on a credit report, Elijah.”

“So, Dro,” his name settled into the air, cutting through unspoken tension that has resided in the shadows through decades. You never forget your first and for Elijah, you certainly don’t forget the man who dated your girlfriend before you did.

“What was I supposed to do? Ain’t like people are forming lines to help out people like us,” Loraine scoffed.

“Is that what he did? Help you out?” Elijah shook his head, “You more loss than I thought.”

“Yes, Elijah, he actually did help all of us out,” she fired back, “How the fuck do you think your lawyers got paid? This fucking apartment? Keshawn’s clothes?”

“That ain’t the type of decision you need to be making on your own,” Elijah pushed back, “We make those type of decisions as a team, as a family. Y’all too good for my input now?”

“You were under a lot of stress already,” Loraine countered, “I just didn’t want to add to it.”

“That’s my job, babe,” Elijah sighed, “If we have a problem, it’s my problem just as much as its yours so it ain’t adding to nothing. I know I’ve been away and I know that was tough on y’all but things like this? Things like Keshawn and him deciding to go to a school without even talking to me, talking to us? That’s not the type of family we’ve raised, it’s not the type of family I want.”

Loraine’s eyes softened, “I know, Jah, but right now, we’re the family we need to be to survive this shit.”

…

Vic’s car remained idled in front of the house, his head on a swivel as pedestrians walked past him. Even though Angela only lived a block from him, he always felt uneasy, aware of the type of strange individuals that would be coming in and out of her house, the unpredictable type. Vic’s body relaxed as Angela came out of the house, looking both ways before hurrying herself to his car.

“Hey,” she said, sitting on the passenger side, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, a bonnet covering her undone hair.

“I brought you some food,” Vic reached into the back for his peace offering, a Pu Pu platter from the Chinese spot, “I’d eat with you but we got Bible study in a bit and they’ve been on our ass about going to it.”

“I appreciate it,” Angela smiled, reaching over to hug Vic.

He struggled to find the practiced words and instead opted for sincerity, “Look, I’m really sorry, I know I embarrassed you that night.”

“It’s okay, you just had too much to drink.”

“No, it’s not okay,” Vic continued, “I acted out and then I left you, by yourself.”

She wasn’t by herself.

“I need to do better and I’m going to do better but lately, I’ve just been struggling with this school shit and basketball and just really not being happy with where I’m at. It’s not fair to you that I’ve been a shitty boyfriend but I just want you to know that it’s not you and that it’s just me working through my bullshit.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Angela tried to reassure him.

“I don’t know, I think going to LPU was a mistake,” he admitted, “I hate the school, like you said I would, I hate my fucking coaches, I hate my fucking teammates, if I can ever call them that. I hate everything about that school, Ang.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she squeezed his hand, bracing herself as much as she was comforting him, “I’ve been having doubts myself too.”

“About?”

“This whole plan we always had,” she sighed, “You going to school in the city, me going to CDU. Like, maybe I end up at CDU after all but I don’t know, maybe we should both keep an open mind about our future. I’m just saying, if you want to maybe re-consider Iowa or anything like that, don’t not do it because of me because honestly, I’m not sure myself anymore.”

The words were both comforting yet difficult for Vic as he processed them, his mind racing as he imagined a long distance relationship with Angela, him living somewhere outside of Los Angeles. He ultimately picked Life Pacific over Graceland, a school in Iowa, for those very reasons as he was unable to imagine himself not being with Angela, not being in Los Angeles.

“You got anywhere in mind? No telling where I’m going to have offers from after this season but we could try to figure it out, maybe be a couple hours away? Maybe even the same city, state?” Vic prodded, trying to fill the images and scenes of their prospective future.

“I don’t know,” Angela quickly answered, trying to bury the school that came to mind right away, “I’m just going to keep an open mind and you should too.”

[Soapy]

Do What Thou Will - Episode 6
Elijah steadied himself as he entered the auto-body shop, the scent of motor oil sobering him to his reality as he approached the small corner office. Dro was leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the table, eyes fixed on the small TV that helped him past the time.

The sounds of welding and laughter from his crew filled the air, but Elijah’s presence seemed to suck the life out of the room. Dro didn’t flinch, didn’t even look up, but Elijah could tell he knew he was there.

“Alejandro,” Elijah said, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade.

Dro finally turned his head, slow, deliberate, his eyes narrowing as he gave Elijah a once-over. “You need some new tires or something?” he scoffed. He sat up straight, his hands clasped together in front of him, but his posture screamed anything but calm. “What you want, nigga?”

Elijah stepped further into the office, suddenly aware of how confined of a space he was entering. “Don’t play dumb with me,” he said, his voice even but laced with venom. “I know about the money.”

Dro tilted his head, feigning confusion, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Money? What money you talkin’ ’bout?”

“Loraine,” Elijah snapped, taking another step closer. “I don’t know what sort of understanding y’all got that but that shit over with, you hear me?”

Dro barked a laugh, hard and quick, before standing up and walking toward Elijah with a swagger that didn’t match the tension in the room. “Man, you must be out your mind. I ain’t loan your bitch shit, nigga.”

“She already told me, nigga!” Elijah’s voice rose, but he quickly reined it in, his jaw clenching. “I didn’t come here to conversate with you, Alejandro, I just came to set the record straight.”

Dro stopped in front of him, close enough that Elijah could see the scares in his face, his stints in county a lot more treacherous than Elijah’s. “You sound like you need to keep your eye on your bitch, nigga, not me. Ain’t nothing player about stepping to another nigga about some hoes, nigga.”

“My wife ain’t no fucking hoe, nigga,” Elijah’s voice was deadly calm now, each word a threat. “Whatever angle you working on, I think it’s best for all parties involved if that shit over with it.”

Dro’s smirk faded, replaced by a hard, cold glare. “What you saying, blood?”

“The gangster shit don’t work on me, Alejandro,” Elijah smirked, “Never have, never will. Now stay the fuck away from me and mine, blood.”

…

The Hamilton bench was a picture of focused intensity, with Coach Bronstein standing at the helm, his eyes narrowed in strategic calculation. Coach Stewie, seated beside him, nodded silently, his usual vibrant energy subdued as he deferred to his father’s seasoned expertise, accepting his fate.

The game plan was clear: a slow-paced, low-post offense designed to conserve Keshawn’s energy while leveraging his advantage over his defender, the only advantage on the court for Hamilton against George Washington Prep.

Coach Bronstein’s voice echoed through the gym, his commands precise and urgent. “Get to work, boychick! Seal him off!” he barked, his presence commanding attention.

Keshawn obliged, moving with the grace of a seasoned veteran. He took his position in the paint, his lithe frame a contrast to the bulky defenders. The ball came to him, and with a swift drop step, he created space, spinning past his defender with ease. The crowd erupted as he slammed the ball through the hoop, the sound thunderous and satisfying.

The next play saw Keshawn in the high post, his eyes scanning the court for any sign of weakness. He spotted his teammate cutting to the basket and delivered a crisp, overhead pass that led to an easy layup.

As the game progressed, Keshawn’s dominance became undeniable. He ducked under a defender with a quick shoulder shimmy, drawing a foul and sending him to the line. He’d lull the defense into a false sense of security before exploding towards the rim, the Generals lacking the height to contest him at the basket.

Despite the strategic pacing, the intensity of the game never waned. As dominant as Keshawn was, scoring or assisting on the team’s first 30 points through the first half, George Washington just kept hovering around, matching each basket with one of their own down the stretch.

“And one!” A.J. yelled towards Keshawn, bumping chests as Keshawn went to the free throw line, nursing a three point lead with a little under two minutes to go.

The senior rested his hands on his knees as he leaned over, trying to catch his breath. His bones ached, his lungs burned and his mind was exhausted, controlling nearly every aspect of each of the game’s possession. He steadied himself, controlling his breathing as he received the ball from the official, swishing the free throw.

The Generals quickly inbounded the ball and pushed the pace, swinging the ball around in an effort to test Hamilton’s resolve and concentration. Keshawn’s head whipped and swirled around, readying himself to help out and contest on any drive to the basket. They got the paint into the paint, drawing Keshawn’s attention, before dumping it off to his man. He tried to recover, leaping in the air to contest the shot but got the shooter’s arm just as he let go of the ball, which went through the net just as the whistle blew.

The free throw missed with Keshawn grabbing the rebound, bringing the ball up the court with a two point lead in the final minute of the game. He tried to dribble to his usual spot in the low post but the Generals were now threatening him with a double team. He spun off his defender and attacked the paint and was quickly swarmed. He left his feet, looking for an open teammate but the pass went off

Keshawn pushed himself back up the court, sucking wind as he wished the game would come to a merciful end. He trailed the play the entire time as the Generals easily took the ball to the basket, without Keshawn’s presence, for an easy layup.

“We need a timeout,” Coach Stewie muttered, not daring to make eye contact with his father.

Coach Bronstein ignored him instead barking commands to Keshawn who was already on the other side of the court. Keshawn received the ball on the elbow and for the first time in a while, was matched up one-on-one. The mere thought of barreling his head down once more was exhaustive so he settled for a jumper, which bounced off the rim.

The Generals continued to push the pace, taking advantage of Keshawn’s absence to attack the paint, drawing a foul with twenty seconds left and a chance to take the lead.

Keshawn adjusted his arm sleeve as he sluggishly walked to the lane line, receiving instructions from coach Bronstein for the next possession, likely the final of the game. The first free throw went in, giving George Washington their first lead of the quarter. The other bounced out, right into Dante’s hands who quickly passed it to Keshawn.

Coach Stewie bit his tongue, sinking into his chair as the final possession played out. Keshawn could feel the tightness in the back of his right ankle as he brought the ball up the court, taking his time to let the defense settle into its defensive shape as Coach Bronstein organized the offense. With five seconds left, George Washington sent the trap and Keshawn quickly passed the ball to A.J., his nearest teammate. He sprinted to the other side of the court, looping around his defender as A.J. lobbed the ball towards Keshawn who caught the ball near the top of the key, took two dribbles inside the three point line and rose up for the jumper.

…

Keshawn forego the handshake line, peeling off his jersey and letting it rest on his shoulder as he headed for the exits. Exhaustion was now replaced by the sunken feeling of finality, there would be no more practices, no more wind sprints, no more games. He’d never play with Manu, A.J, Dante or for Coach Stewie and Coach Bronstein ever again.

Cold air greeted him as he opened the double-doors, their bus now within his sights. It was such a clean look, the kind of play he had worked on tirelessly with Vic and now Coach Bronstein. The kind of play that made good players great ones and turned great players into legends.

As Keshawn got near the bus, he could feel a presence behind him, turning around just in time to see Coach Bronstein’s outstretch arms, bringing him in for an unfamiliar yet genuine hug.

“Great job tonight, boychick. I’m fucking proud of you, kid,” Coach Bronstein’s voice cracked, “Now go win a national championship, the Naismith, it’s all yours, boychick.”

[Soapy]

Do What Thou Will - Episode 7
“You can’t let me take out one of those Chargers, man? Just say it’s out for maintenance or something,” Vic teased, leaning back against the chair so he could catch a glimpse through the window of the fleet of cars outside the building.

“Every mile, no, every inch is accounted for with this,” Coach Stewie shook his head, turning his monitor towards his former point guard, “Every minute a car isn’t on the lot, we’re losing money.”

“I don’t see nobody renting it out,” Vic shrugged, “So y’all losing money anyway.”

“It’s called potential gains,” Stewie laughed, “They don’t teach you guys opportunity costs at LPU?”

“Nah, just our Lord and Savior,” Vic scoffed.

“You had a couple ten point games this year, you did your thing.”

“That’s actually what I cam here to chop with you about,” Vic cleared his throat, “What would it look like if, you know, I opened my recruitment back up?”

“You mean the transfer portal?”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Vic continued, “I just don’t think Life Pacific is for me, man. Matter of fact, I know it ain’t. Even when I’m hooping, I ain’t really hooping.”

“I can ask around,” Stewie suggested, “But I have to be honest here, Victor, about the level of interest we’re talking about here if you do decide to transfer. While you played well at LPU, you’re a year older and not any taller than you were last year. We can take another run at Graceland, see if they’re interested but that’s the caliber of school we’re talking about here.”

The words landed on Vic heavily, confirming some of his own internal thoughts and apprehension about transferring. As much as he hated life at LPU, he wasn’t sure how playing for another low level program like Graceland would make it any better. Shit, at least LPU was in the city and not in fucking Iowa.

“I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s interested, I just wanted to calibrate your expectations,” Stewie read the uneasiness on Vic’s face, “You ever thought about coaching?”

“I ain’t that washed, coach,” Vic laughed, “No offense.”

“Plenty taken,” Stewie shook his head with a smile on his face, “I’m serious, you have the mind for it. I’ve seen the work you’ve put in with Keyshawn, A.J., shit, half the team you’ve done helped make better. The guys respect you already, trust you’ve got their best interest at mind and you can relate to them, obviously.”

“Y’all hiring or something?” Vic raised an eyebrow.

“We could be in the very near future,” Stewie replied coyly, “Look, coaching with my dad was fun and all but if I want to make this my program, I have to make it my program, you understand?”

“I feel you,” Vic thought on it some more, “I don’t know, I just in my head still myself as a hooper, you know? I ain’t fooling myself, I know I ain’t going pro or even overseas for real but shit, I thought I’d at least play for a mid-major at some point.”

“Life has a funny way of working out,” Stewie’s tone got more serious, reflective, “I had it planned out. Who am I kidding? My dad had it planned out for me. I was going to spend some time at Santa Clara, couple of years at Mater Dei, send some kids to the league, eventually get a head assistant job at UCLA, and then make the jump to head coach. I was in year two of a fifteen year plan, didn’t think I had that much to drink, sirens came on behind me and I thought my life was over.”

“Shit.”

“Changed my life for the better,” Stewie explained, “I thought coaching at those places is where I needed to be, what I needed to do but I’m right where I need to be, man, and you’ll be too.”

…

Dro buried his hands into his pocket as he got out of the Ford Explorer, a slight breeze hitting his face as he walked through the maze of buildings that led into the open courtyard. His nephew was holding court, posted up on a lawn chair with the usual hanger-ons around him as he regaled them with a tale that was interrupted by the sight of Dro and his guys.

“I need to talk to you, nigga,” Dro was short, not waiting for an answer as he gave Fat Stacks his back and returned to the Escalade. Fat Stacks shook his head before following him out there, where his uncle was waiting for him near the hood of the car.

“We got cell phones now, Unc,” Fat Stacks joked, “You could just hit a nigga up.”

“I already told you about them phones.”

“I ain’t asking you to give it up on the phone but shit, a motherfucker can’t text another motherfucker to come talk to him?”

“Whatever, nigga,” Dro ignored him, “One of you niggas loaned some money out to some bitch named Loraine? Tall, dark skin, around my age.”

“Why?”

“What kind of answer is that? I’m asking you, nigga.”

“Yeah, I did,” Fat Stacks answered.

“That’s my customer, blood.”

“It didn’t sound like it to me,” Fat Stacks held his hands up, “I was there when you turned it down, big homie. At that point, shit, she fair game. Ain’t like I undercut you or nothing, same rate you usually give out.”

“Fuck you know about my rate, nigga, and what I got going on?”

“I know you ain’t tweaking about a couple bands, if that,” Fat Stacks scoffed, “Shit, I’ll have one of my little niggas cash you out right now if it’s about that.”

“When I gave you these buildings, I knew you wasn’t ready for them. Don’t prove me right, little nigga.”

“Gave me? Motherfucker, my block was out earning any of your bitch ass buildings, nigga. That’s why you had to come up off them shits, don’t get it fucking twisted. You ain’t give me shit, nigga, I took them bitches.”

“Hold on, what you trying to say, blood?”

“I ain’t saying nothing the whole set don’t already know,” Fat Stacks got in Dro’s face, “We let you think you run shit around here, nigga, but everybody know who really run this shit. You think because you got that fucking shop, which don’t make no fucking money, and you old that you some bossed up, mobbed up, leader of this shit? You just a old nigga that the cops never locked up and the opps ain’t never sprayed down, blood, that’s it.”

“I should DP your bitch ass right now.”

“We can politic this shit if you want to,” Fat Stacks scoffed, “But it ain’t gonna go in your favor, Unc. Everybody ready for new leadership and because you’re my uncle, I’m going to allow you to step aside. If not, your ass can get stepped over, ran over and put in the fucking dirt and that’s on the dead homies, nigga.”

…

The dimly lit interior exuded an air of quiet sophistication that Elijah and Loraine had been longing for. Keshawn fidgeted with his napkin, his long legs cramped under the table as he sat between his parents. Across from them, two men in crisp suits smiled with practiced ease, their eyes darting occasionally to the luxurious watches adorning their wrists.

"So, Keshawn," the older of the two men, who had introduced himself as Kevin, leaned forward, "College basketball has obviously changed in the last two decades or so, maybe even more with how much the freshmen are playing. I mean, what kind of role are you looking to have in your first year?”

Keshawn cleared his throat, acutely aware of his surroundings. "Honestly, just helping the team out any way that I can. I really pride myself on my defense so I think that should help me get on the floor early and see some playing time.”

Kevin nodded approvingly, while his younger colleague, Walter, jotted something in a leather-bound notebook. The waiter approached, refilling their water glasses with a flourish. The ice clinked musically against the crystal, momentarily filling the silence.

Loraine spoke up, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of tension. "And of course, Keshawn is committed to his academics. He plans to major in business administration."

"Excellent choice," Walter chimed in. "UCLA's Anderson School of Management is top-notch. There will be plenty of networking opportunities for Keshawn, both on and off the court."

The conversation lulled as their appetizers arrived - a charcuterie board laden with artisanal cheeses, cured meats, and honey-drizzled figs. Elijah carefully selected a slice of prosciutto, his movements deliberate and controlled.

Kevin cleared his throat, setting down his fork. "Well, let's get down to business, shall we? We're extremely excited about Keshawn's potential, both as an athlete and as a representative of UCLA."

He reached into a sleek briefcase beside him, pulling out a folder embossed with the UCLA logo. "We've put together what we believe is a very competitive NIL package for Keshawn's freshman year."

Loraine leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on the folder. Elijah's posture remained unchanged, but his gaze sharpened.

Kevin continued, "For the first year, we're prepared to offer a package of $70,000."

The number hung in the air for a moment. Keshawn's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly schooled his expression, remembering his father's advice to never show his hand too early.

Kevin jumped in, his voice smooth and practiced. "This is would include appearances at local businesses, social media promotions, and participation in youth basketball camps. On top of that, we've also secured a deal with a local car dealership for a lease on a new vehicle."

“Which extends to the family,” Walter quickly added, “They’re great guys over there and they’re extremely flexible when it comes to offering favorable rates to family, extended and nuclear, to really make sure that everyone is comfortable and taken care of.”

Loraine nodded slowly, her mind already calculating how this money could help stabilize their family's finances. Elijah, however, remained impassive.

"And what about performance bonuses?" Elijah asked, his deep voice cutting through the restaurant's ambient noise. "Are those factored into this number, or would they be additional?"

Kevin and Walter exchanged a quick glance. "Because of the way things are currently situated, this does not include any sort of escalators or bonuses that you hear about in the NBA or in the NFL when certain milestones or stats are reached," Kevin explained. "But I’ll add this, which I think is really pertinent to this conversation, which is that in Keshawn’s contract, and most of our contracts with student-athletes, there are opt-out clauses so if Keshawn becomes the great player we all think he can be, we’d be more than happy to renegotiate a competitive rate. There are mechanisms within the contract that allows for that while also abiding by current regulations which do not allow for us to tie a specific dollar amount to performance.”

…

“Throwing seventy thousand dollars at kids is crazy,” Loraine scoffed, “You saw his face when he mentioned the leased cars? Like we were hard up or something, talking about extended family.”

“I don’t know,” Keshawn muttered from the backseat of the car, his long legs cramped in the confined space “Pretty much doubled what Howard was offering.”

Loraine twisted in her seat to face her son. “Sometimes, the bigger number isn’t the best choice. I don’t know, that entire thing just felt a bit too transactional for me. With Howard’s guys, it felt more…natural, conversational and less like they were trying to buy you or something.”

Elijah, who had been silent since they left the restaurant, suddenly spoke up. His deep voice filled the car, steady and thoughtful. "They sound like that because that’s what they are doing. They’ve changed the name on that folder plenty of times, given the same offer to a bunch of other Black kids and they’ll take a couple, see which stick, throw out the rest. It’s just a number’s game to them, they just want to see who jumps first. Howard ain’t offering nobody else what they offered you, I can tell you that.”

Keshawn's eyes widened in surprise. His father, usually the pragmatist, the one pushing for the "sensible" choice, was agreeing with the idea of turning down UCLA's offer?

Elijah continued, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "I have no doubt you can play anywhere, son. But you know where I stand on this, basketball’s just a game. You have the rest of your life hanging on this decision, not just the next four. Don’t let thirty thousand dollar stand in the way of you picking the best school for you, wherever that may be. You make the right pick, that’s your vacation budget in ten, twenty years.”

[Agent]

That crack baby better take the UCLA offer

[Soapy]

That crack baby better take the UCLA offer

[chosenone58]

So Dro is not the man he thought he was... nobody respects this dude except Loraine

Damn, so it's a tossup between UCLA and Howard? Or are we bringing more schools into the mix?

[Soapy]

So Dro is not the man he thought he was... nobody respects this dude except Loraine

Damn, so it's a tossup between UCLA and Howard? Or are we bringing more schools into the mix?

We shall see. I was contemplating doing some writing today just as you commented. let's get it.

[Soapy]

Do What Thou Will - Episode 8
Gayle could feel herself catching her second wind as she walked down the dimly lit hallway that led into the recording studio, the prospect of another recording session filling her with newfound energy after a long shift at the club. She had the ditched the tight-fitting clothes for some sweats, putting her body in comfort as she tried to ease her mind. She had penned a new verse, or at least the structure of one, and couldn’t wait for Lamont’s feedback.

As she reached for the door handle, a burst of laughter erupted from inside, followed by the unmistakable voice of a girl. Gayle hesitated, her hand hovering inches from the knob. The voice was familiar – too familiar.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door fully open and stepped into the plush recording space. Her eyes landed on the mixing board, where Lamont sat, his head bobbing to the beat. And there, in the booth, was none other than Kandi – the Diamond Girl herself – spitting out the bars as Lamont coached her through it.

Gayle's stomach dropped. She knew Lamont was in high demand, but she hadn't expected to walk in on a session with one of the biggest names in hip-hop, certainly when it came to female rappers. Kandi's eyes flicked up, catching Gayle's gaze through the glass.

"Oh, shit, my bad," Gayle called out, her voice wavering slightly. "I can come back later if y'all ain't finished."

Lamont swiveled in his chair, his face lighting up when he saw Gayle. "Nah, nah, you good," he said, waving her in. "We just wrapping up anyway, time must have gotten away from me.”

Gayle hesitated, glancing between Lamont and Kandi, who was now exiting the booth, her long, bejeweled nails tapping against her phone screen.

"You sure?" Gayle asked, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I don't want to mess with what y’all got going on.”

"Girl, please," Kandi drawled, flipping her blue wig over her shoulder. "We been at this for hours. I could use a break anyway." She sauntered over to the plush leather couch, sinking into it with a dramatic sigh.

Lamont grinned, gesturing for Gayle to take a seat. "For real, we good. Matter of fact, you wouldn’t mind laying down a reference for this, would you?”

…

The afternoon sun streamed through the massive skylights of Westfield Mall as Vic and Angela strolled past storefronts, their reflections bouncing off the glass displays. Angela had three shopping bags dangling from her wrist, while Vic carried a single garment bag containing the charcoal gray suit they'd just picked out.

"I still think the blue one would have stolen the show," Angela said, bumping her shoulder playfully against his arm.

Vic shook his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Nah, I ain’t with that fruity shit. Besides, we’re on the wrong side of Leimert for that shit.”

Angela laughed, the sound light and genuine in a way it hadn't been for weeks. The tension that had been present since Vic’s blowup with Ronnie had dissipated, replaced by something closer to their old rhythm.

They weaved through the Saturday crowd toward an empty table. Vic set the garment bag carefully across one chair before heading to grab them some food. When he returned with a tray of Chinese takeout, Angela had already arranged her bags neatly and was scrolling through her phone.

"So," Vic began, sliding a container of orange chicken toward her. "I’ve been thinking and shit.”

Angela looked up, chopsticks poised midair. "That ain’t never good.”

"Child, please," he shook his head as a smile crept up on his face, “Just trying to figure out what’s the move, you know?”

The familiar crease appeared between Angela's eyebrows—the one that always showed up when she was preparing to analyze something. "I'm listening."

“Coach Stewie, you know him, right? Anyway, he offered me a spot on the coaching staff next year and it’s not like it pays or anything but I’ve always though I’d end up coaching so…”

He searched Angela’s face for approval or weariness, anything to appease his need for validation, “What you think?”

“I know you really want to play,” Angela aimlessly moved the food in her container around.

“I still do,” Vic shrugged, “But, shit, if no one wants me, I’m not about to go from shitty school to shitty school to play in front of a dozen people for no fucking reason. I might as well just hoop at the park by that point.”

“Not like I’m going to get any bigger,” Vic continued, “I’ve got to move on at some point, you know? I can take some classes at El Camino and have real coaching experience under my belt by the time I graduate and you can still go to CDU like you always wanted to.”

The words that were meant to reassure Angela instead felt like an anchor landed on her chest. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, her heart rate beginning to pick up pace while her stomach was on the floor of the food court.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you actually,” she powered through, setting aside her food, “Last we spoke about this, it really seemed like you were open to leaving LA and seeing what else is out there…”

“I mean I was, I mean, I am, and I want you to be if that’s what you want,” Vic answered, “I just know that you really want to go to CDU and I would hate for you to not go there because of me.”

“That’s the thing, Vic,” she sighed, “The more I think about this and the more I try to have an open mind, I don’t know if I still want to go to CDU. Honestly, I know I don’t now.”

Vic was taken aback, shocked even as those three letter acronyms were all that Angela would ever talk about. He had never even heard of them prior to Angela, let alone being someone’s dream school.

“So what we thinking? We at UCLA with it? Up the road in Cal?”

“Actually,” Angela steadied herself, “Between my financial aid and what they gave me in scholarships, I can go to Howard for free.”