This kind of comment should get you sent the palm-colored coalition if we're keeping it a buck fiddy
Nigga a grown ass man and gets flustered talking to bitches.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Malcolm was doing a lot more than shaking some ass if we're being honest, s/o to the bunnies
Relax on son, he's a shy guy
Neighborhood.
The neon sign of New Panda Buffet flickered against the dusk sky as Vic approached, his non-slip shoes already laced up tight and his black polo freshly ironed. The evening air carried the familiar mix of car exhaust and fried food that defined this stretch of Crenshaw. Vic checked his phone—5:55 PM, five minutes early for his six o'clock shift, fresh off putting the new crop of freshmen on Hamilton’s basketball through the paces during a summer workout.
He pushed through the glass door, the bell tinkling overhead. Mr. Zhang, the owner, was already watching for him from behind the register, his face set in that particular expression Vic had come to recognize over the past few months—the one that meant something wasn't right.
"Vic," Mr. Zhang nodded, motioning him toward the small office behind the kitchen. "Come talk, please."
Vic followed, weaving between the red-clothed tables and past the steam tables where Mrs. Zhang was arranging fresh trays of orange chicken. The kitchen staff glanced up briefly, then quickly back down at their work. They knew something he didn't.
The office was barely bigger than a closet, with just enough room for a metal desk and two chairs. Mr. Zhang closed the door and sat heavily.
"Vic, you good worker," he began, his accent thickening as it always did during difficult conversations. "Always on time. Never complain. But business slow now. Very slow."
Vic remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. "I understand.”
"I must cut hours. Many hours." Mr. Zhang pulled an envelope from the desk drawer. "This last paycheck, plus one week extra. I cannot guarantee shifts anymore, but I keep you on-call list. Maybe later in the year get better."
The words hung in the air like the steam from the kitchen. Vic felt his throat tighten but kept his face neutral, the way his father had taught him growing up.
"Don't ever let them see you sweat, son," Malcolm Singleton had said. "A man carries his troubles with dignity."
"I appreciate this," Vic said, taking the envelope. He did the quick math in his head—this would hold for a few weeks, if that. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Zhang."
Mr. Zhang looked relieved, clearly having expected a different reaction. "You good boy, Victor. Smart boy. When business pick up, you first I call. First one."
Vic nodded, tucking the envelope into his back pocket. "I appreciate that, sir."
As he turned to leave, Mrs. Zhang appeared in the doorway with a large paper bag. "Food for you and mama," she said, pressing it into his hands. "Extra egg rolls. Your favorite."
The gesture nearly broke his composure, but Vic managed a smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Zhang."
…
The squeak of rubber soles against polished hardwood filled indoor gym as Coach Cronin blew his whistle, signaling the start of another five-on-five scrimmage. Keshawn wiped sweat from his brow, taking his position at the top of the key. His lungs burned from the previous drills, but a new focus had settled into his mind—something clicked after watching film last night.
"Gold team, you're on defense first," Coach Savino called out, tossing the ball to Stefan, who caught it with a casual flick of his wrist. "Let's see if anyone can stop this motherfucker today.”
Stefan smirked, bouncing the ball between his legs as he sized up Lyle, his defender. "That help better be there," he taunted, his voice carrying across the court. "Gonna need it."
Keshawn positioned himself on the weak side, eyes darting between his man and the ball. When Stefan called for a screen, Keshawn recognized the play developing—the same one they had been running all camp. Instead of staying with his man, Keshawn shifted his weight, ready to help.
Stefan burst past Lyle off the screen, just as he had done throughout camp, driving hard toward the paint. But this time, Keshawn was there, sliding into position with his feet set, cutting off Stefan's path to the rim.
Stefan stopped, pulling up abruptly. He pivoted, finding the roll man open for what should have been an easy bucket.
Keshawn didn't hesitate. The moment Stefan released the pass, he was already rotating, calculating the trajectory. Two long strides and he was airborne, his lanky arm extending upward just as the roll man gathered to shoot. The ball smacked against Keshawn's palm with a satisfying thwack, sending it ricocheting toward the sideline where Coach Cronin caught it with raised eyebrows.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Coach Palmer bellowed, pointing at Keshawn. "So nice of you to join us today, Mr. Chase!”
Keshawn shook his head, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. It was a backhanded compliment, an acknowledgment of his dip in play in recent days but he’d happily take it.
A few possessions later, Stefan demanded the ball with a sharp clap that echoed through the gym. He waved off the screen, eyes locked onto Keshawn with predatory focus.
"Switch everything!" Coach Palmer barked from the sideline.
When Stefan's defender moved to cut off the wing player, Keshawn found himself exactly where Stefan wanted him—isolated at the top of the key, just the two of them in what had suddenly become a stage.
"You can’t hold me, nigga," Stefan muttered, the words meant only for Keshawn's ears.
Stefan's dribble quickened, a hypnotic rhythm punctuated by the occasional crossover. His shoulders dipped left, then right, testing Keshawn's discipline. The gym grew quieter, the other eight players becoming spectators to the unfolding duel.
With explosive quickness, Stefan drove right, then spun back left in a move that had embarrassed defenders all camp. But Keshawn stayed with him, his long arms extended, forcing Stefan to fade away for a contested jumper that clanged off the back rim.
“Good hands!” one of the coaches yelled from the sidelines.
Stefan's jaw tightened as he jogged back on defense. "Lucky I ain’t make that shit," he muttered.
But luck had nothing to do with the next possession. When Keshawn caught the ball on the wing, Stefan immediately called for the switch, pushing his teammate aside to take the assignment personally.
"Do something with it, bitch," Stefan said, crouching into a defensive stance that screamed challenge.
With a quick jab step right that Stefan didn't bite on, Keshawn went to his newly refined pull-up jumper, rising high above Stefan's outstretched hand. The ball arced perfectly, catching nothing but net as it fell through.
Stefan retrieved the ball, his expression darkening as he dribbled upcourt with purpose. Without waiting for the offense to set up, he waved everyone off again.
"Clear out," he commanded, and his teammates obliged, spreading to the corners.
This time, Stefan attacked with vicious intent, driving hard to his strong side before executing a step-back move that created just enough separation. The shot—a beautiful, high-arcing jumper—seemed destined to fall, but Keshawn's fingertips grazed the ball at its apex, altering its trajectory just enough to cause it to rim out.
Stefan lunged for the rebound, his frustration evident in every movement. As Keshawn reached in to secure the ball, Stefan's patience snapped. He swung wildly, ostensibly at the ball, but his hand connected squarely with Keshawn's cheekbone.
The sharp sting of the contact sent a jolt through Keshawn's system. Before he could process what he was doing, his hands were on Stefan's chest, shoving him to the ground. Stefan went sprawling backwards, landing hard on the polished hardwood with a thud that echoed through the suddenly silent gym.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Stefan snarled, scrambling to his feet.
Coach Cronin's whistle pierced the tension before Keshawn could respond. Three sharp blasts that froze everyone in place.
"That's ENOUGH!" Cronin bellowed, striding onto the court with the controlled fury that had made him famous. He pointed toward the baseline. "Both of you. Now."
The coach's face had turned a dangerous shade of crimson. "Ten full-court sprints. Now. And if I see either of you slow down, we're going to twenty."
Keshawn jogged to the baseline, his cheek still stinging. Stefan arrived a moment later, standing as far away as possible while still being on the same line.
"On my whistle," Cronin said, raising the silver whistle to his lips. The shrill sound sent them both racing down the court.
By the third sprint, Keshawn's lungs were burning. By the fifth, his legs felt like they were filled with concrete. Somewhere around the eight or nine, when the pain had faded into a strange, detached numbness, he heard Stefan's labored breathing beside him.
"Nice defense, hoe ass nigga," Stefan panted between gasps as they touched the baseline and pivoted for another run.
Keshawn glanced over, expecting sarcasm, but Stefan's face held something else—a grudging respect beneath the exhaustion.
"You know I’m locking that shit up," Keshawn wheezed back, a small smile forming despite himself.
Stefan snorted, which turned into a half-laugh, half-cough. "Let’s run ones after this, fuck nigga.”
On the sideline, Coach Palmer leaned toward Coach Cronin. "I’m telling you, we might have something in a couple of years.”
Cronin nodded, his stern expression softening just slightly. "No shit.”
…
The bass thumped through the soles of Gayle's feet as she balanced a tray of shots above her head, weaving between sweaty bodies and wandering hands. The Platinum Lounge was packed tonight—a Thursday that somehow felt like a Saturday—but her tips weren't reflecting the crowd. Four hours into her shift and her thigh pouch held maybe sixty bucks. Pathetic.
"Yo, can I get another round?" A guy in an oversized Gucci shirt waved a fifty in her face.
"Sure thing, baby." Gayle flashed her practiced smile, the one that showed just enough teeth to suggest interest without promising anything. She took the bill, tucking it into her bra rather than the pouch. Management didn't need to know about every transaction.
By 2 AM, Gayle's feet were screaming in her platform heels, and the thin straps of her sequined top had rubbed her shoulders raw. She delivered a final round of drinks to a bachelor party in the VIP section, dodging a wandering hand with practiced ease.
"My shift's over, honey. Destiny's got you covered now." She passed the section off to a newer girl who looked fresh and eager, her makeup still perfect. Gayle remembered feeling that way once, not too long ago.
The employees-only door closed behind her, instantly muffling the club's chaos. The sudden quiet was jarring. Gayle kicked off her heels, the cold concrete floor a relief against her aching soles as she padded toward the locker room.
"Girl, these motherfuckers are wild tonight." Aida was already there, counting a thick stack of bills at the makeup counter, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. A new diamond tennis bracelet glittered on her wrist, catching the fluorescent light with every movement.
"Is that Van Cleef?" Gayle nodded toward the bracelet.
Aida grinned, extending her arm to display the jewelry properly. "I ain’t ask the fuck nigga if it was real." She laughed. "It look good, don’t it?”
She had stopped going to those private parties with Aida and Shawna and instead spent all of her free time in the studio with Lamont. At first, it was a fun, a much needed escape into a world that she never knew nor wondered about. But as the studio hours pilled up and the unpaid labor continued, she was wondering what it was really for. They had recorded a few songs but none had been mixed, mastered, sold nor streamed. She was working hard at this endless library of half-finished songs and melodies that cluttered Lamont’s — DJ Cosmo — library but to no end in sight.
“We can always use another girl,” Aida told her, seeing the look of chagrin on Gayle’s face as she undid her make up, “You coming out with Big Momma tonight?”
“I’m good,” she declined. She had another session booked with Lamont already.
Neighborhood.
Noticer noticing something to notice.
Neighborhood.
"Come on, three more!" Vic shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls as he positioned himself under the basket, snagging rebounds and firing crisp passes back out to the three players — Keshawn, Stefan and Tommy — running the wing sprint drill. It was still early in the morning and while most UCLA students were still buried under their covers, the echo of bouncing basketballs and squeaking sneakers filled the empty gym.
Keshawn caught the ball at the three-point line, took one dribble toward the basket, and exploded upward as he double-clutched before laying the ball softly against the backboard. The ball kissed the glass and dropped through the net.
"I need a dunk next time," Vic nodded approvingly, chasing down the ball as it bounced away. "We don’t get tired around here, nigga!”
Keshawn jogged back to the line, catching his wind. "Yeah, I got you.”
Stefan followed with his own smooth drive, finishing with a reverse that he made look effortless. Tommy was next, his face already flushed red from exertion. He dribbled twice, his movements more mechanical than fluid, and rose for the pull up jumper. The ball clanked hard off the rim.
"Fuck," Tommy muttered, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.
"Keep your elbow tucked, man," Vic advised, retrieving the ball. "And you gotta get your legs under you. You're shooting all arms right now."
Stefan slapped Tommy on the back. "Lock in, cuz.”
Vic tossed the ball to Keshawn for the next round. "I need some middy pull-ups before we’re out of here.”
Keshawn nodded, his usual reserved demeanor giving way to quiet focus. He caught the ball, took two hard dribbles to his right, then stopped on a dime—his footwork impeccable—before rising for a picture-perfect jumper. The ball snapped through the net with barely a ripple.
"That’s a million dollar nigga right there," Stefan teased.
They finished the drill with a final flurry of shots, Keshawn and Stefan executing with growing precision while Tommy finally connected on his last attempt, drawing whoops from the others.
"Good work today, y’all boys," Vic said, tossing towels around.
Keshawn nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Appreciate you coming out with us this morning.”
Stefan chugged half his water bottle before pouring the rest over his head. "For real, felt like we had a real coach out there.”
“Shit,” Vic scoffed, “Anything to get out the crib these days. Ain’t nobody hiring right now, at least not my Black ass.”
“That’s fucked up,” Stefan shook his head.
"It’s whatever," Vic replied with forced confidence. "Just means more time for me to help you sorry-ass niggas get better."
Stefan's face suddenly lit up as he finished packing his gym bag. "Sounds like you free today, then.”
“Yeah, why?” Vic asked.
“We should head out to the beach house today. Your brother still not back, is he?” Stefan looked towards Tommy, who was already shaking his head.
Tommy groaned. "Hell no, it turned into a shitshow last time and you still owe me for that bottle.”
"Nah, nah, lowkey this time," Stefan insisted, his eyes bright with mischief. "It’ll just be us, really, and some girls.”
"I don't know, man,” Tommy hesitated, “Why don’t we just rent a boat or something? My dad’s always on our ass about never using that membership he got us so we can probably get something nice, go out on the water and not fuck up my brother’s house.”
“Bitches love the water,” Stefan nodded, “I like where you going with this, White man. You coming Vic?”
“I ain’t got nothing else going,” Vic looked at Keshawn, who nodded with approval, “I’m with it.”
“I’ll call Jessica then,” Stefan teased, “I know you like that horchata, my nigga.”
…
The sleek white yacht cut through the Pacific waves, sending spray into the air that caught the sunlight like scattered diamonds. Keshawn leaned against the railing, feeling the cool mist on his face as the boat sliced through another swell. Behind him, music thumped from speakers mounted near the cabin, the bass barely audible over the churning water and whipping wind. It was a much difference scene than his time on the water with Coach Bronstein.
"You good?" Gloria asked, sidling up next to him. She wore a cream-colored cover-up over her swimsuit, her skin glowing in the afternoon sun. H
"Yeah," Keshawn nodded, "Just vibing right now.”
Gloria laughed, “I feel like you’re always just vibing.”
"I guess," Keshawn smiled, "Ain’t that what’s about?”
From the captain's chair, Tommy navigated with surprising confidence, one hand on the wheel while the other gestured animatedly as he spoke to Alexis. She sat cross-legged on the cushioned seat beside him, designer sunglasses perched on her nose, nodding at whatever he was saying.
She hadn’t left his side since they boarded the boat, a note that Keshawn had registered. He still wasn’t sure what their deal was or if there was any. There weren’t any overt displays of actions, no lingering hugs, no intimate embrace, no casual touching of the arm.
Vic and Jessica had claimed the bow of the boat, where Jessica was stretched out on a towel, sunbathing while Vic sat beside her, clearly enjoying the view. Every few minutes, Jessica would laugh at something Vic said, the sound carrying back to where Keshawn stood.
"Yo, Ke!" Stefan called from the back of the boat where he and Andrea were setting up a cooler. "Come get down with this action, cuz.”
Keshawn glanced at Gloria, who smiled and nodded. They made their way carefully across the gently rocking deck.
"I’m going to need you to get active with me," Stefan joked, handing them each a red cup. "Andrea made these, so if you end up in the hospital, you know where to find her ass.”
Andrea playfully smacked his arm. "Boy, please. I know exactly what I'm doing."
Keshawn took a cautious sip and immediately felt the burn of alcohol beneath the sweetness. "Damn, what's in this?"
"Don't worry about it," Andrea winked. "Just enjoy."
Tommy throttled down the engine, letting the boat drift into a gentle coast as they reached a secluded cove. The cliffs of the coastline curved around them like protective arms, creating a private sanctuary of turquoise water. It was all that Vic and Jessica needed, using a loose blanket to cover themselves in a poor attempt to mask their activities.
"Jesus Christ," Stefan laughed, pointing toward the bow. "They really going at it under that little ass blanket like we can't see what's happening."
The group turned their attention to where Vic and Jessica huddled beneath the thin covering, its rhythmic movement leaving little to the imagination.
"Get it where you can I guess," Andrea snickered, taking a long sip from her cup.
A chorus of laughter rippled through the group. Keshawn shook his head, smiling despite himself. He glanced across the deck and caught Alexis watching him, her eyes intense even behind her designer shades. She held his gaze for a beat longer than casual, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips before she slowly turned back to Tommy.
That look. It wasn't nothing. Keshawn felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with Andrea's potent drink.
Gloria noticed the exchange, her eyes darting between them. Gloria's fingers slipped around Keshawn's wrist, her touch gentle but deliberate. "Hey," she whispered, leaning close enough that he could smell the coconut in her hair, "I want to see the rest of this fancy ass boat.”
Keshawn raised an eyebrow, reading the invitation in her eyes. "Yeah, I'm down."
She tugged him toward the stairs leading to the lower deck, her sundress billowing slightly in the ocean breeze. As they moved, Stefan caught sight of them and broke into a knowing grin.
"Oooohhh, where y'all going?" he called out, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Y’all not going to give us a show?”
Andrea smacked his arm again, harder this time. "Leave them alone, damn."
"What?" Stefan laughed, holding his hands up in mock innocence. "I thought my little nigga was a competitor.”
Tommy glanced over from the helm, shaking his head but smiling. "Bottom deck's got a mini fridge if y'all want something!" he shouted, trying to sound casual but failing to hide his smirk.
Keshawn felt heat rise to his face but kept his expression neutral. Gloria, however, seemed to enjoy the attention, giving Stefan a playful middle finger as she pulled Keshawn down the stairs before making eye contact with Alexis as she disappeared into the cabin.
…
"Watch your step," Vic called out, one hand steadying Jessica as she wobbled onto the dock, her legs still adjusting to solid ground.
Stefan and Andrea were already unloading coolers, passing bags and empty bottles in a human chain while Tommy secured the vessel. Keshawn hefted a heavy duffel over his shoulder, his muscles pleasantly sore from both the morning's workout and the day's activities. The salt air clung to his skin, and he could still feel the phantom rocking of the waves beneath his feet.
"You good with taking that to the car?" Tommy asked, gesturing toward the bag.
"Yeah, I got it," Keshawn nodded, making his way down the wooden planks of the dock.
He had just stowed the duffel in the trunk of Tommy's Range Rover when he sensed someone behind him. Turning, he found Alexis standing there, arms crossed over her chest, those designer sunglasses now perched atop her head, revealing eyes that studied him with unconcealed interest.
"Need something?" Keshawn asked, his tone neutral despite the quickening of his pulse.
Alexis slowly shook her head. "I can’t quite figure you out just yet," she said, her voice carrying that distinctive blend of privilege and confidence. "What's your deal, anyway?"
"My deal?" Keshawn echoed, letting the trunk close with a soft thud, “I don’t know if there’s anything to figure out really.”
"I think there is," she continued, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You barely say ten words the whole day. Even when you and your little senorita had your little whatever down there, you still just had this whatever looked on your face." She gestured vaguely toward his face. "Like you’re just there.”
Keshawn awkwardly laughed, unsure what to make of her inquisition as she hadn’t spoken to him all day and barely spoke to the others, besides Tommy of course.
“I’m just a quiet guy, I guess.”
“You’re just a chill guy, huh?” she mocked, “Is that like you’re way of flirting with girls?”
"I don't know," Keshawn replied, a rare playfulness entering his voice. "Is it working?"
“I think you know the answer to that,” she laughed, turning around and leaving him in his spot.
Neighborhood.
Run the film! What was this man saying about the innocent man known as Royce Lafitte concerning this type of behavior????!