Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 9
The scent of cinnamon and brewing coffee filled the small living room, a welcome change from the stale air of the extended stay they’d called home last Christmas. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the modest pile of gifts under a small, slightly lopsided tree. Simone squealed, tearing the wrapping paper off a small box from Loraine.

“Mom! You didn’t!” Simone held up a delicate silver bracelet, her eyes wide.

Loraine beamed, pulling her daughter into a hug. “Merry Christmas, baby girl, I hope you like it. It’s from your father and I.”

“It’s perfect,” Simone interrupted, already fastening the bracelet onto her wrist.

Loraine chuckled, reaching for another gift. “Now, this one’s from us to you, Ke.”

Keshawn managed a small smile, accepting the plainly wrapped package. He could feel his father’s eyes on him from the armchair tucked into the corner. Elijah hadn’t moved much all morning, just sat there nursing a mug of coffee, his gaze distant. Elijah took a long, slow sip, the silence stretching awkwardly whenever the women weren’t talking. The festive paper and ribbons felt flimsy against the weight of his father’s unspoken frustration, a quiet storm brewing in the corner of their first real Christmas morning in what felt like a lifetime.

He tore away the paper to reveal a shoebox. Lifting the lid, he saw a pair of Giannis Antetonkoumpo’s signature shoes, a few models back . “Whoa,” he breathed, genuinely impressed. “I’ve been wanting these. Thanks, Mom… Dad.” He looked over at his father, offering a grateful nod.

Elijah forced a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He mumbled something Keshawn couldn’t quite catch before abruptly pushing himself out of the armchair. The mug clattered as he set it down hard on the side table. “Going to get some more coffee,” he muttered, turning sharply and heading towards the small kitchen pass-through, his shoulders rigid.

Loraine shot a quick, warning glance at Keshawn, her own smile faltering for a split second before she turned back to Simone, resuming a cheerful tone. Keshawn watched his father disappear into the kitchen. He glanced down at the sneakers, then at a small, neatly wrapped box still sitting under the tree – the watch he’d bought for his dad with some of his NIL money. He picked it up.

“Be right back,” Keshawn said softly, pushing himself up.

He found Elijah leaning against the counter, his back to the doorway, staring out the small kitchen window. Keshawn hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the kitchen. The scent of coffee was stronger here, almost bitter. “Dad?”

Elijah didn’t turn around.

“This is… uh… for you,” Keshawn said, holding out the small box.

Elijah finally turned, his face etched with a deep weariness Keshawn hadn’t seen so clearly before. He looked at the box in Keshawn’s hand, then met his son’s eyes. A tremor ran through his jaw.

“Thank you, son,” Elijah’s voice was thick, strained. He took the box but didn’t open it, just held it in his large hand. He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the worn linoleum floor. “I… I appreciate it. Appreciate you.” He took a ragged breath, and Keshawn saw his shoulders start to shake. “It’s just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Keshawn assured him.

Elijah looked up, his eyes glistening. “This ain’t right, this ain’t how it’s supposed to be.” Tears welled, spilling over and tracing paths down his cheeks. “I’m supposed to be the one providing, taking care of things. Giving you the gifts. Not the other way around. These shoes…” He gestured vaguely back towards the living room. “Sisi’s gift…we had to split everything up to just give you guys something, anything for Christmas. I had made it, Ke, we had made it. I just got too fucking greedy, man and let everyone down…you, your mother, Sisi…I’m a fucking convicted felon who needs his son to take care of him.”

Keshawn felt a knot tighten in his own chest. He stepped forward, placing a tentative hand on his father’s trembling back. It felt strange, this reversal. He was the taller one now, the one offering comfort. “Dad, it’s okay,” he said softly. “We’re okay. You didn’t let us down. Things happened, but we’re getting through it. Together and if I have to step up, let me do it, please. It’s how I honor you, it’s how I honor Mom. None of this would have been possible without y’all and I’m paying back a debt to you guys that can never be settled, that I don’t ever want to settle so there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Elijah sagged under his touch, the quiet sobs shaking his frame. He reached up, placing his hand over Keshawn’s, gripping it tightly. They stood there for a long moment in the small, sunlit kitchen, the sounds of wrapping paper rustling and Simone’s laughter drifting in from the other room, a fragile bubble around the raw, unspoken weight of their changed lives.

…

The aroma of roasted turkey and sweet potato pie hung heavy in the air, mingling with the bass thump of old-school R&B leaking from speakers somewhere inside the packed house. Laughter and loud conversations bounced off the walls of the backyard patio where Dro leaned against the railing, nursing a plastic cup of something amber. He watched his nephew, Khalif – Fat Stacks to the streets – holding court near the barbecue pit, loudly recounting some story that had his cousins howling. It was the first time they’d been in the same space since summertime, the tension between them a palpable thing only they, and maybe a few observant elders, seemed to truly register amidst the holiday cheer.

Dro pushed off the railing, meandering slowly towards the group, timing his arrival as Stacks finished his anecdote. The laughter died down as Dro stepped into the circle. Stacks’ smile tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Nephew,” Dro said, his voice low and even, cutting through the lingering chuckles. “Need a word.”

Stacks waved a dismissive hand. “I ain’t politicking today, old man.”

“I just need to talk to you,” Dro replied, keeping his tone level. He glanced around at the others, who suddenly found interest in their drinks or the pattern of the concrete. “We’re family, Khalif, before everything else.”

Stacks snorted, taking a deliberate swig from his own cup. “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout, Unc?”

“The path you’re about to take,” Dro shook his head slowly. “This shit between us. It’s about to cross a line. Somethin’ permanent. Ain’t no comin’ back from it once it’s done. This ain’t the way.” He held Stacks’ gaze, the jovial atmosphere around them seeming to evaporate.

Fat Stacks straightened up, his earlier amusement replaced by a hard glint in his eyes. He took a step closer to Dro, lowering his voice to a menacing rumble that carried despite the background noise. “Oh, it’s crossed the line, old man. Way past crossed. You just ain’t caught up yet.” He smirked, a humorless twist of his lips. “So you got two choices, Blood. You either lace up them mothafuckin’ boots and get ready for war… or you take yo’ OG ass, step aside, and let the new generation run things proper.” He leaned in, the smell of liquor and cheap cologne sharp between them. “So what’s it gonna be, Alejandro? You gon’ scrap or you gon’ fold?”

…

The Howard University campus was quiet, almost serene, under the weak December sun. Most students had scattered for the holidays, leaving behind a peaceful hush that settled over the Yard. Angela pulled her scarf tighter, the crisp air biting at her cheeks as she walked alongside Paige towards the Blackburn Center. Inside, the usual bustle was replaced by a smaller, more intimate gathering of students – mostly international, like Paige, or those who, like Angela, had chosen the relative calm of campus over the complexities of home.

Paige, bundled in a ridiculously oversized puffer jacket, gestured towards a table where a few familiar faces were playing Uno. “See? Told you there’d be people. Way better than sitting in the dorm watching bad Christmas movies.”

Angela smiled, a genuine, relaxed curve of her lips that felt unfamiliar but welcome. “We’ll see about that.”

She’d dreaded the prospect of another holiday walking by her childhood home, now infested with drugs addicts, including her own mother. There was also the strange distance that had crept between her and Vic during Thanksgiving, unable to be masked by the excuse of the long distances between them. Staying here, surrounded by the low murmur of different accents and the easy camaraderie of fellow stragglers, felt surprisingly…right. Like exhaling after holding her breath for too long.

They joined the game, laughter erupting as Paige triumphantly slammed down a Draw Four card. Someone had brought homemade cookies, fragrant with ginger and spice, and another student was attempting to teach the group a song in Swahili, resulting in more giggles than actual singing. Angela leaned back in her chair, sipping lukewarm hot chocolate from a paper cup, and watched them all. No pressure, no expectations, no walking on eggshells. Just…peace. For the first time in what felt like ages, the constant knot of anxiety in her stomach seemed to loosen. Here, amidst the quiet grandeur of Howard, surrounded by these temporary holiday orphans, she felt a sense of belonging, a quiet comfort that settled deep in her bones. It wasn’t the boisterous warmth of a family Christmas, but it was steady. It was hers. And right now, that felt like everything.

[Soapy]

Those two losses ain’t too pretty

boys falling apart without keshawn smh

[chosenone58]

FINALLY...... caught all the way up on this

So this man got sexually assaulted at the end of last season. Fucked around and broke his hand…now the squad about to start skidding. Conference play is around the corner fellas.

Papa Eli still on his bullshit. Let Keshawn handle them bills with that NIL money. Put that pride aside big homie. Almost messed up Christmas and whatnot.

Simone brought a whole colonizer to break bread.

Stacks making his next move his best move?

Uncle Quincy and Deb hosting these crack house lock-ins…

Vic is coming into his own as a coach. Glad the guy found his place. Jessica gotta relax. Gon get that man caught up.

But Ang is making friends out in DC….this is going to be interesting.

Stef out here getting active….. wild times. Gon make it weird for Keshawn.

[Soapy]

FINALLY...... caught all the way up on this

So this man got sexually assaulted at the end of last season. Fucked around and broke his hand…now the squad about to start skidding. Conference play is around the corner fellas.

Papa Eli still on his bullshit. Let Keshawn handle them bills with that NIL money. Put that pride aside big homie. Almost messed up Christmas and whatnot.

Simone brought a whole colonizer to break bread.

Stacks making his next move his best move?

Uncle Quincy and Deb hosting these crack house lock-ins…

Vic is coming into his own as a coach. Glad the guy found his place. Jessica gotta relax. Gon get that man caught up.

But Ang is making friends out in DC….this is going to be interesting.

Stef out here getting active….. wild times. Gon make it weird for Keshawn.

Glad to have you with us brother and love the recap

s/o to you for acknowledging that Keshawn is a victim, unlike Caesar smh

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 10
The roar of Pauley Pavilion vibrated through the bench, each cheer a phantom throb in Keshawn’s right hand. He flexed his fingers again, the motion now instinctual, a nervous tic born from weeks of inactivity and rehab. The brace was gone, replaced by a wrap of black tape, more psychological support than physical at this point, according to the trainers. Still, the memory of the bone-jarring impact, the sickening snap he'd felt rather than heard, lingered. He bounced his knee, eyes glued to the frantic pace of the game. Oregon was pressing, UCLA was scrambling, and the first media timeout was approaching. Any minute now, he thought, Coach gotta put me in.

He’d been an active participant in the last few practices, the rust flaking off with every jump shot, every rebound snatched aggressively. His timing was back, his conditioning surprisingly solid despite the layoff.

Beside him, Stefan shifted, sloshing whatever concoction he'd smuggled in his oversized water bottle. His leg, encased in a bulky brace, was propped up awkwardly. "Yo, Ke," Stefan slurred, his breath a potent mix of Gatorade and something much stronger, "These niggas sorrier than a bitch. Imma need you to hold it down for us out there, man.”

Keshawn just nodded, eyes still tracking the action. Tyler missed a jumper, Oregon snagged the rebound, pushing the break. A quick turnover, UCLA ball. The horn sounded for the timeout. Coach Cronin stalked the sideline, barking instructions. Keshawn leaned forward, catching Coach Palmer’s eyes, trying to project readiness, confidence.

Then, Coach Cronin pointed down the bench. Not at Keshawn. "Kyle! Get Tyler!”

William Kyle, the sturdy but offensively limited backup center, ripped off his warmups, jogging towards the scorer's table. Keshawn slumped back, the air rushing out of him. He clenched his taped hand into a fist, then quickly unflexed it, the phantom pain returning.

"Aw, hell nah!" Stefan's voice boomed, startlingly loud in the brief lull before the arena music kicked in. "Fuck y’all niggas doing?! Put Keshawn in this motherfucker, turn this bitch up!”

Heads snapped towards them – players, assistant coaches, even a few fans in the rows behind the bench. Keshawn felt his face flush hot. "Chill, bro.”

"Nah, fuck that!" Stefan shook his head, “Get my nigga in the game, man!”

Coach Palmer shot Stefan a look that could curdle milk, but Stefan just shrugged, taking another defiant gulp from his bottle. Keshawn kept his eyes forward, pretending he hadn't heard, trying to regain his focus. The game resumed. UCLA’s offense sputtered. Skyy forced a tough layup that clanked off the rim. Kobe missed an open three from the wing. Oregon, methodical and patient, worked the ball inside, scoring easily over Kyle’s outstretched arms. Another possession, another missed UCLA jumper. The crowd grew restless, the initial energy replaced by a low murmur of anxiety.

The second media timeout arrived like a reprieve. Keshawn watched Coach Cronin pace, his face tight with frustration. Cronin huddled the players on the court, his voice sharp and cutting. Keshawn waited, his muscles coiled, ready. Surely now. He was the offensive spark they needed, the length that could disrupt Oregon’s interior game. He saw Coach Palmer lean in, whispering something to Cronin, maybe advocating for him. Cronin shook his head curtly. "Tyler, you’re at four for Eric.”

Keshawn felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Stefan groaned beside him, muttering something unintelligible. Play resumed, and the Bruins' struggles intensified as Oregon’s lead grew and grew. Oregon missed a shot, but their center muscled past Kyle for the offensive board. Kick out, missed three. Another Oregon player flew in, tipping the ball back out. Scramble, drive, miss. William boxed out, but the ball bounced high off the rim, directly into the hands of an Oregon forward who laid it in softly. Coach Cronin exploded. He spiked his clipboard onto the hardwood with a crack that echoed through the momentary silence following the basket.

"CHASE!" Cronin roared, spinning towards the bench, his face crimson. "GET KYLE OUTTA THERE! NOW!"

Keshawn jolted, adrenaline surging through him like an electric current. He practically sprinted to the scorer's table, ignoring the throbbing echo in his hand, ignoring Stefan’s whooping cheers behind him. The noise of the crowd swelled again, a wave of anticipation washing over him as he knelt, waiting for the next dead ball. William trudged off, head down, avoiding eye contact. Keshawn slapped his hand briefly as they passed.

The ball was inbounded before Keshawn could fully orient himself. Oregon swung it around the perimeter, testing the defense. He found his man, stayed low, mirrored his movements. The Oregon guard drove baseline. Keshawn slid over, anticipating the pass, trying to force a charge. Instead, the guard stopped short, pivoted, and drew Keshawn into the air with a pump fake. The whistle blew as Keshawn landed awkwardly, his hip brushing the shooter. Foul. His first touch hadn't even been on the ball. He clapped his hands together, a frustrated puff of air escaping his lips, and watched the Oregon player sink both free throws.

A few plays later, he would try to crash the boards — the very reason he was on the floor — only to get called for an over the back foul. His second in less than ninety seconds of game time. Coach Cronin stared daggers through him from the sideline. Keshawn jogged back on defense, the initial adrenaline surge replaced by a sickening wave of dread. He felt lost, out of sync, a step behind the blistering pace Oregon dictated.

The gap widened. 17 points. 19. 23. Keshawn moved through the motions, rotating on defense, cutting on offense, but nothing clicked. Any fantasy he’d harbored of sparking a miraculous comeback evaporated under the relentless Oregon pressure and the mounting deficit on the scoreboard. Pauley Pavilion grew quieter, the hopeful energy replaced by the resigned shuffling of fans heading for the exits.

Still, flashes of the player he was, the player he could be, emerged from the wreckage. A lazy Oregon pass near midcourt; Keshawn shot the gap, his long arm deflecting the ball ahead. He outraced everyone, gathering the loose ball in stride and rising, flushing it down with his left hand, the rim rattling in the cavernous space. The crowd offered polite applause, a ripple in a sea of disappointment. Later, Skyy penetrated deep into the lane, drawing three defenders before lofting a perfect pass towards the rafters. Keshawn timed his jump, soaring above the rim, catching the ball at its apex and guiding it through the hoop with his taped right hand, landing softly. It was a spectacular play, momentarily silencing the Oregon bench, but it barely made a dent. Oregon answered with an effortless three, pushing the lead back over 25.

The second half crawled by. Both coaches emptied their benches. Keshawn stayed in, a consequence of his limited minutes earlier, playing alongside walk-ons and deep reserves as the clock mercifully wound down. The final buzzer sounded like a release. 87-60. A beatdown. He walked towards the tunnel, the cheers for the victorious Ducks echoing behind him.

…

The drive from Pauley back towards campus blurred into a montage of streetlights and the hollow echo of the loss bouncing around inside his skull. He parked haphazardly near her apartment building, the engine ticking cooling in the quiet street. Pulling out his phone, the screen glared back at him. He’d sent the text almost reflexively, a pathetic Hail Mary lobbed into the night: You up?

He hadn’t expected a reply, not really. He’d been distant, preoccupied with rehab, then the anticipation of his return, the practices. Gloria had faded into the background noise of his life, a pleasant, convenient relationship he hadn’t bothered to nurture. Her almost immediate ‘Yeah you tryna link?’ surprised him, sent a spike of something complex through him – relief mixed with a heavy dose of self-loathing. It felt cheap, easy. Using her because he felt like shit.

Now, standing outside her apartment door, the shame curdled in his gut. He shifted his weight, his taped hand shoved deep in his pocket. He could still feel the phantom sting of the ball hitting the backboard on that block weeks ago, the jarring impact that had derailed everything. Tonight, he’d felt clumsy, hesitant, like a stranger in his own body, not the budding freshman that had went from redshirt to challenging for a starting spot. He raised his good hand, hesitating for a second before knocking softly.

The door opened almost instantly. Gloria stood there in an oversized tee and shorts, her hair pulled back loosely. She wasn’t smiling, exactly, but her eyes were soft, searching his face. She didn't ask about the game; the result was probably all over social media already. She didn't need to ask how he felt; it was written all over him.

“Hey,” she murmured, stepping aside to let him in.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice raspy. He stepped inside, the familiar scent of her apartment dorm wrapping around him. He didn’t know what to say, how to bridge the gap of his neglect.

She closed the door gently, the click echoing in the small space. Without a word, she reached out, took his good hand, and led him towards her bedroom. He followed, a silent admission of his need, his guilt momentarily overshadowed by the gravitational pull of simple human contact. It wasn't about passion or even lust, not tonight. It was about the quiet weight of another person beside him, a temporary anchor in the storm of his own failure, a borrowed warmth against the encroaching cold. He closed his eyes, the shame still present, but muted now, muffled by the steady rhythm of her breathing next to him.

Highlight Game: January 12th, 2025 - Pauley Pavilion, Los Angeles, California

---

ORE | 48 | 39 | 87
UCLA | 26 | 34 | 60

Starting Lineups
(So) Jackson Shelstad - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(Sr) T.J. Bamba - G - Skyy Clark (Jr)
(Sr) Jadrian Tracey - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) Brandon Angel - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Nate Bittle - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)



G T.J. Bamba: 12 pts, 3 stl, 5-8 FG, 1-3 3PT, 1-1 FT
C Nate Bittle, Senior: 12 pts, 7 reb, 5-9 FG, 2-5 FT
G Ra'heim Moss: 14 pts, 5 reb, 2 ast, 5-7 FG, 2-3 3PT, 2-2 FT

G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 3 pts, 2 reb, 1-3 FG, 1-2 FT
G Sky Clark, Junior: 3 pts, 3 reb, 3 ast, 2 stl, 0-6 FG, 0-4 3PT
F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 9 pts, 3 reb, 3 ast, 4 stl, 3-17 FG, 1-10 3PT
F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 3 pts, reb, 3 stl, 1-4 FG, 1-3 3PT
F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 10 pts, 6 reb, stl, 3-8 FG, 4-8 FT
F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 10 pts, 3 ast, 2 stl, 3-5 FG, 4-4 FT

---

January 14th, 2025
(13-5) UCLA at Colorado (5-10)
@

UCLA | 60 | 49 | 109
CU | 49 | 37 | 86

UCLA F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 18 pts, 3 reb, 4 ast, 5-9 FG, 2-3 3PT, 6-8 FT
CU F Andrej Jakimovski, Senior: 18 pts, 3 reb, 6 blk, 7-14 FG, 3-7 3PT, 1-2 FT

---

January 19th, 2025
(11-3) Washington State at UCLA (14-5)
@

WSU | 34 | 38 | 72
UCLA | 52 | 44 | 96

WSU F Dante Erikstrup, Senior: 19 pts, 2 reb, 3 TO, 9-16 FG, 1-4 FT
UCLA F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 11 pts, 6 reb, 3 blk, 4-8 FG, 1-3 3PT, 2-2 FT

Upcoming Schedule at #7 Arizona (13-2), vs. USC (13-4), at Washington (7-7)
Season Stats 16.6 PPG, 3.9 RPG, 2.5 APG, 1.2 SPG, 1.0 BPG, 1.1 TOPG, 2.1 FPG, 52 FG%, 52 3PT%, 90 FT%

[Caesar]

s/o to you for acknowledging that Keshawn is a victim, unlike Caesar smh

6'10" 250 lb athlete a victim to some 5'1" 120 lb chick. Yeah, okay.

Keshawn on fraud alert coming off that injury. Not getting all those fouls and suddenly not scoring.

[Soapy]

s/o to you for acknowledging that Keshawn is a victim, unlike Caesar smh

6'10" 250 lb athlete a victim to some 5'1" 120 lb chick. Yeah, okay.

Keshawn on fraud alert coming off that injury. Not getting all those fouls and suddenly not scoring.

https://www.tiktok.com/@kingfrazier87/v ... _device=pc

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 11
The slow drip of workers coming into Dro’s auto-repair shop on a Saturday morning before the sun had fully risen served as the backdrop as Dro was in his office, sitting across from Rommel who sipped on a cafe con leche that had cooled since he purchased it from the breakfast spot a few blocks down. The workers would come in, make eye contact with Dro through the glass window that separated his office from the ground floor and make themselves busy, preparing for what would surely be a hectic workday.

Inside the office, the conversation with Rommel wasn’t about the efficiency of their intake process or four-for-three tire specials. Instead, it was the annoying gnat in their ear that turned into a beast that needed to be dealt with, preferably swiftly.

"Obviously, ain’t no one going to back the motherfucker,” Dro said of his nephew Fat Stacks, "If he wasn’t my kin, I’d just smoke the little nigga but it ain’t that easy, you know that. Shit even if he wasn’t my kin, what we talking about here could fuck us for years to come.”

“I know you think you can wait out the little nigga but you can’t,” Rommel warned him. A dark-skinned man in his early forties, Rommel was a few years Dro’s junior but served as his most trusted advisor on account of his experience. He was jumped in as a pre-teen and spent most of his teenage years in and out of juvenile before landing a few stints in county. He was well respected and well feared and unlike Dro, didn’t mind spending the long hours pounding the pavement, the sort of ground work that needed to be done in order to garner respect and admiration for the ground soldiers. Even if Dro had any inclination on passing over the crown, it would have been to Rommel, not his brash, loud and abrasive nephew.

"Even if he is copping from the Woods,” Dro scoffed, "How long is that going to last him? I ain’t gonna lie, the fat motherfucker came up with a good idea, flooding the streets with that cut up shit but he just created a demand he can’t maintain. Them motherfuckers ain’t gonna keep re-upping with his ass, not at the rate that he needs.”

“Ain’t nobody mistake that boy for a genius,” Rommel interjected, "Yeah, his plan probably gonna go bust in a few months if we just wait but he’s been preparing for war, we haven’t. Who knows how long Blood’s been stacking his paper, filling his war chest getting ready for a drought? We gonna be tapped out in a couple of weeks and those motherfuckers that we’re saying right now ain’t gonna back him? They’ll back whoever got chili at some point and that can’t not be us, Blood.”

Rommel was right. Even prior to their Cold War, business wasn’t exactly booming for the East Side Bloods and once Fat Stacks informally split The Jungle in half, the territory wasn’t large enough to endure such a civil war, even before the bloodshed. Funds were low and morale would soon come after, something even Dro recognized.

“Alright,” the wheels in his mind began turning, "The fat bastard don’t really trust niggas like that so wherever he got his shit, it’s going to be somewhere over there. He wouldn’t put it at his crib or his girl, either. It’ll be somewhere, I don’t know, lowkey and shit but not too lowkey, you feel me, somewhere with enough traffic where motherfuckers not going to peep it right away.”

"I could scope it out,” Rommel offered.

…

The clatter of plates and boisterous laughter bounced off the brightly painted walls of the trendy brunch spot near Melrose. Sunlight streamed onto their patio table, making Keshawn squint slightly as Stefan launched into another one of his stories that typically bordered on fiction. Andrea giggled, leaning into Stefan, while Gloria beside Keshawn offered polite smiles, occasionally adding a comment. Keshawn picked at his avocado toast, only half-listening. The vibe was light, easy – the kind of relaxed Saturday morning he was still getting used to.

Then he saw them weaving through the crowded tables. Vic, dressed sharper than usual in a fitted polo and crisp jeans, had his arm slung casually around Jessica’s shoulders. Jessica, beaming, waved when she spotted Andrea.

Keshawn’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He glanced at Gloria, then at Stefan, whose storytelling faltered mid-sentence. Andrea waved back enthusiastically. “Oh, good! You guys made it!”

Vic slid into the empty chair next to Stefan, pulling Jessica down into the one beside him, effectively boxing Keshawn and Gloria in on their side of the small round table. Jessica leaned across Vic to greet Andrea with an air kiss.

“Hey! Sorry, we got stuck in traffic on La Brea,” Jessica chirped, her smile bright and encompassing the whole table.

“Jess was just dropping something off nearby, so I told her to pull up since you guys were here,” Andrea explained, glancing between Keshawn and Gloria.

“What up, y’all?” Vic greeted casually, giving Stefan a dap before nodding coolly at Keshawn and Gloria. He seemed completely unfazed, settling in as if crashing his cousin’s double date with his side piece was the most normal thing in the world.

Keshawn managed a tight nod back, the toast suddenly tasting like cardboard. It wasn’t just the cheating; it was the brazenness, the complete lack of shame. It felt… different. Wrong. He risked a look at Gloria, who was already flagging down a waitress to get menus for the newcomers, seemingly oblivious or indifferent to the undercurrent Keshawn felt crackling in the air.

“So,” Vic said, leaning back and surveying the table with a proprietary air, “what’s good here? This girl had me starving all day, following her from store to store.” Jessica giggled, leaning her head briefly on his shoulder, and Keshawn had to consciously force himself to look away, focusing instead on the condensation beading on his water glass.

The conversation flowed around Keshawn, a mix of Stefan’s exaggerated tales, Andrea’s laughter, and Gloria’s attempts to engage Vic and Jessica. They ordered food – pancakes, omelets, more avocado toast – and the clinking of silverware filled the momentary lulls. Keshawn ate mechanically, the discomfort churning in his gut alongside the overpriced brunch fare. Vic, oblivious or simply uncaring, flirted openly with Jessica, throwing casual touches her way that made Keshawn’s jaw clench.

Suddenly, Jessica pushed her half-eaten plate away, her bright smile faltering slightly. “Going to visit the lady’s room.” She looked pointedly at Andrea and Gloria. “You guys wanna come with?”

Andrea and Gloria immediately nodded as they slid out of the booth, the three women navigated their way through the tables towards the back of the restaurant.

"This bitch done went to the bathroom a thousand times today,” Vic joked as Stefan pulled out his wallet, “What y’all been on today?”

“Just chilling,” Stefan answered as he rose to his feet, taking a moment to balance himself as he had left his walking booth at home. He pulled out his wallet before looking over to Keshawn, “You got the next one, little nigga.”

The second Stefan was out of earshot, Keshawn leaned across the table, his voice low but intense. “Nigga, what the fuck are you doing, bro?”

Vic, who had been scrolling through his phone, looked up, an eyebrow raised in annoyance. “What you on, nigga?”

“This whole fucking shit you got going on,” Keshawn gestured vaguely towards the path the girls had taken. “I mean, I get it, alright? I’m sure long distance is pretty hard but it’s one thing to slide on something late at night at her dorm but like this, bro? In front of me? I’m cool with Angela too, nigga.”

Vic’s face hardened. He leaned forward, mirroring Keshawn’s posture, his voice dropping to a near whisper laced with aggression. “First off, watch your motherfucker tone nigga. Second, like you said, the bitch ain’t here, is she? She the one who bounced, went all the way across the country. For all I know, she out there in DC doing the same damn thing, probably got some Howard nigga licking her—”

“Come on, man,” Keshawn cut him off, shaking his head in disgust. “You know Ang ain’t like that. This shit you’re doing… it’s fucked up. I should have said something earlier and that’s on me but I’m saying it now as someone that cares about both of y’all.”

“What’s fucked up is you getting in my business,” Vic hissed, his eyes narrowed. “Worry about your own shit. Trying to play captain save-a-ho for a bitch who left me? You know that bitch for, what, a couple months nigga? She fucking batted her eyes at you on the low or something? You jealous, is that it? You can’t keep a bitch, I know that.” He spat the last word out.

“Stay out of it, Huxtable. You don’t know nothing about me and my bitch.” He leaned back, deliberately picking up his phone again, dismissing Keshawn entirely, “Niggas get smoked everyday for coming between a nigga and his bitch, nigga.”

[chosenone58]

That game against Orgeon was ass, but it looks like our guy is getting back into the swing of things.

Keshawn better keep his nose out of grown folks' business. Let Vic deal with his own shit.

[Soapy]

That game against Orgeon was ass, but it looks like our guy is getting back into the swing of things.

Keshawn better keep his nose out of grown folks' business. Let Vic deal with his own shit.

yeah, none of our shooters were hitting their shots and it got ugly quick, oregon went on like a 20-0 run from 15-14 or whatever the score was at the time.

We're not protecting Black woman, bro? Vic is also only like a year older