Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 16
Keshawn felt like he had just played a full game underwater, every breath fought for against the weight of exhilaration and fatigue. As he approached the media relations rep who bore an expression that screamed urgency, his legs threatened to buckle beneath him.

"Come on, Keshawn. I got you out of the on court interview but you have to show up for post game," she pleaded, following him into the locker room. The sound of the crowd on the other end of the tunnel could still be heard as they were buzzing from their victory over Utah—a comeback orchestrated by sheer determination and will.

Three minutes into the second half and trailing by thirteen points, Coach Cronin had deployed his small lineup led by Kobe at the four and Keshawn at the five, allowing them to switch and trap at will. Coach Cronin dialed up a full-court press for nearly the entirety of the second half, turning the double-digit deficit into a double-digit lead with Keshawn playing all but three minutes in the second half.

"Nah, I'm good," Keshawn replied hoarsely, shaking his head while wiping sweat drenching his brow with the back of a hand.

Stefan bounded up beside him — having played most of the second half himself as well — and shot Keshawn a knowing look framed by exhaustion but lit with mischief. "Man if you don’t get your ass out there! You wanna be that nigga, right? This is part of it."

“Part what? I’m not trying to be no star,” Keshawn muttered under his breath, “I just want to hoop.”

“It cost to be the boss,” Stefan pushed playfully yet pointedly.

Keshawn grunted, a sound of acquiescence more than agreement, and dragged himself toward the door, the media relations rep practically skipping ahead.

The press conference was a blur of bright lights and predictable questions, a familiar interrogation he endured with monosyllabic answers and a visible desire to be anywhere else. As the season had progressed and his playing time had increased, he’d been requested more and more often to answer different variations of the same questions so any excitement or nervousness experienced in his first press conference were fully worn out by now. He felt wrung out, like a towel twisted dry.

Later, the team bus, usually raucous after a win, hummed with a tired satisfaction as it navigated the downtown LA traffic, one of the added benefits of essentially having home games during the conference tournament as it was hosted in nearby Crypto.com Arena. They were headed to an Italian restaurant near the arena, tonight closed off just for them, the coaching staff, and a select group of boosters whose quiet influence was as palpable as the expensive cologne that seemed to be their uniform.

Keshawn found a seat at a long table, wedged between Kobe and Stefan, picking at a bread roll while Tommy was seated at a nearby smaller round table with the other walk-ons, redshirts and non-factors. He felt a heavy hand clap his shoulder and looked up. Coach Bronstein loomed over him, his expression unreadable, a familiar mix of sternness and something else Keshawn could never quite decipher.

“Boychick,” Bronstein said, his voice a low rumble. “Come with me. Some people want to say hello.”

He wasn’t in the mood for small talk with boosters, but the set of Bronstein’s jaw suggested it wasn’t a request. He scraped his chair back and followed his old coach, weaving through tables where laughter and conversation flowed easily.

Bronstein led him to a quieter corner of the restaurant, where three men in tailored suits stood by a window overlooking the city lights. He recognized them. Not their names, perhaps, but their faces, their aura of quiet power. These were the men from the meetings during the later stages of his recruitment, the architects of the financial package that had made UCLA an undeniable choice.

“Keshawn, I’m sure you remember these ugly faces,” Bronstein gestured towards them. “My old friends.”

One of the men, silver-haired with sharp blue eyes, extended a hand with a hearty laugh. “Mr. Chase. A pleasure to see you again. And what a performance tonight. Truly spectacular.”

Keshawn shook his hand, the grip firm and dry. “Thank you, sir.”

“What you guys have done this season has been great to watch,” another man, broader and with a gold watch glinting on his wrist, chimed in. "I don’t even have to beg my grandson to want to come to get the games anymore. They all love you, kid.”

The third man, younger than the other two but carrying the same air of authority, stepped forward. “Which is why we wanted to have a little chat. Our friend Alon here has been… advocating on your behalf.”

Keshawn glanced at Coach Bronstein, who met his gaze with that same inscrutable expression.

The silver-haired man continued, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more confidential. “Your initial agreement was, to be fair, based on potential. You’ve more than demonstrated that potential, Keshawn. You’ve actualized it. And in this new landscape, value needs to be reassessed, rewarded.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “We believe it’s time for an adjustment. A significant one.”

[Soapy]

Pac-12 Championship Game: March 15th, 2025 - Crypto.com Arena, Los Angeles, California
(27-7) #2 UCLA Bruins vs. Washington State Cougars (19-11)

---

UCLA | 47 | 39 | 86
WSU | 37 | 32 | 69

Starting Lineups
(So) Dylan Andrews - G - Isaiah Watts (So)
(Sr) Lazar Stefanovic - G - Marcus Wilson (Fr)
(Sr) Kobe Johnson - F - Cedric Coward (Sr)
(So) Eric Dailey Jr. - F - Dane Erikstrup (Sr)
(Jr) Tyler Bilodeau - C - Ethan Price (Sr)



G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 0 pts, 5 ast, 0-2 FG, 0-2 3PT
G Lazar Stefanovic, Senior: 5 pts, 3 reb, 2-5 FG, 1-2 3PT, 0-2 FT
F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 13 pts, 5 reb, 3 ast, 3-8 FG, 3-6 3PT, 4-4 FT
F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 9 pts, 2 reb, blk, 4-7 FG, 1-1 3PT
F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 22 pts, 7 reb, stl, 7-10 FG, 8-9 FT
F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 24 pts, 11 reb, 7 ast, 2 stl, 5 TO, 9-14 FG, 1-2 3PT, 5-5 FT
G Stefan Parker, Sophomore: 11 pts, reb, ast, stl, blk, 4-7 FG, 2-4 3PT, 1-2 FT

G Marcus Wilson, Freshman: 16 pts, 3 reb, 2 ast, 6-14 FG, 2-9 3PT, 2-2 FT
F Cedric Coward, Senior: 13 pts, 6 reb, 5 ast, 4-14 FG, 2-7 3PT, 3-4 FT
C Ethan Price, Senior: 8 pts, 11 reb, 2 stl,

Upcoming Schedule Selection Sunday
Season Stats 15.7 PPG, 4.9 RPG, 4.0 APG, 1.7 SPG, 0.9 BPG, 1.7 TOPG, 2.4 FPG, 51 FG%, 45 3PT%, 78 FT%

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 17
Andrea drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, the cheap plastic warm beneath her antsy touch, each tap a punctuation mark in the suffocating silence of the car. From the backseat, Gloria let out a slow, shaky breath.

"How long has it been now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if a louder tone might shatter the fragile tension holding them together.

Andrea glanced at the dashboard clock. "Almost an hour.”

But an hour, when every second was freighted with the weight of Jessica’s unseen ordeal, felt like a lifetime. Jessica had been adamant, her usual vibrant energy replaced by a brittle sort of resolve.

"I need to do this myself,”* she’d insisted, her chin trembling slightly despite the brave front.

So they waited, suspended in a limbo of parking lot heat and their own churning thoughts, the muted beige facade of the clinic offering no clues.

Andrea fiddled on her phone, flicking through Twitter, Instagram and Tik Tok before turning it off again. Nothing felt right. Gloria was quieter, her gaze fixed on the clinic’s unassuming double doors. They both jumped when one of those doors finally creaked open, a dark rectangle appearing in the sun-bleached wall.

Jessica stumbled out, not walked. Her shoulders were hunched, her head bowed, and even from this distance, they could see the wet glint of tears tracking down her cheeks, catching the afternoon sun.

"Oh, God," Gloria breathed, her hand flying to her mouth, already fumbling with her seatbelt.

Andrea killed the engine, her own heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. By the time Jessica reached the car, her face was a mess of smudged mascara and raw grief. She yanked open the back door and practically fell onto the seat beside Gloria, her body wracked with sobs that shook her small frame.

Gloria immediately wrapped her arms around Jessica, pulling her close, her own easy-going demeanor giving way to fierce protectiveness. "Hey, hey, it's okay, Jess. It's over now," she murmured, stroking Jessica's hair, her voice soft and soothing. "You did what you felt you had to do. You made the right decision for you, okay? We’re here. We’ve got you."

She rocked Jessica gently. Andrea watched them in the rearview mirror, her own eyes stinging with sympathy. She reached back, placing a hand on Jessica’s trembling knee, offering silent support.

Jessica’s sobs intensified for a moment, her words muffled against Gloria’s shoulder. Then, through the gasps and tears, a few coherent words broke free, stark and shocking in their clarity.

"I… I couldn't," Jessica choked out, pulling back slightly, her tear-filled eyes wide and swimming, meeting Gloria’s compassionate gaze. "I couldn't go through with it."

…

The air in the back room of the auto body shop was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes, cheap beer, and unwashed bodies. Dro sat on a work bench, a bottle of Hennessy cradled loosely in one hand, his face a mask of controlled fury. Across from him, Rommel leaned against a dented metal locker, arms crossed, his expression watchful. Two other soldiers, silent and grim-faced, flanked Dro, their presence a testament to the seriousness of the gathering.

“Peep the mission,” Dro began, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the grimy concrete floor, “this bitch ass nephew of mine’s little playdate is over with it. We solid on the lo’?”

Rommel nodded, his gaze steady. “Tacana Street. That little yellow house. It’s his, no doubt. Moving weight, got fiends lined up like it’s a goddamn soup kitchen.”

“And Stacks?” Dro’s eyes, cold and hard as polished obsidian, narrowed. “He been there?”

“Haven’t seen him personally,” Rommel admitted, “But I’ve seen one of his little niggas come through that spot.”

Dro took a slow swig from the bottle, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light filtering through a grimy, barred window. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "My nephew always wanted to play gangsta.”

He looked directly at Rommel. “That spot on Tacana. You know what to do.”

Rommel’s eyes flickered with understanding. A green light. No need for explicit instructions. The message was clear. Shut it down. Permanently. And if Fat Stacks happened to be there… well, that was Fat Stacks’ problem. Collateral damage was just part of the cost of doing business, especially when disrespect was involved.

“Consider it handled, Blood,” Rommel said, his voice devoid of emotion. He pushed himself off the locker, a subtle shift in his posture indicating his readiness. The other two soldiers straightened, their faces impassive, awaiting orders.

“No need to rush this,” Dro commanded, perhaps another part of him — the uncle part — wanting to give Fat Stacks another chance at ending this amicably, "Give it a couple of days, wait until y’all are ready with everything. I want this to be clean so make sure we doing everything by the book, no way it can be traced back to us by Johnny. I can’t win a war if all my soldiers are locked up.”

…

The rhythmic snip-snip-snip of shears and the warm, fragrant cloud of hair products enveloped Angela as she sat in the plush salon chair. Paige, perched on a stool beside her, chattered excitedly with the stylist, a flamboyant woman named Chardonnay who had bright pink braids woven with tinsel.

“These niggas gonna fall out when they see me,” Paige beamed, flipping her own freshly retouched silk press over her shoulder. “I told you Ang! Chardonnay is about to get your crown right for this soca fete. You can’t pop up looking like you just rolled out of class.”

Angela managed a small, hesitant smile. “I don’t know, girl. I usually just do a wash-and-go, maybe some twists.” She eyed the array of combs, gels, and shimmering sprays on Chardonnay’s station with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. The salon itself was a whirlwind of feminine energy, loud laughter, and the undeniable scent of impending glamour—a world away from her usual campus library haunts or the grassroots community meetings she frequented.

“Wash-and-go is cute for class, boo,” Paige said, waving a dismissive hand adorned with perfectly manicured acrylics. “But for whining your waist and stunting on these bitches? Nah. We need length, we need bounce, we need a little razzle dazzle.”

Chardonnay, who had been sectioning Angela’s thick, natural hair with practiced ease, chuckled. “Paige ain’t never lied. We gonna give you some passion twists, honey. Long ones. Make ‘em all look when you walk in.”

Angela bit her lip. Long passion twists? It sounded… involved. Expensive. And definitely not her usual low-maintenance style. But a part of her, a part she rarely acknowledged, was intrigued. Paige had been a force of nature since they’d become friends, sweeping Angela into a social life that was shinier, louder, and undeniably more fun than what she was used to. And the soca party, a big event hosted by the Caribbean Students Association near the end of the semester, was notoriously the best party of the year.

“Alright,” Angela conceded, a small thrill bubbling up despite her reservations. “But not too long, okay? And nothing too… extra.”

Paige and Chardonnay exchanged a knowing glance over Angela’s head. “Oh, we’ll keep it classy-extra, don’t you worry,” Chardonnay winked, picking up a pack of gleaming Marley hair.

As Chardonnay began meticulously twisting the extensions into her hair, Angela slowly started to relax. The rhythmic pulling and parting was almost meditative. Paige kept up a lively commentary, scrolling through Instagram for nail inspiration and recounting hilarious stories from previous parties.

Hours later, Angela stared at her reflection, genuinely surprised. The twists cascaded past her shoulders, sleek and uniform, framing her face in a way that made her cheekbones look sharper, her eyes bigger. It wasn't her, not exactly, but it was… a stunning version of her.

“Girl, you look good,” Paige breathed, her eyes wide with approval. “See? What did I tell you?”

A slow smile spread across Angela’s face. “Okay, okay, I admit it. This is… nice.” She touched one of the twists, marveling at the transformation.

“Nice? Honey, this is just the beginning!” Paige hopped off her stool. “Now, let’s talk about this outfit for Saturday, and then we hit the nail spot. My girl Kimmy does the best shaping in DC, and we are getting you ready from head to toe.”

Angela found herself being swept along, a willing participant in Paige’s glam offensive. As they left the salon, the late afternoon sun hitting her newly adorned hair, she felt a lightness she hadn’t anticipated. Maybe, just maybe, a little razzle dazzle wasn’t so bad after all. The thought of Vic seeing her like this flickered through her mind, a complicated little spark. He was used to her natural hair, her simple studs. This… this was different. But then again, as she’d told Paige, things between them felt different anyway. Perhaps a different Angela was exactly what was needed.

…

Quincy and Debra approached the graffitied side door of a boarded-up laundromat. This was one of Fat Stacks’ spot, a grimy little hole-in-the-wall where he slung his wares. Quincy gave the door three sharp raps, a familiar code.

A slit in the door slid open, revealing a pair of bloodshot, suspicious eyes. “Who that?” a gravelly voice rasped.

“Q and Deb,” Quincy said, his voice smooth, easy.

The slit closed, and a series of locks clicked and scraped before the door creaked inward. Peanut smirked when he saw Debra, having long done business with her whose currency was typically her body.

“You looking good these days, Miss Lady,” Peanut said, his gaze lingering on Debra in a way that made Quincy’s jaw tightened, “The usual? My car around the way.”

“Nah, Peanut, my man,” Quincy said, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of steel. “We got paper.” He patted his pocket, a small, confident gesture.

Peanut’s eyes narrowed, flickering from Quincy to Debra and back again. He scoffed, a dry, rattling sound. "Who the fuck y’all two crackheads robbed?”

“Just serve us, man,” Quincy said, his voice losing some of its smoothness, a harder edge creeping in. “We ain’t got all day to stand here and chop it up with your ugly ass.”

For a moment, Peanut looked like he might push it, his ego pricked. But then his gaze dropped to Quincy’s pocket, and the businessman in him took over. Money was money, even if it came with a side of unexpected attitude. He grumbled under his breath but turned, disappearing into the gloom of the back room.

Debra let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She glanced at Quincy, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading through her. No one had stood up for her like that in… well, she couldn’t remember when. Not since her husband, before everything went to shit. It wasn’t much, just a few words in a filthy doorway, but it felt like something. A tiny, almost forgotten spark of her femininity, of her worth beyond what she could offer physically, flickered back to life.

Peanut returned, thrusting two small, clear baggies into Quincy’s hand. Quincy palmed the dope, handing Peanut a wad of crumpled bills. “Pleasure doing business with you, as always, Peanut.”

They stepped back out into the fading sunlight, the door slamming shut behind them with a definitive thud. Debra walked beside Quincy, the usual slump in her shoulders a little less pronounced. She didn’t say anything, but she felt different. Lighter, almost. Quincy had drawn a line, however small, and for the first time in a long time, she hadn’t felt completely exposed, completely alone in her degradation. He’d claimed her, in a way, and in the twisted world they inhabited, that meant something. It meant she wasn't just a commodity to be used and discarded. At least, not by everyone. Not anymore.

…

The muted glow of Keshawn’s desk lamp was the only light source besides the persistent, rhythmic pulse of his phone screen on the nightstand. Gloria lay curled on her side, facing away from him, her back rising and falling in the uneven rhythm of troubled sleep. She’d shown up an hour ago, tear-streaked and monosyllabic, collapsing onto his bed without explanation, only mumbling something about needing to not be alone. Keshawn, weary from the conference tournament and the draining week that followed, had simply pulled the covers over her and climbed in beside her, respecting her silence.

His phone buzzed again, a short, sharp vibration against the wood. He’d been getting texts all evening, short, insistent messages. He ignored this one, like he’d ignored the last few. He glanced at Gloria. Her breathing seemed to have evened out, deepening into a more restful cadence. He waited another ten minutes, the silence of the room broken only by the distant hum of campus life and Gloria’s soft breaths.

Carefully, Keshawn eased himself out of bed, his movements slow and deliberate. He padded silently across the small room, grabbing his keys and wallet from the desk. He slipped his phone into his pocket, the screen briefly illuminating his face before he extinguished it.

The drive to Malibu was quicker than usual at this late hour, the Pacific Coast Highway a ribbon of darkness edged by the faint shimmer of the ocean. He pulled up to a sleek, modern apartment complex nestled into the hillside, the kind of place where the monthly rent was more than his parents’ rent.

He found the apartment easily and knocked, a quiet, hesitant tap. The door opened almost immediately, revealing Alexis. She was wearing a silk robe, her dark hair artfully tousled, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her eyes, even in the dim hallway light, sparkled with an intensity that always seemed to pull him in.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” she stepped back, holding the door wider.

He stepped inside, the scent of expensive candles and something subtly floral enveloping him. The apartment was minimalist but luxurious, all clean lines and panoramic ocean views, even at night. It was a world away from his cramped dorm room, a world away from the weight of unspoken problems.

Alexis closed the door, the sound decisive. She turned to him, her gaze direct. "You was with one of your little girlfriends or something?”

Keshawn let out a dry chuckle, "Or something.”

[Caesar]

Not Vic being a broke baby daddy. See what happen when you cheat

[Soapy]

Not Vic being a broke baby daddy. See what happen when you cheat

Keshawn got told to mind his bidness when he tried to warn him smh

[Soapy]

Stay Dangerous - Episode 18
"You got this, baby," Loraine muttered, her hand a warm, reassuring weight on Keshawn’s forearm, a familiar anchor in the pre-game storm brewing within the Verizon Center’s family and friends lounge. The air, thick with the scent of popcorn and nervous anticipation, vibrated with the low hum of conversations – hushed prayers from anxious parents, boisterous predictions from siblings, and the occasional, sharp laugh cutting through the tension.

Keshawn managed a tight smile, his gaze sweeping over the room filled with other players’ families. Banners proclaiming “UCLA Bruins – Road to the Final Four” hung from temporary stanchions, their bold blue and gold a stark contrast to the muted corporate grey of the suite. "Yeah, we should be good.”

“Y’all better be,” Simone chimed in, playfully bumping his hip with hers. She wore a brand-new UCLA hoodie, several sizes too big, clearly a fresh purchase from the arena store. “You know Dad’s already got the TV set up, probably pacing a hole in the carpet back home.”

Keshawn chuckled, a genuine sound this time. His father, Elijah was tied down by a job that no longer offered the flexibility for a cross-country trip on short notice. The unspoken weight of his father's recent struggles and his own burgeoning success sometimes felt like an invisible barrier between them.

“He’s always with you, baby,” Loraine said, squeezing his arm again before releasing it. “And he’ll be watching every second. Now, you just focus on what you gotta do. We’re so proud of you.”

“Yeah, what she said,” Simone added, her grin infectious.

Keshawn nodded, feeling a swell of gratitude for their unwavering support. He was about to respond when the door to the lounge opened again, and two figures stepped inside, momentarily silhouetted against the brighter light of the corridor. As they moved further into the room, Keshawn’s breath hitched.

It was Angela. And she looked… different.

Her usual magnificent afro, a proud halo Keshawn had learned to admire, was styled differently today. It was still full and glorious, but intricately braided on one side, the braids adorned with tiny gold cuffs that caught the light. She wore a shorter than usual crop top, paired with dark jeans and stylish boots. It wasn't a drastic transformation, but it was enough to make Keshawn’s eyes widen. There was a new level of poise about her, an almost regal air that complemented her usual fiery spirit. Beside her, her friend Paige, whom Keshawn had never met before, offered a friendly smile.

“Hey, y’all,” Angela said, her voice smooth and warm as she approached their little family huddle. Her eyes met Keshawn’s, and a small, knowing smile played on her lips. “This is my friend, Paige.”

“Ange! It’s so good to see you girl! Nice to meet you, Paige,” Loraine greeted them warmly, pulling Angela into a brief hug, then Paige. Simone echoed the sentiment with enthusiastic hellos.

Keshawn found his voice, though it felt a little caught in his throat. “Appreciate y’all for coming.” He couldn’t help but stare a moment longer than strictly polite, taking in the subtle shift in her aura. She seemed more self-assured, if that was even possible for someone as inherently confident as Angela.

“I’m sure Vic would have loved to see you,” Angela looked around the mostly empty arena, taking in the surroundings, “From Leimert Park to this, huh?”

Then, like a cold splash of water, the image of Jessica, her coy smile and flirty laughter, flashed in his mind. The memory of Vic’s arm slung casually around Jessica’s shoulder at that party, the easy intimacy between them, churned Keshawn’s stomach. Vic wasn’t here, their friendship fractured, but Angela was, radiant and unsuspecting. The guilt, a familiar and unwelcome companion these past few weeks, tightened its grip around Keshawn’s chest. He knew. He knew Vic was playing her, and now that he was actually seeing Angela for the first time in months, the weight of that unspoken secret pressed down on him, making him feel like the worst kind of fraud. He forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look as strained as it felt.

“Yeah,” he forced out his rehearsed lie, “Sucks he had to work.”

Angela’s smile wavered slightly, a flicker of something Keshawn couldn’t quite decipher – perhaps a touch of disappointment that Vic wasn’t there, or maybe just taking in the magnitude of the moment for him. “He’s missing out, then. But he’s cheering you on from home, I know it.”

“Yeah,” Keshawn repeated, the word feeling hollow. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, I, uh, gotta get back with the team. Warm-ups are gonna start soon.”

“Go get ‘em, baby!” Loraine said as Simone gave him another quick hug.

“Do your thing, Keshawn!” Paige offered with a bright smile.

Angela just nodded, her gaze intense.

He gave a general nod to all of them, a tight knot of anxiety and guilt still lodged in his chest, and turned, heading for the exit. The brief encounter had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit and certainly not what he needed before the biggest game of his basketball career.

Back in the cacophony of the team’s pre-game preparations, the nervous energy was a familiar comfort. Music blared from a speaker in the corner, a mix of drill and trap music. Teammates were stretching, getting taped, a low hum of focused chatter filling the space. Keshawn started his own routine, trying to shake off the unease from the lounge.

“Hey, little homie,” Stefan sidled up to him, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He leaned in, nodding his head back towards the direction Keshawn had just come from. “Respectfully, my nigga, who that with the braids? That ain’t like your cousin or something, right?”

Keshawn shook his head, a grimace briefly touching his face as he thought of Vic. “That’s Vic’s girl, man. Angela.” He paused, the words tasting bitter. “His real girl.”

Stefan’s eyes widened slightly, then he let out a low whistle, leaning back as if hit by a revelation. “Hold up. That’s her[i/]? And he still out here in these streets movin’ how he movin’?”

He shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Man, that’s that type of greed they be talkin’ ‘bout in the Bible, ain’t it?”

Keshawn just offered a noncommittal shrug, not wanting to fuel that particular fire or get deeper into Vic’s messy situation. “Something like that.” He turned his attention back to his stretches, the image of Angela’s trusting face and Stefan’s blunt assessment swirling in his mind. He needed to focus. He couldn't let Vic's drama, or his own complicated feelings about it, derail him now.

As Keshawn disappeared back into the team’s inner sanctum, Loraine steered the group towards the designated UCLA family section. The Verizon Center was already filling up, a sea of blue and gold interspersed with the colors of the opposing team’s black and yellow. The noise level was steadily rising and the rhythmic squeak of sneakers from the court below where players were already going through early warm-up drills.

“Wow, these are good seats,” Simone breathed, her eyes wide as they settled into their spots, a few rows up from the court, offering a prime view of the unfolding action.

Paige, her head swiveling to take in the sheer scale of the arena and the growing crowd, leaned closer to Angela, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay, girl, you held out on me. Why didn’t you tell me Keshawn was that… fine[i/]?” She fanned herself dramatically with her hand. “I would’ve put that shit on, bitch.”

Angela felt a blush creep up her neck. “Paige, stop,” she hissed, though a small smile played on her lips. “I don’t even look at Ke like that. He’s… he’s like a little brother.”

Paige raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her gaze flicking towards the court where Keshawn, now in his warm-up gear, was working on his jump shot. “Little brother, huh? Well, all I’m saying is, with a ‘little brother’ looking like that…” She paused, a teasing glint in her eye. “You sure you picked the right one out the family, sis?”

Angela rolled her eyes, refusing to dignify the comment with a direct answer. “We’re here to support my little brother, not add another boy to your roster.”

---

2025 March Madness First Round: March 21st, 2025 - Verizon Center, Washington D.C.
(14-18) #16 UMBC Retrievers at #1 UCLA Bruins (29-7)

---

UMBC | 33 | 41 | 74
UCLA | 42 | 50 | 92

Starting Lineups
(Jr) Matteo Picarelli - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(Sr) Colton Lawrence - G - Lazar Stefanovic (Sr)
(Sr) Yaw Obeng-Mensah - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) Tra'von Fagan - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Jarvis Doles - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)



F Yaw Obeng-Mensah, Senior: 14 pts, 8 reb, 4 ast, 5-10 FG, 1-5 3PT, 3-4 FT
F Tra'von Fagan, Senior: 14 pts, 5 reb, 3 stl, 6-12 FG, 2-2 3PT
C Jarvis Doles, Senior: 11 pts, 4 reb, 2 stl, 5-10 FG, 1-1 FT

G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 4 pts, 3 reb, 3 as, 3 stl, 2-6 FG, 0-3 3PT
G Lauzar Stefanovic, Senior: 11 pts, 4 reb, 2 stl, 4-12 FG, 3-9 3PT
F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 9 pts, 5 reb, 4 ast, 3-4 FG, 1-2 3PT, 2-2 FT
F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 13 pts, 6 reb, blk, 4-8 FG, 4-5 FT
F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 20 pts, 6 reb, 8-10 FG, 4-5 FT
F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 23 pts, 9 reb, 7 ast, 5 stl, 7 to, 8-12 FG, 1-1 3PT, 6-9 FT
G Stefan Parker, Sophomore: 7 pts, stl, 2-7 FG, 2-6 3PT

Upcoming Schedule March Madness Second Round vs. #8 Ole Miss (21-10)
Season Stats 16.0 PPG, 5.0 RPG, 4.1 APG, 1.9 SPG, 0.8 BPG, 1.9 TOPG, 2.4 FPG, 52 FG%, 47 3PT%, 77 FT%

[Soapy]

2025 March Madness Second Round: March 23rd, 2025 - Legacy Arena, Birmingham, Alabama
(21-11) #8 Ole Miss Rebels at #1 UCLA Bruins (30-7)

---

MISS | 34 | 36 | 70
UCLA | 53 | 43 | 96

Starting Lineups
(Sr) Sean Pedulla - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(Sr) Matthew Murrell - G - Lazar Stefanovic (Sr)
(Sr) Dre Davis - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Jr) Malik Dia - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Mikeal Brown-Jones - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)



G Matthew Murrell, Senior: 21 pts, 5 reb, 8-12 FG, 4-5 3PT, 1-2 FT
F Malik Dia, Junior: 6 pts, 4 reb, 2 ast, 2-8 FG, 0-3 3PT, 2-3 FT
C Mikeal Brown-Jones, Senior: 11 pts, 3 reb, 5-9 FG, 1-1 FT

G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 10 pts, 3 ast, 3-7 FG, 2-6 3PT, 2-4 FT
G Lauzar Stefanovic, Senior: 11 pts, reb, ast, 4-8 FG, 3-6 3PT
F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 18 pts, blk, 7-15 FG, 4-8 3PT
F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 4 pts, 4 reb, 2-2 FG
F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 10 pts, 8 reb, 3 ast, 5-5 FG
F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 19 pts, 7 reb, 11 ast, blk, to, 6-7 FG, 1-1 3PT, 6-8 FT
C William Kyle, Junior: 9 pts, 14 reb, 2 blk, 4-4 FG, 1-2 FT
G Stefan Parker, Sophomore: 9 pts, 2 ast, blk, 3-6 FG, 3-6 3PT

Upcoming Schedule March Madness Sweet Sixteen vs. #4 Miami (25-9)
Season Stats 16.1 PPG, 5.1 RPG, 4.3 APG, 1.8 SPG, 0.8 BPG, 1.9 TOPG, 2.3 FPG, 53 FG%, 48 3PT%, 77 FT%

[chosenone58]

It's tourney time!

Chase trying to lead the Bruins to the promised land

[Soapy]

It's tourney time!

Chase trying to lead the Bruins to the promised land

i did not see us having this much success in the tournament after those early conference loses, might need to rewrite my outline for the next chapter

[Soapy]

2025 March Madness Sweet Sixteen: March 28th, 2025 - Spectrum Center, Charlotte, North Carolina
(25-10) #4 Miami Hurricanes at #1 UCLA Bruins (31-7)

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MIA | 45 | 31 | 7 | 83
UCLA | 41 | 45 | 16 | 92

Starting Lineups
(Jr) Nijel Pack - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(Fr) Jalil Bethea - G - Lazar Stefanovic (Sr)
(Jr) Matthew Cleveland - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) Lynn Kidd - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Brandon Johnson - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)



F Matthew Cleveland, Junior: 20 pts, 6 reb, 2 ast, 9-18 FG, 2-8 3PT
F Lynn Kidd, Senior: 13 pts, 12 reb, 3 ast, 5-11 FG, 0-3 3PT, 3-3 FT
C Brandon Johnson, Senior: 20 pts, 8 reb, 3 ast, 2 stl, 8-12 FG, 3-5 FT

G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 4 pts, 2 reb, 3 ast, 0-2 FG, 0-2 3PT
G Lauzar Stefanovic, Senior: 17 pts, 5 reb, 6-27 FG, 5-16 3PT
F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 18 pts, 7 reb, 3 ast, 7-19 FG, 4-12 3PT
F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 2 pts, reb, 1-2 FG, 0-1 3PT
F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 4 pts, 6 reb, 3 ast, 2-4 FG
F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 31 pts, 20 reb, 10 ast, 8 stl, 12-19 FG, 7-9 FT
G Stefan Parker, Sophomore: 10 pts, 2 ast, 2 blk, 3-8 FG, 3-6 3PT, 1-2 FT

Upcoming Schedule March Madness Elite Eight vs. #2 Oregon (24-5)
Season Stats 16.6 PPG, 5.6 RPG, 4.5 APG, 2.0 SPG, 0.8 BPG, 1.9 TOPG, 2.3 FPG, 53 FG%, 47 3PT%, 77 FT%