Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Just caught back up with this. Vic messy as hell. That nuclear bomb is still ticking

https://x.com/Pound4our4Pound/status/19 ... 8353761682

Angela eating more coochie than Vic and they both talking about its complicated.

Keshawn got KD practicing post moves in the club written all over him because he in love with Esther.

Maybe she the one getting ate

You would remember that her name is actually Esther and she just goes by Nadia lmao

inshallah

Love to see Keshawn getting star-struck by Flagg

It’s really not sinking in for him yet, is it?

Also: poor Angela. Internalized homophobia is a hell of a drug. We root for our questioning queen though. Especially with Vic being a fuckboy

From 3-star recruit 24 months ago to rising up the recruiting rankings, committing to Howard, flipping to UCLA late, not planning to play yet alone be a major component of a team that makes a natty run. been a crazy past 2-3 years for our boy

How is Vic a fuckboy but Angela is a questioning queen

Vic was questioning what Jessica was sitting on and had to find out

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 8
Keshawn counted the ceiling tiles for the third time while the man in the expensive suit droned on about "market penetration" and "brand synergy." Twenty-four tiles. Same as the last two times he'd counted.

"What we offer is a boutique experience," the agent—was his name Brian? Brandon?—continued, sliding another glossy folder across the conference table. "We don't have the client list of CAA or Klutch, but that means more personalized attention for you, Keshawn."

Keshawn nodded mechanically, feeling his father's eyes on him from across the table. Elijah sat with perfect posture, asking all the right questions about previous contract negotiations and endorsement strategies. His mother Loraine was equally engaged, her notebook filled with careful notes, occasionally squeezing Keshawn's knee under the table when his attention visibly drifted.

"As I was saying," the agent continued, "our projections have you going fifth, possibly third if Philly trades out. You killed the Combine and once teams get to see you up close and personal at these private workouts, it might you or Flagg by draft night."

Keshawn suppressed a yawn. He'd heard this same speech three times already this week from agencies with fancier offices and bigger client rosters. The words blurred together, an endless stream of promises and projections that all led to the same impossible choice: stay at UCLA with a guaranteed $2 million NIL deal or leap into the NBA as a lottery pick.

"Keshawn?" His mother's voice cut through his fog. "Mr. Daniels asked you a question."

Daniels. That was his name.

"Sorry," Keshawn straightened in his chair. "Could you repeat that?"

The agent smiled tightly. "I was asking about your timeline. The deadline to withdraw from the draft is in ten days. Have you made any decisions yet?"

"I'm still weighing my options," Keshawn replied automatically, the same non-answer he'd been giving everyone from Coach Cronin to the reporters he spoke to in Chicago during the Combine.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Normally, he'd ignore it during a meeting like this, but anything was better than another slide about "athlete empowerment" and "legacy building."

"Excuse me," he said, standing abruptly. "I need to use the restroom."

Without waiting for a response, Keshawn strode from the conference room, feeling his father's disapproving gaze follow him out. The hallway was mercifully quiet, the temperature not as cold.

In the bathroom, Keshawn leaned against the sink, finally checking his phone. A text from Nadia: You surviving?

A smile tugged at his lips as he typed back: Barely. Same shit, different PowerPoint. Snuck away to the bathroom for a break.

As he got ready to steer the conversation elsewhere, his fingers hovering over the letters in his phone, his phone rang. It was Nadia, FaceTime.

"Nice looking bathroom,” Nadia teased, appearing on Keshawn’s phone screen with a relaxed shirt and a baby blue scrunch that held her hair up.

"I guess that’s where our four percent goes towards,” Keshawn responded as he tried to make out where Nadia was from her background. It was too bright to be her dorm yet too dim to be the library or student center.

"That’s good usage,” Nadia nodded sarcastically, "Not like our schools are broken down and kids are going to school hungry or anything.”

"Who cares about that, right?” Keshawn joked, “What you got going?”

"Tamara got us going somewhere,” she rolled her eyes, "Who knows with her? Just waiting on her now, about to head out soon.”

Keshawn ignored the temptation to press further. Intentional or not, Nadia’s whereabouts and goings-on when she wasn’t with Keshawn were a mystery to him. Unlike other girls, like Gloria or Alexis, that he could just scroll through their Instagram stories or their friends, Nadia was a social media ghost when it came to things like that.

"Can’t be worse than this,” Keshawn offered, walking out of the bathroom and into the hallway, taking a seat on a nearby couch.

"Poor Keshawn,” Nadia mimicked playing a small violin, "Having to sit around while listening to people tell him how much money he’s going to make.”

"I know Ms. Anti Capitalist ain’t talking,” Keshawn countered, leaning back against the couch, "There’s more to life than money, right?”

"Fair enough,” Nadia shrugged, "You got me there."

"I don’t know,” Keshawn broke through the brief silence, "I feel like the decision should be easy by now but it’s not so that’s a sign, right?”

"A sign?” Nadia leaned in.

"To come back,” Keshawn sighed, "I shouldn’t, right? Like, the whole point of me coming back was to go top five and now I might just do that and I still kind of want to come back?”

"So then what would you come back for?”

The question, as simple as it was, stumped Keshawn. He hadn’t thought about it, not really. On the surface, there was the $2 million NIL deal which paled in comparison to the guaranteed NBA salary he’d be walking into as a top ten, potentially top five pick, so that wasn’t it. A championship? He had already done that. A Naismith? A long shot.

The truth of the matter was, as Keshawn pondered his answer with Nadia’s piercing green eyes looking back at him, that it wasn’t about coming back to UCLA as much as it was about not going to the NBA. While he had grown into his body physically, his mind in many ways hadn’t. He was often still the tall, lanky kid at Thornwood Prep that hung in the back of the class, in the back of his friend group. He never thought about playing in the NBA, barely gave much thought to playing college basketball, not a high level. He’d take a scholarship if one was offered to him to a college he — no, his father — would want him to attend anyway and he’d graduate, get a real job and maybe one day run the family business.

The last thirty-six months had thrown that plan to the wind, starting with his parents’ incarceration. It seemed perverse and wrong that through his struggles, through his parents struggles, that the end result would be a reward, not a punishment. Downgrading from Baldwin Hills to Baldwin Village made sense. It was hard but it made sense, it computed in Keshawn’s mind. Going from a private prep school like Thornwood to being thrown into the jungle of Hamilton High was difficult but it made sense. Even making it to UCLA, the modest NIL package at first, he could cope with that being his reality. The NIL package getting bigger and bigger, he could cope with that, he attributed that to his play and coach Bronstein’s shrewd tactics. But the NBA? Generational wealth? The fame that would come with it?

As he stared at Nadia, still waiting for an answer, he knew he now had his.

…

"We might crack top fifty by next week!" Lamont slammed his phone down on the table, rattling the water glasses.

Kandi grabbed his phone, her eyes widening as she saw the chart position. "Seventy-seven is pretty strong for a record with no marketing really.”

"I thought you didn’t care about Billboard," Gayle quipped towards Lamont.

"That’s just some shit you say when you not on that motherfucker,” Lamont’s laughter filled the Los Angeles restaurant as they sat in the corner booth. Lamont had insisted on taking them to Catch LA for lunch—"real industry shit," he'd called it—but Kandi had assumed it was just another one of his premature celebrations.

"I told y'all this would happen," Lamont said, reaching for his champagne glass, "The record was fire before but once you hopped on that motherfucker, we cooking with chicken grease now.”

Kandi took a sip of her champagne, letting the bubbles dance on her tongue. "I’m not gonna front, you did call it.”

"This is just the beginning," Lamont leaned forward. "We got radio spinning it heavy now, the streams are climbing every day.”

Lamont signaled the waiter for another bottle, his energy practically vibrating through the booth. "Listen, we need to capitalize on this momentum. Strike while the iron is hot. I'm talking music video, and a big one at that. You ain’t knocking on the door no more, Gigi, you kicking through that motherfucker with some real pressure behind you too.”

…

The tinted windows of Stacks' Escalade turned the late afternoon sun into a dim glow as he reclined in the driver's seat, one hand draped over the steering wheel. Peanut and Benji flanked him in the front and passenger seats as they debated the fallout from Keon's death at the prison.

"That was some real next level shit," Peanut said, nodding slowly.

"For real," Benji agreed. "Nobody expecting that move. They probably gonna start a whole war with the Woods inside and that’s a losing proposition, especially without Trey’s people.”

Stacks remained silent, eyes scanning the block from behind his dark sunglasses. They were parked just off Crenshaw, far enough from Dro's territory to breathe easy, but close enough to move quickly when needed.

A skinny kid in an oversized white tee approached the car, his head on a swivel. Benji straightened, hand drifting toward his waistband, but Stacks gave a slight nod.

"He with us.”

The kid sidled up to Stacks' window, leaning down to speak through the narrow opening.

"Yo, I got that info you wanted," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Rommel staying at his baby mama Shanice's spot. Been there since yesterday."

Stacks' expression remained unchanged. "You sure?"

"Positive. My cousin work at the liquor store on the corner. Seen him coming and going twice now."

"Where Dro at?"

The kid shook his head. "Nobody seen him. Word is he went to Vegas to cool off after what happened to Keon."

Stacks pulled out a thick roll of bills, peeled off some twenties, and passed them through the window. "Good looking out. Let me know when Dro pop up.”

The kid pocketed the money with practiced speed and melted back into the afternoon crowd.

"Shanice stays deep as fuck," Benji said once the runner was gone. "Like six blocks into Dro’s shit. We roll up there, we gotta go through all their lookouts."

"And even if we touch Rommel," Peanut added, "getting back out gonna be a problem. They'll lock that shit down as soon as they hear shots."

Stacks tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, his mind calculating angles, risks, possibilities.

"I got an idea," he said finally.

…

The ride home was quiet, Elijah's eyes fixed on the road ahead while Loraine flipped through her notes. Keshawn stared out the window, watching Los Angeles blur past them. The conversation with Nadia still echoed in his mind, crystallizing something that had been forming for weeks.

"That wasn't our strongest meeting," Loraine finally said, breaking the silence. "But they made some good points about personalized attention."

Elijah nodded. "The bigger agencies have more connections, but sometimes you get lost in the shuffle."

Keshawn barely registered their words. The city outside felt different somehow—like he was seeing it through new eyes, already more distant, already changed. The certainty settled over him like a familiar weight, the same feeling he'd had the night he'd impulsively announced his commitment to Howard on Twitter. Everyone had been shocked then—his parents, his coaches, even himself. But it had felt right.

This felt right too.

He pulled out his phone, thumbs hovering over the screen. No drafts, no consultation, no second-guessing. Just like before. His parents continued their discussion in the front seat, unaware of the decision solidifying with each tap of his fingers.

For a moment, he paused, the weight of what he was about to do pressing on him. Then he hit tweet and set the phone down beside him, screen darkening as it locked.

The pressure that had been building in his chest for months suddenly lifted. It was done. No going back now.

"What's for dinner tonight?" he asked, his voice lighter than it had been in weeks.

Loraine turned in her seat, eyebrows raised at the sudden change in topic. "Pasta? The one you like with chicken and broccoli?”

"Sounds good," Keshawn smiled, feeling like a kid again, letting his parents take care of him for one more evening before everything changed. Tomorrow, there would be calls, meetings, preparations. Tonight, he was just their son.

His phone began vibrating beside him, notifications flooding in. He ignored it, watching his father's eyes flick to the rearview mirror.

"You okay back there?" Elijah asked, noticing the sudden shift.

"Yeah," Keshawn nodded, genuinely meaning it. "I'm good. Really good."

The car turned onto their street, the familiar houses coming into view. Keshawn felt a strange mix of nostalgia and anticipation. One chapter ending, another beginning. The decision had been made, and now all that remained was to live with it—to become the man his talent demanded he be.

[Caesar]

As he stared at Nadia, still waiting for an answer, he knew he now had his.

Gonna be crazy when Vic get dropped because his brother facilitated that hit.

[Soapy]

As he stared at Nadia, still waiting for an answer, he knew he now had his.

Gonna be crazy when Vic get dropped because his brother facilitated that hit.

Vic ain't affiliated, that would be out of pocket. Keon was, fair game.

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 9
Angela pushed her now congealing eggs around her plate, the once quiet diner slowly raising into a consistent tone of background noise. Outside, D.C was already sweltering, the summer heat pressing against the windows like an unwelcome guest.

"You're seriously thinking of turning it down?" Paige's voice cut through Angela's thoughts, sharp with disbelief. "This was everything you wanted, everything you were looking for.”

Angela set her fork down, meeting Paige's eyes across the booth. "I just don't think I can go back there right now. Everything in L.A. feels...”

Paige reached across the table, her fingers brushing Angela's. "I know losing her was hard, but isn't that all the more reason to go? Get closure, clean out the house, make peace with it all?"

Angela pulled her hand away, wrapping it around her coffee mug instead. The ceramic was cool against her palm, grounding her when everything else felt like shifting sand. How could she explain that Los Angeles wasn't just haunted by her mother's ghost but by the remains of who Angela used to be—a girl who thought she knew exactly what she wanted, who she was, who she loved?

"It's more complicated than that," Angela said finally.

"Complicated how?" Paige leaned forward, her expression softening. "Come on now, girl. We’re going to have to talk this out.”

"It's Vic," Angela admitted, the words feeling like betrayal as they left her mouth. "I can’t just go back to him like nothing's changed. Like I haven't changed."

Paige's eyes searched for the truth within Angela’s. "And have you? Changed?"

The question hung between them, loaded with unspoken implications. Angela thought of their nights together, the tentative explorations, the way Paige's touch had awakened something in her she hadn't known existed. But was it real? Or just an escape from grief, from distance, from the person she'd been her whole life?

"I don't know what I am anymore," Angela whispered. "I don't know if what I feel for you is... real, or if it's just..."

"Experimentation?" Paige supplied, her voice carefully neutral.

"I didn't say that."

"Girl, don’t overthink this shit." Paige sighed, pushing her own plate away. "We’re just having fun, alright? Don't use it as an excuse to sabotage your future. Whatever you got going on with Vic and whatever this is, it’s not worth it. You can figure that shit out later…after you go through this bomb ass internship that I got for you."

Angela nodded, more so in resignation than agreement as the words "just having fun" circled around in her mind. Was that what this was? Just another college girl that got bored and kissed a girl? It didn’t feel like that to her, not when Paige held her in her arms or when they laughed the night away. It felt more than that for Angela but if it was all "just having fun” for Paige, maybe that’s all it really was and all it really could be.

…

The UCLA basketball team study hall buzzed with low conversation, most players doing anything but studying. With finals approaching and the semester winding down, attention spans were at their lowest. Coach had made attendance mandatory, but the absence of their star player was the topic du jour.

"Man, your brother doesn't give a fuck," Stefan insisted, his long legs sprawled across two chairs. "It ain’t even going to be no crazy shit, just us and the guys.”

Tommy glanced around the room, lowering his voice. "I don't know, man, I ain’t trying to have what happened last time happen again.”

"It won’t," Stefan leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement. "Look, with Keshawn gone and all the seniors we’re losing, it ain’t no telling who gonna be the top guys next year.”

"And you think throwing a party makes you a leader?" Tommy asked, though his resistance was clearly weakening.

Stefan's smile widened. "It don’t, not by itself, but if motherfuckers start to see us putting shit together like workouts and shit, getting the team together throughout the summer, it definitely does.”

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, considering. His father's connections as a UCLA booster had helped secure his spot on the team, but another year spent on the bench was making him consider if he just wanted to be a student. He was getting all of the hassle of being a student athlete — the early morning workouts, the mandatory study halls — with none of the benefits. If he had any chance of eventually cracking the rotation, it was going to take more than his limited athleticism.

"Alright," Tommy finally conceded, "But we need rules, it can’t end up like last time.”

…

The warehouse sat abandoned on the outskirts of Lost Hills, its corrugated metal walls streaked with rust and graffiti. Inside, beneath the harsh glow of a single overhead light, Dro waited, arms crossed over his broad chest. The empty duffel bag at his feet was a silent reminder of what this meeting was supposed to be.

"You're late," Dro growled as Hunter finally stepped through the side entrance, no merchandise in sight, "Ain’t you always on my ass about being on time?”

Hunter's pale skin seemed to glow in the dim light, the Nazi lightning bolts tattooed on his neck stark against his white t-shirt. "Different rules for different folks, you should know that.”

Dro's jaw tightened. "Where's my shit?"

Hunter kept his distance, hands visible but ready. "That's what I came to talk about, figured I owed you that at least. There ain't gonna be no delivery today. Or any day, moving forward."

"The fuck you mean?" Dro took a step forward.

"That was before your people started a war with mine inside." Hunter's blue eyes were cold, calculating. "If it’s open season in there, only a matter of time before it’s open season out there and my guns aren’t going to be used to kill any of my brothers.”

"That's prison politics. Has nothing to do with our business out here."

Hunter let out a humorless laugh. "Prison politics become street politics real quick.”

"I've always been straight with you," Dro said, fighting to keep his voice even. "We ain’t never had no problems, man.”

"Business is business," Hunter shrugged, unmoved. "But blood is blood. I got people to protect same as you."

The silence between them stretched as they stood there. Dro's mind raced through alternatives—other suppliers, different angles—but each option came with its own complications. Hunter had been reliable, discreet, and his merchandise was quality. Finding a replacement wouldn't be easy, especially not with the pressure mounting from Rommel to move against Stacks.

"This ain't over," Dro finally said, bending to pick up the empty duffel.

"For us, it is." Hunter backed toward the door.

…

Sweat dripped from Keshawn's forehead as he pushed through the final set of weighted squats. His quads burned, begging him to stop, but Coach Bronstein's stern gaze kept him moving.

"Three more, boychick," Bronstein called out, arms crossed over his chest.

Keshawn gritted his teeth and completed the set, racking the bar with a metallic clang that echoed through the empty UCLA practice facility. The clock on the wall read 9:47 PM—nearly three hours since they'd started this grueling workout.

"Good," Bronstein nodded, tossing him a towel. "I got some guys coming in tomorrow, get you some live action.”

Keshawn collapsed onto the bench, gulping air. "Tomorrow? I've got that meeting with Elite Sports Management at noon."

Bronstein's expression soured. "Another agency? How many is that now, four? Five?"

"Six," Keshawn corrected, wiping sweat from his face. "They all say pretty much the same thing though."

"Of course they do," Bronstein scoffed, sitting beside him on the bench. "Because they're all selling the same overpriced bullshit."

Keshawn looked at his coach, surprised by the candor. "You don't think I should sign with an agency?"

"Let me ask you something," Bronstein leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What exactly are these suits promising you that's worth four percent of everything you'll ever make? Four percent of your entire career earnings? You know what four percent of a hundred million dollars is? That's four million dollars, boychick. You’re going to sign a couple of those, three times over."

"They handle the contracts, negotiations—"

"Bullshit," Bronstein cut him off. "You get yourself a good entertainment lawyer, pay them hourly. You want marketing deals? Sign with a marketing agency that specializes in that. But your NBA contract? The rookie scale is fixed. There's nothing to negotiate."

Keshawn blinked, processing this information. "But what about the pre-draft stuff?”

Bronstein waved his hand dismissively. "You think I can't prepare you better than some cookie-cutter program? And as for money to hold you over..." He trailed off, a sly smile forming beneath his beard. "Let's just say there are plenty of UCLA boosters who'd be more than happy to show their appreciation for that championship you brought home."

"Is that... legal?" Keshawn asked hesitantly.

"You declared for the draft, didn't you? You're not NCAA's problem anymore." Bronstein stood. "All I'm saying is, don't rush into anything. These agents, they're vultures. They see dollar signs when they look at you. The folks at UCLA? You’re Blue and Gold royalty, boychick, and that last forever with those people.”

[Captain Canada]

Bronstein wants his cut of the riches now

[Soapy]

Bronstein wants his cut of the riches now

He's just looking out for boychick hehe

[Caesar]

Paige's pussy got some power, huh? Angela ready to risk it all.

Stefan gonna get Tommy killed.

I see the vision now.. Bronstein is using Esther to entice Keshawn into signing a 360 deal of death.

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 10
Gayle felt like she was drowning in a sea of expensive cologne and even more expensive opinions. The conference room at the Beverly Hilton hummed with the casual confidence of people who regularly dropped six figures on music videos without blinking.

"A yacht gives us that luxury aesthetic," Kandi insisted, "We're talking champagne showers, jet skis, bikini models—the works. Everybody wants that 'boss bitch' live and they could have it every time they’re watching that video.”

Lamont shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "I'm telling you, we need to keep it authentic. Warehouse setup, club vibes, throwback to where the song originated. We already got the viral moment y’all, we just got to extend it."

Gayle tried to follow the rapid-fire exchange, her eyes ping-ponging between Kandi and Lamont. Six months ago, she'd been mixing drinks at a club, now she was sitting in a hotel that charged more per night than her monthly rent, watching industry heavyweights debate how to visualize her song.

"What about something edgier?" A producer with a diamond-studded chain and sunglasses he hadn't removed despite being indoors leaned forward. "Prison aesthetic. Bars, jumpsuits, that whole vibe. It's provocative."

"Absolutely not," Lamont's voice cut through the room like a knife. "We're not doing that."

The table fell silent, the producer shrinking back in his chair. Gayle fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, suddenly aware of how everyone was dressed in designer labels while she'd stressed for hours over putting together an outfit that wouldn't scream "nail tech who got lucky."

"Ga…Gigi," Kandi turned toward her, eyes softening slightly. "What do you think? It's your song."

All eyes shifted to her. Gayle felt her throat tighten, words evaporating under the collective gaze of people who'd been in this industry longer than she'd been alive.

"I, um..." she started, her voice barely audible. She cleared her throat, trying again. "Both ideas sound good to me."

Lamont exchanged a glance with Kandi. "Don't just agree with us. What do you want people to see when they hear your song?"

Gayle looked down at her hands, then back up. Something in Lamont's expectant gaze gave her a flicker of courage.

"I think..." she began, then paused, drawing a deep breath. "I think we should shoot it in The Jungle."

The silence that followed had a different quality than before—surprise rather than awkwardness.

"Your neighborhood?" Kandi asked, her perfectly arched eyebrow rising slightly.

…

Nadia pushed open the door to her dorm room, tossing her backpack onto her bed with a sigh.

"Well, well, well," Tamara drawled from her desk, spinning around in her chair. "Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. How was your date?"

"It wasn't a date," Nadia replied automatically, kicking off her shoes. "We just grabbed lunch."

"Hmmm," Tamara's knowing smirk made Nadia roll her eyes. "Y’all go on a lot of "not a date".”

Nadia busied herself with unpacking her laptop, avoiding her roommate's gaze. "We're just friends."

"Friends who text constantly and hang out all the time?" Tamara abandoned her chair to flop dramatically onto Nadia's bed. "Girl, please. I've seen how he looks at you."

"It's not like that," Nadia insisted, though the warmth creeping up her neck betrayed her. "Besides, I'm not trying to be some basketball girlfriend."

"What's wrong with that?" Tamara propped herself up on her elbows. "The man is about to be a millionaire and he doesn’t seem like the typical basketball airhead anyway."

Nadia shook her head, pulling her hair into a messy bun. "You just proved my point. First words out of your mouth were about him and his money or basketball. They don't see him—the actual person. And I refuse to be reduced to just his girlfriend."

"So you admit you like him?" Tamara pounced.

"That's not what I said." Nadia grabbed her shower caddy, needing an escape. "Look, my grandfather already treats him like the grandson he never had. If we started dating, it’d just get messy.

"You know what your problem is?" Tamara called after her as she headed for the door. "You overthink everything. Some things aren't that deep, Nadia."

"Maybe they are to me,” she scoffed as she headed towards the bathroom, running out of excuses and misdirection.

…

"What it do, OG?" a familiar voice drawled from the shadows beside the storefront.

Quincy froze, his heart hammering against his ribs as Fat Stacks stepped into the light, gold chain glinting against his tracksuit. Nobody had seen Stacks in weeks, not since the war had popped off.

"Khalif," Quincy nodded cautiously, his grip tightening around the bottle in the bag. "I ain’t expect to see you here. Anywhere, really.”

Stacks shrugged, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his cap. "Sometimes you gotta come out for essentials, you know how it is."

Quincy glanced around the empty parking lot, looking for Stacks' muscle. Nobody appeared visible, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

"Man, I been meaning to reach out," Stacks continued, voice dropping to a tone of practiced sympathy. "Heard about Debra. That shit was cold. My condolences, for real."

The mention of Debra's name sent ice through Quincy's veins. Now he understood. This wasn't random at all. Stacks knew—or suspected—that Quincy had been there when it happened.

"Yeah, appreciate that," Quincy replied, his mind racing. "Fucked up situation."

Stacks' mouth curved into something between a smile and a sneer. "You wasn’t there, was you?"

"Look man, I ain't trying to—"

"Relax," Stacks cut him off, stepping closer. "I ain't here for all that. Truth is, we both got problems that could solve each other's shit."

Quincy shifted his weight, calculating the distance to his car. "What you talking about?"

"I'm talking about Rommel," Stacks said, his voice hardening. "I know about you, OG. The motherfucking Quincy I knew? The motherfucker I heard about growing up? Ain’t no way you letting that slide."

"If you got something to say, it’s best you say it, nephew."

"I can get you a line on him. You handle that situation, we both win. You get payback for Debra, I get one less problem." Stacks spread his hands. "Simple business."

Quincy's laugh was bitter. "You want me to be your crash dummy? Walk into Dro's territory and what, smoke Rommel? I look crazy to you?"

"Nah, you look like a motherfucker that ain’t slept in a while. A motherfucker that used to handle business, that used to walk up to a nigga on feet and do it himself, up close and personal. Yeah, I know about you, OG. I know all about you.”

…

Keshawn adjusted his tie for the third time as he sat at the head of the conference table in the private dining room of The Palm. Six men in expensive suits watched him with barely contained excitement—UCLA boosters with deep pockets and deeper connections.

"The way we see it," Richard, a real estate mogul and prominent alumni donor, leaned forward, "this is a long term partnership, not just temporary financial support."

Gordon, an investment banker whose name adorned one of the academic buildings on campus, nodded. "We can put together a team—legal counsel, financial advisors, marketing specialists—all ready to guide you through this process."

Keshawn glanced at Coach Bronstein, who sat quietly observing, his expression unreadable behind his salt-and-pepper beard.

"So what exactly are you offering?" Keshawn asked, his voice steadier than he felt.

"Everything," Richard spread his hands. "I can put you up in one of my apartments in Santa Monica until you find your permanent residence. We’ll front the cost of the training facilities, the coaches, nutritionists, media training—whatever you need to prepare for the draft and even after that."

Gordon slid a folder across the polished table. "We'll cover all expenses until you sign your rookie contract. No loans, no debt."

"And what do you get?" Keshawn asked directly.

The men exchanged glances before Richard answered. "Three percent of your first NBA contract. Two percent of your second. One percent of any subsequent contracts or major endorsements.

Keshawn did the quick math in his head. Three percent of a projected four-year, $36 million rookie deal would be just over a million dollars. Split six ways, that wasn't life-changing money for men of their wealth.

An older man with silver hair who had been quiet until now spoke up. "You’re one of us, son, a Bruin. We take care of our own and any young man that Alon is invested his time and energy into, the least we could is invest our capital. It’s all we’re good for, right?”

The men shared a quick, courteous laugh.

"We're not just talking about basketball," Richard continued. "This is about building something lasting. A legacy. When your playing days are over, you'll have a network, opportunities that most athletes never get."

Keshawn nodded slowly, taking it all in. The offer was compelling—better than what any agent had presented. No immediate out-of-pocket costs, lower percentages, and connections to some of the most powerful men in Los Angeles.

"I appreciate the offer," he said finally. "I'll need some time to think about it."

"Of course," Richard nodded, standing to indicate the meeting was concluding. "We understand this is a significant decision."

As the men filed out, each shaking his hand with the practiced grip of those accustomed to closing deals, Keshawn felt a strange mix of excitement and unease. This was everything he should want—support, security, mentorship—yet something nagged at him.

When only Bronstein remained, Keshawn let out a long breath.

"So?" Bronstein asked, eyebrows raised. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't know," Keshawn admitted, loosening his tie. "It sounds good. Too good, maybe."

"It's better than any deal an agent would give you," Bronstein said, leaning back in his chair. "Lower percentages, and you maintain control. No middleman telling you what to do, who to sign with."

"But?" Keshawn sensed the unspoken reservation.

Bronstein shrugged. "But nothing. It's a solid offer from respected businessmen. You'd be foolish not to consider it seriously."

"You don't seem convinced."

"It's not my decision to make," Bronstein said carefully. "These men, they're not just UCLA boosters. They're kingmakers in this city. Having them in your corner could open doors beyond basketball."

Keshawn nodded, staring at the folder still lying open on the table. The contract inside was straightforward, almost deceptively simple for something that would shape his future.

"What would you do?" he asked finally.

Bronstein considered the question. "I'd understand exactly what I was signing up for. Not just the percentages, but the expectations. These men, they invest in things they believe will succeed. You’ll be doing it different and with that comes scrutiny, from media, from teams. You won’t hear about it now, you’re just a rookie but you’re first max extension? The first time you’re unhappy somewhere? They’ll point to this, to these men, to these Jews frankly, that they’ll say are guiding you wrong. Agents control the media, you have to remember that.”

"That doesn't sound fun," Keshawn scoffed.

"You let fun in Westwood, boychick," Bronstein replied.

Keshawn ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling the weight of the decision.

"Look," Bronstein's voice softened, "there are no wrong answers here. Either way, you're about to become a very wealthy young man. The question is who you want alongside you when it happens."

"What about you?" Keshawn asked. "Where do you fit in all this?"

A rare smile cracked through Bronstein's serious demeanor. "Me? I'm just an old coach who’s seen too many kids flame out and ain’t come across that many with your talent. I'll be there regardless—to push you, to call you out when you need it. That doesn't change, until you grow tired of my voice."

Keshawn nodded, feeling oddly reassured. In a world where everyone seemed to want something from him, Bronstein's honesty was refreshing.

"Take your time," Bronstein stood, placing a hand on Keshawn's shoulder. "Sleep on it. Talk to your family. This decision doesn't need to be made tonight."

[Soapy]

Paige's pussy got some power, huh? Angela ready to risk it all.

Stefan gonna get Tommy killed.

I see the vision now.. Bronstein is using Esther to entice Keshawn into signing a 360 deal of death.

you just described sex trafficking, brother