A little more than a year since the sirens and the cell, Caine stood on the edge of Behrman Stadium’s turf, helmet in hand, breath threading out slow and tight. The stadium lights came up hard, bouncing off the fresh paint, turning everything bright and strange. He flexed his fingers and rolled his neck, nerves buzzing in his legs, surprised by how bad he wanted to do right.
The stands were alive—kids chasing each other up the aisles, parents shouting over the rumble of the band, the greasy smell of Popeyes and spilled soda everywhere. Coach Joseph’s voice carried above it all: “Let’s go, Karr! Heads on a swivel!”
A few yards down, Jay stretched with the starters, his jaw locked, eyes cutting over at Caine but never holding. There was no handshake, no greeting. Jay didn’t have to say anything—his body said enough: this is my job, don’t forget it. Caine met the look, nothing friendly in it, then let it pass.
But the rest of the team was different. As Caine jogged to the sideline, Tyron grinned and dapped him up. “Let’s get it tonight, G.”
Corey clapped him on the shoulder. “You ready? Feels like a movie, huh?”
Jayden bumped Caine’s fist, laughing. “Show out, bruh. Don’t let that boy outshine you.”
Caine let the noise and affection settle into him, letting it fill some space he’d almost forgotten he had.
The captains went out for the coin toss. Destrehan looked crisp in maroon and silver, but the energy on Karr’s sideline was rowdy, alive—shoulder pads clapping, helmets swinging, the younger guys crowding the fence for a better look.
…
Caine lingered near the sideline, helmet rocking in his hands as Jay lined up with the ones, Destrehan’s defense stacked tight across the ball. Coach Joseph’s voice echoed in his ear: Watch the pressure—they like to bring heat on third.
Third and six. The stadium buzzed, restless. Jay barked out the cadence, eyes darting, nerves masked by that cocky posture. As the ball snapped, Destrehan sent the house—both linebackers crashing in, edge rusher coming free.
Jay didn’t panic. He rolled right, drifting wide and quick, buying an extra second as the pocket collapsed. Caine could see it from the sideline—Jay’s eyes flicking downfield, shoulders squared, feet chopping light. At the last second, he snapped his wrist, dumping the ball off to Corey just shy of the sideline, not even five yards past the line.
Corey caught it with room to breathe—Destrehan’s safeties caught flat-footed, biting on the blitz. He turned upfield, sprinting past the corner, cutting across the grain with blockers swinging out. The crowd exploded as Corey juked the last man and tore down the far hash, the whole sideline chasing and hollering.
Caine watched it play out, stomach tight. Jay never looked his way, just jogged behind the play, face stone. Fifty yards on a simple dump-off—sometimes that’s all it took to tilt the stands.
…
Caine lined up behind center, sweat sliding down his back beneath the pads. The stadium felt smaller now, the noise pressing in. Coach Joseph flashed the signal from the sideline: spread right, watch for the blitz off the edge. Caine took a slow breath and barked the cadence, eyes scanning for tells in Destrehan’s defense.
Snap. The pocket tightened up quick—one of their linebackers came screaming in, stunting off the edge. Caine’s heart thudded, but he stayed light on his feet, shuffling up, sliding through the traffic. He could feel the pressure—breath on his neck, a hand clawing for his jersey—but he kept climbing, stepping up just enough to find daylight between the guards.
Tyron broke across the middle, hands flashing. Caine squared his shoulders and let the ball rip—fast and low, threading it between two defenders. The ball popped into Tyron’s chest in stride, and Tyron did the rest—turning upfield, slipping a tackle, streaking for the open.
Caine barely heard the crowd erupt, barely felt Derrick slap his back. All he could see was the ball’s perfect flight and Tyron running wild, the whole field tilting his way for a change.
…
Jay trotted out again, jaw set, glancing toward the sideline only once. Caine watched from behind his helmet, tracking every movement, every adjustment Jay made under center.
Second and long. Destrehan loaded the box, showing blitz, corners creeping up. Caine could almost feel the defense itching to tee off. The ball snapped—Jay dropped back, scanned quick, but the pocket collapsed in a heartbeat. One of their tackles whiffed, and a linebacker shot through the gap.
Jay didn’t even blink. He juked left, spun out of a hand on his shoulder pad, and darted toward the sideline, legs pumping, defenders grasping at air. He turned the corner, burst upfield, and hit another gear—faking out a safety and tight-roping the line just long enough to dive for the marker.
The crowd roared, coaches shouting, Jay popping up, pointing downfield as the ref signaled first down. He flashed that cocky grin—just for a second—then jogged back to the huddle, chest heaving, never looking Caine’s way.
Caine swallowed his own frustration, watching the team swarm Jay, knowing that every highlight like this was another reason he had to be perfect on his own turn.
…
It was third and long, late in the third quarter, the game still close. Caine jogged into the huddle, feeling sweat bead at his temples, nerves settling into focus. Coach Joseph signaled from the sideline—trips right, look for Tyron, but be ready to check down.
At the line, Caine glanced at the defense—Destrehan sending pressure again, safety shading up, linebackers twitchy. He snapped the ball and dropped back, scanning left. Instantly, the pocket caved in, bodies flying, a defender flashing right into his lane.
He spun away, rolling back, feeling cleats slip just a little on the churned-up turf. A linebacker lunged and Caine juked, reversing course, weaving a yard behind the line of scrimmage—eyes always up, still searching for a window. The crowd noise peaked, coaches barking, defenders closing fast.
Tyron broke late, flashing open near the sideline. Caine didn’t set his feet—he sidearmed the ball around a rusher, threading it low and fast just past the outstretched hands.
Tyron snagged it on the run, tiptoed the sideline, and picked up another ten before getting shoved out of bounds. The sideline erupted, teammates shouting and pounding helmets, Derric hollering, “He slippery too! Y’all see that?”
Caine caught his breath, grinning in spite of himself as he jogged back to the huddle. For a moment, he let the thrill settle in his chest—proof to everyone, including Jay, that he could move and create too.
…
Jay broke the huddle with swagger, lining up under center as the band blared and the crowd started to rise. Caine watched from the sideline, arms crossed, helmet pressed tight to his chest, every muscle wound up. The defense was showing man coverage, safety shaded over the top—exactly the kind of look Jay liked to attack.
The ball snapped. Jay dropped back, smooth and quick, eyes locked downfield. Destrehan’s end came free off the right, but Jay sidestepped, buying an extra second, and let it fly—a perfect spiral, high and arcing.
Corey was sprinting up the seam, defender glued to his hip. Jay’s ball dropped just over the DB’s fingertips, landing right in Corey’s hands as he crossed the goal line, momentum carrying him through. The stadium exploded, purple and gold everywhere, teammates swarming the end zone, Jay jogging up with his fist in the air.
On the sideline, Caine watched the celebration, jaw tight. Jay grinned for the crowd, nodding up at the stands like he owned the night. For a second, all the noise was just proof—another reminder that if Caine wanted this spot, he’d have to take it from someone who expected it to be his.
…
They were on the Destrehan 35, third and long, the kind of down you’re supposed to play safe. Coach Joseph’s signal from the sideline: zone read, trips right. Caine relayed it, feeling the twitch in his legs, hungry for something bigger.
He took the snap, sold the fake to the back, and kept the ball tucked in tight, eyes upfield. The edge rusher bit hard on the handoff, giving Caine a seam outside. He turned it up, felt his cleats dig into the turf—space opening for just a heartbeat.
Jayden cracked down on a corner, Tyron blocked a safety, and Caine burst into the second level, the sideline erupting as he flew past the 25. A linebacker lunged; Caine stiff-armed him, spinning away, barely losing speed.
At the 15, another defender dove low—Caine hurdled him, knees scraping the air, landing off-balance but staying upright. The noise was a wall now, footsteps and pads clapping behind him. Ten yards out, a DB angled across, arms spread. Caine cut inside, lowered his shoulder, feeling the helmet smack his thigh, but kept his balance.
At the five, another maroon jersey crashed in high. Caine braced for the hit, then left his feet, stretching his arms and the ball toward the pylon. Bodies collided midair, but he felt the ground scrape past and the football break the plane. The ref’s arms shot up—touchdown.
Caine rolled to his back, lungs burning, heart ready to punch a hole in his chest.
…
The final whistle blew and the last bursts of purple and gold drifted down from the stands. Players slapped backs and helmets, coaches gathering their units near the fifty. Caine unclipped his chinstrap, sweat stinging his eyes, legs still humming from the run. Jay stood a few feet away, helmet dangling from his hand, face blank as he stared at the scoreboard.
Coach Joseph found them both as the crowd began to thin, voice low but carrying the weight of every lesson he’d ever barked. “Both of y’all—come here.”
Caine and Jay stepped in, silence thick between them.
Coach Joseph looked them up and down, not smiling, not mad—just business. “Y’all both played your ass off tonight. Made some plays, took some hits, kept your heads. That’s what I needed to see.” He nodded at Jay. “Jay, you ain’t scared to tuck and run. Sometimes you hold it too long, but you turn nothin’ into somethin’.” He turned to Caine. “Caine, you moved the pocket, kept your eyes up, made throws when it got tight. That run? That was grown man shit.”
He scanned between them, making sure they both got the message. “This ain’t settled. We got a season to play, and I need both y’all ready. Competition makes winners. Don’t get comfortable.”
He clapped them each on the shoulder, hard. “Celebrate the win, but remember—ain’t nothing promised.”
Coach Joseph turned and walked down the line, already shouting for everyone to grab their gear.
Jay walked off without a word. After a moment, Caine walked toward the tunnel, helmet hanging loose, legs humming with adrenaline. He scanned the stands until he saw them—Mireya in a jean jacket, Camila balanced on her hip, Angela and Paz beside her, all waving hard. Mireya pointed, and Camila’s little arm shot up, face lit by a gap-toothed grin.
Caine grinned back, raising his hand, letting the lights and the noise wash over him. For a moment, it felt like being home again—like being chosen, even if the rest was still up in the air.
~~~
The crowd spilled out beneath the stadium lights, voices and laughter echoing against the concrete, parents rounding up little kids sticky with sweat and powdered candy. Mireya shifted Camila on her hip, ankles sore, as Angela and Paz walked beside her. The night air felt dense—half fry oil and kettle corn, half cut grass and dust from the parking lot.
Paz was scrolling through her phone, thumbs moving fast. “You think Arelle might give you extra hours this week?”
Mireya shrugged, lips pressed tight. “She ain’t said nothing, but I’m gonna ask tomorrow.”
Paz shook her head, already defeated. “Girl, none of us get more than fifteen. Even the managers don’t get overtime. If they see you working extra, they’ll just cut your hours next week to fix the schedule.”
Angela glanced over, sympathy and warning mixed in her eyes. “If you find another job, let me know. I might be right behind you.”
Mireya let out a breath that felt stale before it left her chest. “It’s always something. Can’t even keep the lights on with fifteen hours.”
Camila wriggled, reaching for Angela’s earrings. Paz tried to get her to say her name, but Camila just buried her face in Mireya’s neck, eyes heavy from the noise and the late hour.
Mireya looked up, scanning the crowd as the last of the players trickled out from the locker rooms, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. She spotted Caine—jersey traded for a compression shirt, duffel bag dangling from his fingers—working his way through a group of teammates, the edges of a tired smile caught under the field lights.
As he got closer, that same girl from the parade and the house party—braids, gold nose ring, the kind of bold you couldn’t fake—stepped right in his path, talking fast, smiling like they had a secret. Mireya caught the look, recognized the type, and felt her jaw clench.
Angela nudged her. “You know who that is?”
Mireya just shook her head, set her jaw, and adjusted Camila higher. She crossed the pavement with purpose, the sound of her sneakers scuffing sharp in her own ears.
Caine looked over, face lighting up the way it always did when he saw Camila. The little girl squirmed in Mireya’s arms, stretching her fingers out. “Papi!” she called, voice tiny but clear.
Caine dropped his bag and reached for her, burying his nose in her curls as she squealed and babbled in Spanglish. Mireya let herself breathe for a moment as she watched them.
The girl with the braids blinked, caught off guard, but recovered with a smile. Mireya stepped forward, offering her hand, voice even but with that little edge that said she missed nothing. “Hey—I’m Mireya. Caine’s girl.”
The girl paused, then shook her hand. “Janae,” she said, giving Mireya a quick once-over but offering nothing more.
Mireya held her gaze a beat, then gave a half-smile. “I like your eyes. And your body? Tea. I know somebody don’t play about you.”
Janae’s lips curled in a surprised grin. “Thanks, I guess.”
Caine leaned in close, whispering in Spanish, “Te ves un poco verde, nena.”
Mireya smirked, just as quick in Spanish: “Eso suena como si esto fuera una competencia. Tú sabes dónde está tu casa.”
Camila tugged on Caine’s sleeve. “Ice cream, papi? Helado?”
He grinned, nuzzling her cheek. “Yeah, baby, we can get ice cream.” He glanced back at Janae, nodded. “I’ll see you around.”
Janae waved, her eyes lingering on Mireya a second longer before she turned away.
As they walked off, Mireya slipped her arm around Caine’s waist. The crowd noise faded behind them; the glow from the field still lighting the edge of everything.
Caine’s voice dropped low. “Coach said there were scouts in the stands. Couple asked about me. JUCOs and some D3s, but… I think I could turn football into a scholarship, Reya.”
The hope in his voice pressed heavy on Mireya. She thought of her ACT score, the bills waiting at home, the way work never stretched enough. But she kept her voice light, letting none of it show even though her grip on Caine’s waist tightened.
“That’s good, Caine. I’m proud of you.”
He smiled, believing her.
Camila squirmed between them, chanting, “Ice cream! Ice cream!” like she could make it true just by saying it.
~~~
Galvez Street was alive, dusk deepening but the block still loud—bass shaking the windows, smoke curling up from the circle of boys passing blunts, the scent of weed mixing with fried chicken and spilled Crown. Old heads leaned against parked cars, gold teeth glinting in the streetlight, eyes half-closed but watching everything.
Ramon sat on the edge of a busted milk crate, shoulders loose, one foot tapping out a nervous rhythm. Tyree and E.J. were nearby, half-talking, half-watching a dice game that had already gotten too loud. Everyone was young, reckless, but nobody wanted to look scared. In the background, you could hear somebody’s cousin rapping over a beat on a phone speaker, words half lost in the laughter and trash talk.
Duke came out of the trap, his build heavy in the glow of the porch light, face serious, jaw flexing. Everybody straightened a little—some respect, some habit. He cut through the crowd without looking at anyone else, walking straight up to the trio. The block got a little quieter.
Duke stared at them, his eyes hard, then broke into a wide, toothy grin. “That’s for you, lil’ niggas. Y’all put in work with that lick y’all pulled,” he said, pulling out three fat, rubber-banded rolls of cash. He slapped one into each of their hands. “Them bricks alone gonna feed the streets for a minute.”
Tyree couldn’t help but grin. “On my mama, I told y’all we wasn’t just talking.”
E.J. flicked the band off his roll, counting quick, trying not to look too eager. “Man, we need more like that. Shit was too easy.”
Ramon dapped up Duke, voice low. “Good looking, Duke.”
Duke started to turn away, but paused, scanning the circle, voice dropping with a warning edge. “I heard that nigga Tee Tito ran straight to his daddy—but that old ass nigga retired.” He looked from Tyree to E.J., one eyebrow up. “Still, y’all know them Melph niggas never let shit go easy.”
Tyree sucked his teeth, shaking his head. “They always been pussy out the Melph. Ain’t nothing new.”
Duke barked a laugh, nodding. “That’s facts. Even when I was coming up. But I’m telling y’all—keep your heads up. Tito or Tee Tito might come sniffing around. Shit get hot, don’t act surprised.”
E.J. sucked his teeth, tucking his roll in his waistband. “Man, we never leave home without the pole. Ain’t nobody touching us, big brudda.”
Duke eyed him, amused but dead serious underneath. “That’s what all y’all say till somebody send a drop. Don’t get caught slipping, you hear me?” He took a final drag off his blunt and melted back toward the trap house, a couple little kids scattering out of his way.
The block’s energy snapped back, but a little sharper. Ramon peeled the rubberband off his stack, thumbing off a crisp $100. He held it up. “Look, y’all. Caine gotta get a cut. You know that.”
E.J. made a face. “Man, for what? All he did was watch.”
Tyree shook his head, voice mocking. “If it was you, you’d be crying about your cut too. Run that shit.”
E.J. glared but pulled off a bill, slapping it into Ramon’s palm. “$200 enough for watching. I ain’t trying to give away my payday.”
Tyree laughed, pushing E.J.’s shoulder. “Then you give him some of yours.”
Ramon shoved Tyree back, but he was grinning. “Both y’all niggas giving him a bill. Stop acting broke.”
Finally, with some reluctance, Tyree and E.J. each peeled off a hundred and handed it to Ramon. The three of them counted their money, the sweet-and-sour rush of fast cash making everything feel brighter—danger humming underneath, but nobody willing to say it out loud.
Somewhere down the block, tires screeched and somebody let off a firecracker, but nobody flinched. In the city, you learned not to show nerves. Not here, not now, not ever.
Tee Tito being short for Petite Tito, a typical way for juniors to get nicknames. Caine did in fact put them in contact with Tito while inside.
