From the Westside with Love - Episode 12
Eleanora's car groaned in protest as she turned the key, the engine sputtering to life like an asthmatic dragon. Keshawn slid into the passenger seat, his lanky frame folding awkwardly as he tried to find a comfortable position.
"Where else could he be?" she muttered, more to herself than to Keshawn. "We've checked all his usual spots."
Keshawn's phone buzzed, and he fished it out of his pocket, hoping for news. Instead, it was just another meme from his old group chat. He hesitated, thumbs hovering over the screen, before shoving it back into his jeans.
"Have you tried that park behind the old movie theater?" Keshawn suggested, breaking the tense silence. Quincy had taken him there once, undoubtedly to collect a debt or a favor with his tall and athletic looking nephew serving as a deterrent to the pesky teenagers that hung around, more bark than bite.
Eleanora's eyes lit up. "He done dragged you everywhere with him, hasn’t he?"
She made a sharp U-turn, earning a chorus of honks from disgruntled drivers. She had awaken him that morning, eliciting his help in search of her brother since Vic was away on his college visit. She was a kind woman and a good host, keeping him fed as best as she could and providing him with shelter over his head but that was the extent of her warmness. He had grown to not take it personally, understanding the burden that was on her shoulders, taking care of a teenage son, another that was locked up, an addiction riddled brother and now Keshawn, who she previously saw once a year, if that.
The car lurched to a stop at the entrance to the park, its brakes squealing like a pig at slaughter. Eleanora killed the engine and hopped out, her sneakers crunching on the gravel. Keshawn followed, ducking his head as he exited to avoid smacking it on the door frame.
The park was a patchwork of overgrown grass and cracked concrete, dotted with rusted playground equipment that looked like it had seen better days sometime around the Nixon administration. A group of teenagers huddled near a graffiti-covered wall, eyeing them suspiciously.
Eleanora strode forward confidently, but Keshawn hesitated, his eyes darting nervously between the teens and the shadows cast by the gnarled old trees.
"You got no business being scared of them," Eleanora teased, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You’re about two of them put together.”
Keshawn's cheeks flushed. "Nah, I ain’t scared," he mumbled, quickening his pace to catch up with her.
As they walked deeper into the park, Eleanora chuckled. "You know, you remind me so much of when you were little. Always hanging onto your mama's leg, big ol' eyes taking everything in."
She paused, her gaze softening as she looked at him. "You were such a quiet baby, hardly ever cried. Used to drive your mama crazy, wondering if you were okay." She shook her head, lost in the memory. "You were just like my Trey. Both of you, always watching, always thinking."
Keshawn felt a lump form in his throat. He'd heard stories about Trey, Eleanora's oldest, but he didn’t remember too much of him. Even when they visited, Trey was hardly with them, especially once his father passed away.
"I remember this one time," Eleanora continued, her voice taking on a wistful quality, "you couldn't have been more than three or four. Your mama brought you over for a barbecue, and Quincy decided it'd be funny to chase you around with a water gun."
She laughed, the sound echoing off the crumbling brick walls surrounding the park. "Lord, you took off like a bat outta hell! Ran straight into the house and hid under my bed. Took us an hour to coax you out."
Keshawn couldn't help but smile, picturing his younger self cowering from a plastic toy. "Guess I wasn't much of a tough guy.”
Eleanora's eyes twinkled. "Being tough is the problem. Or at least what people think being tough is. Being tough is paying bills, Keshawn, taking care of your people. Waking up every morning, on time, doing what you’re supposed to do. Ain’t nothing tough about running around, terrorizing people, ruining your own neighborhood.”
They walked in companionable silence for a moment, the crunch of dead leaves under their feet providing a rhythmic backdrop to a search they had realized was futile. Suddenly, Eleanora stopped, her hand gently grasping Keshawn's arm. Her eyes, usually sharp and guarded, now held a softness that made Keshawn's chest tighten.
"Listen, baby," she said, her voice low and urgent. "I need you to hear me, really hear me. You're at a crossroads now, just like Trey was." She paused, swallowing hard. "When his daddy died, it was like the ground disappeared from under his feet. He was lost, hurting, and the streets... they offered something that looked like comfort. Something I guess he didn’t see in me or maybe I didn’t give him."
Keshawn felt a chill run down his spine, despite the warm air.
Eleanora continued, her words coming faster now, as if she was afraid she might lose her nerve. "The streets, they got arms wide open for boys like you and Trey. Boys who are hurting, who feel like they got nothing left to lose. But baby, it's a lie. It's all smoke and mirrors."
She gripped his shoulders, her eyes boring into his. "Your mama and daddy, they ain't here right now. And I know that hurts something fierce. But you can't let that pain push you down the same path Trey took."
Keshawn felt his throat constrict, tears threatening to spill over. He blinked hard, trying to keep them at bay.
"You stay strong, you hear me?" Eleanora's voice was fierce now, almost desperate. "You stick with Vic. That boy's got a good head on his shoulders, and he's going places. He’ll protect you but he also ain’t going to let you do nothing stupid neither.”
"I know it ain't easy," Eleanora continued, her voice softening. "Lord knows, it ain't fair. He won’t tell you because y’all men or whatever but Vic told me you got something special in you, Keshawn. I ain’t no basketball expert so I’m going to believe him and I know you’re smart, you got your momma’s mind and her quiet strength.”
She cupped his face in her hands, her calloused palms rough against his cheeks. "Don't you let the world take that from you. Don't you let the streets fool you into thinking they can give you what you're missing. They can't, baby. They'll just take and take until there's nothing left."
Keshawn nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He felt the weight of her words, the history behind them, pressing down on him like a physical force.
"You stay headstrong," Eleanora said, releasing his face but maintaining eye contact. "You keep your chin up and your eyes forward. The road ahead ain't easy, but I promise you it’s better than this right here.”
…
"So, uh, the dorms were nice," Vic offered, his voice lacking any real enthusiasm. "They had these built-in desks that fold out from the wall. Pretty cool, I guess."
Angela nodded, taking a sip of her water. "Mm-hmm. Can do your homework.”
Vic watched her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. He'd been doing this dance all evening, dropping little tidbits about the college visit, waiting for Angela to bite. So far, she'd been maddeningly noncommittal, responding with vague hums and nods.
"The library was something," he continued, still probing. "Three floors, open 24/7 during finals week. They even have these little study pods you can reserve."
Angela raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I’m sure that’s important during finals week.”
Vic sighed, putting down his fork with a clatter. "Alright, Ang. Are you just going to nod your way through this?”
Angela's eyes flashed, and for a moment, Vic thought he saw a glimpse of the fire he'd been trying to ignite all evening. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a carefully neutral expression.
"I'm excited if you're excited, babe," she said, her voice measured. "It's your college experience, after all. You’re the one that has to go here."
Vic leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Nah, come on, where’s my real girl?”
Angela was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her water glass. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost a whisper. "You already know how I feel, you sure you want to hear it?”
Vic nodded, leaning forward.
"I hated it," Angela said, the words rushing out like a dam breaking. "Every single thing about it. From the moment we stepped on campus, it felt wrong."
Vic blinked, taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. "What about it?”
Angela's eyes blazed. "Where do I even start? How about the fact that in the entire day we were there, I saw maybe three other Black students? And don't even get me started on the faculty."
She pushed her plate away, her food barely touched. "It's like they took every stereotype about small, private colleges and cranked it up to eleven. The whiteness of it all was suffocating, Vic. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of khakis and boat shoes."
Vic opened his mouth to speak, but Angela wasn't done.
“They have a terrible public record when it comes to social issues,” she continued, “So who knows what the fuck they teaching y’all in those classes.”
“I don’t think a bridge cares about pronouns, babe,” Vic shook his head.
“You still don’t get it,” she scoffed, “It doesn’t just stop there. It’s infectious, it bleeds through everything. Let’s say you’re the greatest player ever, go on to play in the league and all that.”
“This is supposed to be a bad thing?”
“Do you really want to rep them for the rest of your life? Help push their agenda? Is that what you’re about?” she crossed her arms, leaning back into her chair, “The person I fell in love with isn’t about that.”
“It ain’t that deep,” Vic contested, “I ain’t Little Johnny that gets to make a political statement with his life.”
“You sure aren’t,” she shook her head, “But, hey, the dorms are nice.”
Neighborhood.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
there's soft and timid because he's in unchartered territory which I think was the aim and then there's genuinely uncomfortable with life which is ... not my favorite type of character.Soapy wrote: ↑05 Dec 2024, 13:50what keshawn did to you bruhCaptain Canada wrote: ↑05 Dec 2024, 12:41Oh I can already tell how annoying this Angela character going to begood update though, love how the characters are developing (except Keshawn, fuck that dude).
The development I'm expecting better shake the block.
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 13
The Yankees' offense sputtered and stalled like an old jalopy trying to climb a steep hill with their slow, plodding half-court sets. Vic dribbled aimlessly at the top of the key, desperately seeking any glimmer of daylight to penetrate the suffocating defense.
But Westchester arms seemed to stretch for miles, clogging every conceivable passing lane. When Vic did manage to somehow get the ball into the post to Keshawn, he was swarmed by the defense, forcing him to kick it back out to the perimeter. On the rare occasions the Bulldogs did manage to hoist up a shot, it was usually a prayer from way downtown - brick city, population: them.
Coach Hopkins paced the sidelines, barking plays and commands to the stagnant offense.
"Motion! We need motion!" he bellowed, to no avail. Every possession was an excruciatingly drawn-out ordeal, the shot clock ticking down like a time bomb while the players passed the ball around.
As the halftime buzzer mercifully sounded, ending the Yankees' offensive quagmire, local sports reporter Shawn Elias maneuvered through the sea of players and coaches. His target: Westchester's phenom, Tajh Ariza, who was gliding off the court with the effortless grace of a gazelle, barely breaking a sweat despite his twenty-point first-half eruption. He was the son of former NBA player Trevor Ariza and one of the top players in the country for a reason, having no issues dealing with Keshawn’s length and was just as athletic.
Shawn, pulling his phone out, intercepted the younger Ariza just before he reached the locker room. "Ayo Tajh, got a minute for me?”
…
"That's horseshit!" Hopkins roared, spittle flying from his mouth. "He went straight up! You're gonna call that a foul?"
The ref, a balding man with the patience of a saint and the expression of a man who'd rather be anywhere else, tried to calm the situation. "Coach, I'm warning you. Back off or-"
But Hopkins was too far gone, his frustration from his own team’s ineptitude boiling over. He stormed onto the court, index finger jabbing the air. "You've been calling it one-sided all night! Open your eyes! I don’t give a fuck that he’s a five star!"
The ref's whistle shrieked, cutting through the arena like a hot knife through butter. "Technical foul on Coach Hopkins!"
The Westchester crowd erupted, looking for any sense of excitement in a game that was droned out by the home team’s excellence. Hopkins continued to let loose a series of expletives as he retreated to the bench.
The ref once again blew his whistle. "That's it! You're outta here, Coach!"
Coach Hopkins stormed off the court, not bothering to address his assistants nor the players. As they all looked around for guidance, Coach Stewie took command of the huddle despite being the youngest on the staff.
“Alright, we’re running fellas,” he said, his voice calm but intense, “Vic, just fucking gun it on offense, alright? We’re not going to score in the halfcourt so might as well push it. We need more possessions, we need more shots. If you’re open, shoot the fucking ball.”
Vic nodded, a glimmer of excitement replacing the frustration in his eyes. Coach Stewie was a former point guard himself and viewed the game in a similar prism that Vic did. Keshawn, meanwhile, had mostly lost interest in the game already.
“Defensively,” Coach Peters interjected, “Keshawn, just roam the paint. I want you floating, helping, causing havoc. We’ll put A.J., Bryson, Justin, whoever on the Ariza kid. He’s going to get into the paint anyway so we might as well have you ready for him at the rim. Y’all got it?”
The players broke from the huddle with a newfound energy, even Keshawn as the prospect of no longer needing to guard Tajh excited him. He had always been able to hang his hat on his defense but the kid was special, putting him in absolute hell in the first half.
The first Westchester possession ended with a clanked three, and Vic pounced. He snagged the rebound and immediately hit the afterburners, racing up the court like a cheetah pursuing its prey. Keshawn, freed from his defensive shackles, sprinted down the floor, his long strides eating up the hardwood. Vic threaded a needle-perfect bounce pass through traffic, hitting Keshawn in stride.
Two dribbles, and Keshawn was airborne, soaring towards the rim like a human missile. The Westchester defense, caught flat-footed, could only watch as he threw down a thunderous two-handed slam.
The Yankees' bench erupted, and even the stoic Keshawn allowed himself a small fist bump as he raced back on defense.
A few possessions later, Westchester tried to slow the pace, but Vic was having none of it. He hounded the ball handler, forcing a turnover with quick hands and quicker feet. Again, he was off to the races, this time finding A.J. streaking down the wing who caught the pass and, in one fluid motion, shot up a three-pointer that went through the net.
…
Tajh, confident after his first-half explosion, drove hard to the hoop, looking to energize the now nervous crowd despite the seventeen point lead. He euro-stepped past A.J., creating just enough space to get off a shot.
Or so he thought.
Keshawn, lurking in the paint like a coiled spring, timed his leap perfectly. Just as Tajh released the ball, Keshawn's hand appeared, swatting the shot with such force that it ricocheted off the backboard and out of bounds.
“Get that shit out of here!” Keshawn boasted, drawing a quick whistle and a tech from the nearby official. The gym fell silent for a split second, as if everyone needed a moment to process what they'd just witnessed.
“Yeah!” Vic’s words broke through the silence as he clapped his hands near Tajh’s face, eliciting a push from the star player that had nearly a foot on him.
Keshawn stepped in, using forearm to shove Tajh who sprung back into his face.
“Don’t put your hands on me, bitch,” Tajh muttered as the officials blew their whistle but Keshawn remained steadfast, eyeing him down as they came nose to nose.
“Do something about it, pussy ass nigga,” Keshawn forced out, the words feeling unnatural as it came out of his mouth.
“Yeah!” Vic continued to clap his hand, hyping up the Hamilton bench, “We got action, now!”
…
"You good, dawg?" Vic asked, eyeing his friend with a mix of amusement and concern.
"Yeah, I'm straight," Keshawn mumbled, not sounding convinced himself.
Vic clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, bro. Ain’t nobody here that bang for real and even if they are, they’re all East Side anyway. I wouldn’t take you somewhere where it’d be liable to get active.”
Keshawn nodded as he took a tentative sip, nearly gagging. This was a far cry from the Cîroc and apple juice he was used to drinking in Tanner’s basement. It tasted like what he imagined rocket fuel might, if rocket fuel was brewed in someone's bathtub. But as the warmth spread through his chest, he had to admit it took the edge off.
That's when he saw her. She glided through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, her confidence a palpable force. She locked eyes with Keshawn and smiled, heading straight for him. Vic noticed the same, suddenly interested in working the room as he left Keshawn by himself.
"I got to be honest, forty-four," Gayle said, her voice somehow cutting through the noise. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Keshawn's tongue suddenly felt three sizes too big for his mouth. "Uh, yeah," he managed, eloquently.
Gayle leaned in closer, the scent of her perfume momentarily overpowering the funk of the party. "You know, I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. You're always so quiet, scattering off like you got somewhere to be."
Keshawn nodded, his brain frantically searching for words, any words. "I, uh... yeah. I guess.”
Gayle's smile faltered slightly. She soldiered on, undeterred. "So, how you know Vic?”
Keshawn took another gulp of his drink, praying for divine intervention. "Umm, he’s my cousin.”
The awkward silence stretched between them like a rubber band ready to snap. Gayle’s initial attraction was now overcome by her frustration as she continued to chew her bubble gum, “You not like SPED or nothing, are you?”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she laughed, placing a hand on his chest, “Ooh, and you strong too.”
And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd.
…
“Stop telling people you my cousin if you’re going to bitch out like that," Vic cackled, slapping the steering wheel. "And then you just stood there like a statue! I thought you were gonna turn to stone or some shit."
Keshawn groaned, sinking lower in his seat. "Shut up, man. I don’t know, she was just aggressive with it.”
"Motherfucker, you scared of pussy," Vic continued, his laughter echoing through the car. "Gayle ass definitely something wicked but she wasn’t even applying pressure on your ass, for real.”
From the passenger seat, Angela rolled her eyes. "Leave him alone, Vic. It's not like Gayle's worth a damn anyway. Don’t worry about it, Keshawn, you don’t want any of that anyway.”
Vic raised an eyebrow, glancing at Angela in the rearview mirror. "I ain’t saying she is but goddamn, the motherfucker only knows his hand.”
Angela scoffed. "His hand is better than a certified hoot rat, that’s for sure. Girl's been passed around more times than six heads on a blunt.”
Keshawn perked up slightly, a mix of curiosity and relief in his eyes. "For real?"
"For real, for real," Angela nodded emphatically.
Vic whistled low. "That’s hate, hate, hate! I don’t even think Gayle get down like that for real. She’s just…Gayle so motherfuckers just put bodies on her when they want to say they smashed something.”
“Fuck you defending her for? You want seconds?” Angela shot back, always doubting Vic’s version of what happened their freshmen when they went in the closet during Seven Minutes of Heaven.
Keshawn couldn't help but chuckle, relieved that the attention was off him.
“See what you’re causing? Problems in my home,” Vic shook his head, “I gave this motherfucker like ten assists tonight and that’s how he pays me back.”
As they pulled up to the curb, the muffled thump of music could be heard from inside the house. Colorful lights flashed in the windows, and a steady stream of people flowed in and out of the front door.
“Shit, your crib was like this?” Angela asked as she turned around to face Keshawn in the backseat.
“Yeah, rich ass nigga,” Vic answered for him, “You gonna find your way home? I don’t think PD gonna take too kindly to my ass showing up here at two in the fucking morning.”
“Yeah,” Keshawn answered as he hurried out of the door, anxious for a glimpse back into his old life.
…
The party was in full swing, with his old classmates milling about in designer clothes that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe. He felt suddenly self-conscious in his Nike hoodie and jeans.
"Keshawn! My man!" Trevor, his former lab partner, stumbled over, clearly a few drinks deep. "Dude, we've missed you! How's life in the 'hood?"
Keshawn forced a smile, already regretting his decision to answer Tanner’s text. "It's fine, bro.”
"Right, right," Trevor nodded, not really listening. "But like, have you seen any drive-bys? You’re not in a gang already, are you?”
Before Keshawn could answer, Melissa chimed in, her eyes wide with morbid fascination. "They don’t really have metal detectors do they? Or maybe you would want that, I don’t know."
Keshawn felt his jaw clench. "No, we don't have metal detectors. It's just a normal school."
But his words fell on deaf ears as more of his old friends gathered around, peppering him with questions that ranged from ignorant to outright offensive.
"Do they even have AP classes there?"
"I bet you're like, the smartest kid in the whole school now, right?"
Each question grated on Keshawn's nerves, his frustration building like a pressure cooker. As uncomfortable as he was at the previous party, this was somehow worse. With the drink in his hand down to its last sip, he managed to slip out of the house.
Keshawn started walking, not really sure where he was going. He just knew he needed to get away from there. The streets were quiet, the perfectly manicured lawns and luxury cars a stark contrast to his new neighborhood.
He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice the police cruiser that had been following him for a few blocks, practically as soon as he left the house. It kept its sirens off but turned on it’s lights, honking towards Keshawn to get his attention. His heart began to race, pounding against his ribcage like a trapped bird. The cool night air suddenly felt thick and oppressive.
The middle aged officer stepped out of the vehicle, his polished boots crunching on the perfectly manicured grass. His hand rested casually on his utility belt, inches from his holstered weapon. The streetlights glinted off his badge, a stark reminder of the power dynamic at play.
"You didn’t see me there, buddy?" he called out, his voice carrying a forced friendliness that did little to mask the underlying suspicion. "Do you live around here?"
Keshawn swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "No, sir. I'm just leaving a party. My friend lives-"
"I'm going to need to see some ID," the officer cut him off, his tone brooking no argument.
"Officer, I used to live here," Keshawn began, his voice cracking slightly. "I was just at my friend’s house-”
"Stop talking and show me your ID," the office barked, any façade of friendliness evaporating like morning dew. "Now."
The Yankees' offense sputtered and stalled like an old jalopy trying to climb a steep hill with their slow, plodding half-court sets. Vic dribbled aimlessly at the top of the key, desperately seeking any glimmer of daylight to penetrate the suffocating defense.
But Westchester arms seemed to stretch for miles, clogging every conceivable passing lane. When Vic did manage to somehow get the ball into the post to Keshawn, he was swarmed by the defense, forcing him to kick it back out to the perimeter. On the rare occasions the Bulldogs did manage to hoist up a shot, it was usually a prayer from way downtown - brick city, population: them.
Coach Hopkins paced the sidelines, barking plays and commands to the stagnant offense.
"Motion! We need motion!" he bellowed, to no avail. Every possession was an excruciatingly drawn-out ordeal, the shot clock ticking down like a time bomb while the players passed the ball around.
As the halftime buzzer mercifully sounded, ending the Yankees' offensive quagmire, local sports reporter Shawn Elias maneuvered through the sea of players and coaches. His target: Westchester's phenom, Tajh Ariza, who was gliding off the court with the effortless grace of a gazelle, barely breaking a sweat despite his twenty-point first-half eruption. He was the son of former NBA player Trevor Ariza and one of the top players in the country for a reason, having no issues dealing with Keshawn’s length and was just as athletic.
Shawn, pulling his phone out, intercepted the younger Ariza just before he reached the locker room. "Ayo Tajh, got a minute for me?”
…
"That's horseshit!" Hopkins roared, spittle flying from his mouth. "He went straight up! You're gonna call that a foul?"
The ref, a balding man with the patience of a saint and the expression of a man who'd rather be anywhere else, tried to calm the situation. "Coach, I'm warning you. Back off or-"
But Hopkins was too far gone, his frustration from his own team’s ineptitude boiling over. He stormed onto the court, index finger jabbing the air. "You've been calling it one-sided all night! Open your eyes! I don’t give a fuck that he’s a five star!"
The ref's whistle shrieked, cutting through the arena like a hot knife through butter. "Technical foul on Coach Hopkins!"
The Westchester crowd erupted, looking for any sense of excitement in a game that was droned out by the home team’s excellence. Hopkins continued to let loose a series of expletives as he retreated to the bench.
The ref once again blew his whistle. "That's it! You're outta here, Coach!"
Coach Hopkins stormed off the court, not bothering to address his assistants nor the players. As they all looked around for guidance, Coach Stewie took command of the huddle despite being the youngest on the staff.
“Alright, we’re running fellas,” he said, his voice calm but intense, “Vic, just fucking gun it on offense, alright? We’re not going to score in the halfcourt so might as well push it. We need more possessions, we need more shots. If you’re open, shoot the fucking ball.”
Vic nodded, a glimmer of excitement replacing the frustration in his eyes. Coach Stewie was a former point guard himself and viewed the game in a similar prism that Vic did. Keshawn, meanwhile, had mostly lost interest in the game already.
“Defensively,” Coach Peters interjected, “Keshawn, just roam the paint. I want you floating, helping, causing havoc. We’ll put A.J., Bryson, Justin, whoever on the Ariza kid. He’s going to get into the paint anyway so we might as well have you ready for him at the rim. Y’all got it?”
The players broke from the huddle with a newfound energy, even Keshawn as the prospect of no longer needing to guard Tajh excited him. He had always been able to hang his hat on his defense but the kid was special, putting him in absolute hell in the first half.
The first Westchester possession ended with a clanked three, and Vic pounced. He snagged the rebound and immediately hit the afterburners, racing up the court like a cheetah pursuing its prey. Keshawn, freed from his defensive shackles, sprinted down the floor, his long strides eating up the hardwood. Vic threaded a needle-perfect bounce pass through traffic, hitting Keshawn in stride.
Two dribbles, and Keshawn was airborne, soaring towards the rim like a human missile. The Westchester defense, caught flat-footed, could only watch as he threw down a thunderous two-handed slam.
The Yankees' bench erupted, and even the stoic Keshawn allowed himself a small fist bump as he raced back on defense.
A few possessions later, Westchester tried to slow the pace, but Vic was having none of it. He hounded the ball handler, forcing a turnover with quick hands and quicker feet. Again, he was off to the races, this time finding A.J. streaking down the wing who caught the pass and, in one fluid motion, shot up a three-pointer that went through the net.
…
Tajh, confident after his first-half explosion, drove hard to the hoop, looking to energize the now nervous crowd despite the seventeen point lead. He euro-stepped past A.J., creating just enough space to get off a shot.
Or so he thought.
Keshawn, lurking in the paint like a coiled spring, timed his leap perfectly. Just as Tajh released the ball, Keshawn's hand appeared, swatting the shot with such force that it ricocheted off the backboard and out of bounds.
“Get that shit out of here!” Keshawn boasted, drawing a quick whistle and a tech from the nearby official. The gym fell silent for a split second, as if everyone needed a moment to process what they'd just witnessed.
“Yeah!” Vic’s words broke through the silence as he clapped his hands near Tajh’s face, eliciting a push from the star player that had nearly a foot on him.
Keshawn stepped in, using forearm to shove Tajh who sprung back into his face.
“Don’t put your hands on me, bitch,” Tajh muttered as the officials blew their whistle but Keshawn remained steadfast, eyeing him down as they came nose to nose.
“Do something about it, pussy ass nigga,” Keshawn forced out, the words feeling unnatural as it came out of his mouth.
“Yeah!” Vic continued to clap his hand, hyping up the Hamilton bench, “We got action, now!”
…
"You good, dawg?" Vic asked, eyeing his friend with a mix of amusement and concern.
"Yeah, I'm straight," Keshawn mumbled, not sounding convinced himself.
Vic clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, bro. Ain’t nobody here that bang for real and even if they are, they’re all East Side anyway. I wouldn’t take you somewhere where it’d be liable to get active.”
Keshawn nodded as he took a tentative sip, nearly gagging. This was a far cry from the Cîroc and apple juice he was used to drinking in Tanner’s basement. It tasted like what he imagined rocket fuel might, if rocket fuel was brewed in someone's bathtub. But as the warmth spread through his chest, he had to admit it took the edge off.
That's when he saw her. She glided through the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, her confidence a palpable force. She locked eyes with Keshawn and smiled, heading straight for him. Vic noticed the same, suddenly interested in working the room as he left Keshawn by himself.
"I got to be honest, forty-four," Gayle said, her voice somehow cutting through the noise. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Keshawn's tongue suddenly felt three sizes too big for his mouth. "Uh, yeah," he managed, eloquently.
Gayle leaned in closer, the scent of her perfume momentarily overpowering the funk of the party. "You know, I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. You're always so quiet, scattering off like you got somewhere to be."
Keshawn nodded, his brain frantically searching for words, any words. "I, uh... yeah. I guess.”
Gayle's smile faltered slightly. She soldiered on, undeterred. "So, how you know Vic?”
Keshawn took another gulp of his drink, praying for divine intervention. "Umm, he’s my cousin.”
The awkward silence stretched between them like a rubber band ready to snap. Gayle’s initial attraction was now overcome by her frustration as she continued to chew her bubble gum, “You not like SPED or nothing, are you?”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she laughed, placing a hand on his chest, “Ooh, and you strong too.”
And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd.
…
“Stop telling people you my cousin if you’re going to bitch out like that," Vic cackled, slapping the steering wheel. "And then you just stood there like a statue! I thought you were gonna turn to stone or some shit."
Keshawn groaned, sinking lower in his seat. "Shut up, man. I don’t know, she was just aggressive with it.”
"Motherfucker, you scared of pussy," Vic continued, his laughter echoing through the car. "Gayle ass definitely something wicked but she wasn’t even applying pressure on your ass, for real.”
From the passenger seat, Angela rolled her eyes. "Leave him alone, Vic. It's not like Gayle's worth a damn anyway. Don’t worry about it, Keshawn, you don’t want any of that anyway.”
Vic raised an eyebrow, glancing at Angela in the rearview mirror. "I ain’t saying she is but goddamn, the motherfucker only knows his hand.”
Angela scoffed. "His hand is better than a certified hoot rat, that’s for sure. Girl's been passed around more times than six heads on a blunt.”
Keshawn perked up slightly, a mix of curiosity and relief in his eyes. "For real?"
"For real, for real," Angela nodded emphatically.
Vic whistled low. "That’s hate, hate, hate! I don’t even think Gayle get down like that for real. She’s just…Gayle so motherfuckers just put bodies on her when they want to say they smashed something.”
“Fuck you defending her for? You want seconds?” Angela shot back, always doubting Vic’s version of what happened their freshmen when they went in the closet during Seven Minutes of Heaven.
Keshawn couldn't help but chuckle, relieved that the attention was off him.
“See what you’re causing? Problems in my home,” Vic shook his head, “I gave this motherfucker like ten assists tonight and that’s how he pays me back.”
As they pulled up to the curb, the muffled thump of music could be heard from inside the house. Colorful lights flashed in the windows, and a steady stream of people flowed in and out of the front door.
“Shit, your crib was like this?” Angela asked as she turned around to face Keshawn in the backseat.
“Yeah, rich ass nigga,” Vic answered for him, “You gonna find your way home? I don’t think PD gonna take too kindly to my ass showing up here at two in the fucking morning.”
“Yeah,” Keshawn answered as he hurried out of the door, anxious for a glimpse back into his old life.
…
The party was in full swing, with his old classmates milling about in designer clothes that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe. He felt suddenly self-conscious in his Nike hoodie and jeans.
"Keshawn! My man!" Trevor, his former lab partner, stumbled over, clearly a few drinks deep. "Dude, we've missed you! How's life in the 'hood?"
Keshawn forced a smile, already regretting his decision to answer Tanner’s text. "It's fine, bro.”
"Right, right," Trevor nodded, not really listening. "But like, have you seen any drive-bys? You’re not in a gang already, are you?”
Before Keshawn could answer, Melissa chimed in, her eyes wide with morbid fascination. "They don’t really have metal detectors do they? Or maybe you would want that, I don’t know."
Keshawn felt his jaw clench. "No, we don't have metal detectors. It's just a normal school."
But his words fell on deaf ears as more of his old friends gathered around, peppering him with questions that ranged from ignorant to outright offensive.
"Do they even have AP classes there?"
"I bet you're like, the smartest kid in the whole school now, right?"
Each question grated on Keshawn's nerves, his frustration building like a pressure cooker. As uncomfortable as he was at the previous party, this was somehow worse. With the drink in his hand down to its last sip, he managed to slip out of the house.
Keshawn started walking, not really sure where he was going. He just knew he needed to get away from there. The streets were quiet, the perfectly manicured lawns and luxury cars a stark contrast to his new neighborhood.
He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice the police cruiser that had been following him for a few blocks, practically as soon as he left the house. It kept its sirens off but turned on it’s lights, honking towards Keshawn to get his attention. His heart began to race, pounding against his ribcage like a trapped bird. The cool night air suddenly felt thick and oppressive.
The middle aged officer stepped out of the vehicle, his polished boots crunching on the perfectly manicured grass. His hand rested casually on his utility belt, inches from his holstered weapon. The streetlights glinted off his badge, a stark reminder of the power dynamic at play.
"You didn’t see me there, buddy?" he called out, his voice carrying a forced friendliness that did little to mask the underlying suspicion. "Do you live around here?"
Keshawn swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "No, sir. I'm just leaving a party. My friend lives-"
"I'm going to need to see some ID," the officer cut him off, his tone brooking no argument.
"Officer, I used to live here," Keshawn began, his voice cracking slightly. "I was just at my friend’s house-”
"Stop talking and show me your ID," the office barked, any façade of friendliness evaporating like morning dew. "Now."
Neighborhood.
Damn now that boy about to be a hashtag.
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 14
"I can't believe you just left him there" Eleanora hissed at her son sitting in the passenger seat, her voice a mixture of disappointment and fury. "I don’t expect him to know any better but you should!”
Vic remained silent, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller. The weight of his mother's words pressed down on him like a heavy blanket.
Keshawn fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, still processing the whirlwind of events that had unfolded at the police station. His mind raced, replaying the moment when the officers had approached them, the cold metal of the handcuffs against his wrists, and the surprising calm that had washed over him during the entire ordeal. He kept waiting for the fear and anxiety to set in but it never did. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the surreal nature of it all but truth be told, he was at peace the entire time.
"I mean, honestly," Eleanora continued, her words punctuated by sharp turns of the steering wheel, "What the fuck did you think was going to happen?”
He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it, knowing that any attempt at explanation would only fuel her tirade.
Keshawn, unable to contain himself any longer, blurted out, "It's fine, Auntie, I’m the one that told him to drop me off. I just wanted to hang out with my friends for a little bit, I didn’t think-”
Eleanora's eyes darted to Keshawn, her expression softening slightly. "That's not the point, Ke. You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. What were you going to do, walk all the way back to Baldwin?"
“I don’t know,” Keshawn shrugged, “I just went for a walk."
“I guess we’re rubbing off on you and the cops can smell it,” Vic scoffed, his mother failing to find the humor in his comment, “What? He spends an hour in a police station — not even a cell — and it’s the end of the world but you don’t even visit Trey?”
Keshawn felt out of place as the two exchanged looks up front, unspoken words hanging in the air between them.
“Your brother put himself in that cell,” Eleanora countered, “And you’re lucky they didn’t say anything about that alcohol on y'all breath either, drinking that cheap ass liquor.”
…
"But we can't just let this shit slide, Vic!" Angela exclaimed, her eyes blazing with the fire of injustice. "Keshawn was detained for no reason other than existing while Black. That was the whole point of starting Children of the Movement!”
“Ain’t it called The Black Excellence or some shit now?” Vic teased, changing his tone at the sight of her furrowed brow, “Look, Ange, I get it. What happened to Keshawn was messed up but it's not like he was arrested or anything. They just held him for a bit and let him go. It happens all the time."
Angela's eyes narrowed. "That's exactly the problem! It shouldn't happen at all, let alone 'all the time.' We need to do something, y’all especially need to do something!”
Vic felt his stomach drop at the suggestion. "Are you serious? Babe, we've only got three games left. Three games to make an impression on the scouts, try to get a scholarship out this bitch. Ain’t nobody doing nothing because the motherfucker was in a neighborhood he had no business being, which I should have known better."
“You sound just like them,” she shook her head, “Why wait until some shit bad happens for us to take a stand? That was the whole fucking point of starting this club.”
"It's not that simple," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can't change the world overnight, Ange. Me taking a stand, taking a knee, whatever, ain’t gonna change shit. You doing, whatever, ain’t gonna change shit. Me getting a scholarship and getting the fuck up out of here? Yeah, that’s change. Same for you, same for Ke, same for everybody. You’re the one that’s always talking about we can’t sit around waiting for white people to save us.”
Angela opened her mouth to argue, but Vic cut her off. "Look, I get it, I really do, okay? But he’s my cousin and I fucked up letting it happen so if you want to get mad at somebody, get mad at me. Although, you didn’t seem that mad that night.”
Angela studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face. Finally, she cracked a smile. "So you’re saying this good-good is the reason why he got arrested?”
…
Coach Stewie's voice boomed from the sidelines, urging them to push the tempo. Keshawn's legs felt like lead, each step a Herculean effort as he fought against the fatigue that had settled deep in his bones.
Vic initiated the pick-and-roll, calling for a high screen from Keshawn. As Vic's defender fought through the pick, Keshawn took longer than anticipated to slip out, allowing his man to recover. The window of opportunity closed, and Vic found himself trapped near the half-court line, his dribble becoming more frantic.
"Move the ball!" Coach Hopkins bellowed, his frustration palpable.
Vic forced a pass to the wing, but it was telegraphed, easily intercepted by the opposing team's lanky small forward. As he sprinted back on defense, Keshawn's lungs burned. The season had taken its toll, each game and practice chipping away at his reserves. The 5 AM wake-up calls with Vic to run through their morning routine, followed by a full day of classes and evening practices, had left him perpetually exhausted.
There were no more Normatecs, no more ice baths, no more massages using his dad’s gym membership. A pack of ice was his only refuge.
On the next possession, Keshawn set up in the corner, ready for a catch-and-drive opportunity. The ball swung his way, and he rose up for the three-pointer, not wanting to exert the energy it would take to get to the lane. But his legs betrayed him, the shot falling short and clanging off the front of the rim.
After another basket by the opposition, Coach Hopkins called a timeout, and Keshawn trudged to the bench, his head hanging low. He could feel the weight of his teammates' expectations pressing down on him, having played well in their last few games. As he gulped water from his bottle, his mind drifted to the incident at the police station, the memory still fresh and raw.
The gravity of the situation had began to weigh on him, understanding just how close he came to potentially being the next face in a long line of others that came before him. But truth be told, selfishly and shamefully, he was more upset by the fact that the cop didn’t think he looked like belonged. What was it about him that no longer fit the manicured picture he was once featured in?
He also thought about his parents, how that situation wasn't just a momentary hassle but their reality, waking up each day a warden of the state.
"Chase, you with us?" Coach Stewie's voice snapped him back to reality. "Come on, man, wake up!"
…
Shawn shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic bleacher seat, his fingers flying across his phone screen. "Can't believe I drove all the way out here for this," he typed to his friend. "Kid's playing like he's got concrete in his shoes."
The local reporter had been impressed by Keshawn's performance against Westchester earlier in the month - a fluid athlete with defensive skills that would earn him minutes at a mid-major as a high school junior. But tonight? It was like watching a completely different player. Shawn's eyes darted between the court and his phone, debating whether to cut his losses and head home early and catch the second half of another game somewhere else.
Down on the court, Keshawn received the ball on the wing. He pump-faked, his defender biting just enough to create space. He dribbled once, twice, gathering himself for the shot. The crowd held its collective breath as the ball arced through the air - and then let out a groan as it bounced off the rim, not even grazing the net.
"Take that boy out!" Fat Stacks' voice boomed from a few rows behind Shawn. "He killing us!”
Shawn winced at the harshness of the heckle. He'd encountered Fat Stacks at games before - a former player himself, now reduced to living vicariously through the current crop of high school players. His heckling was legendary, often cruel, but usually tinged with a grain of truth. His reputation off the court also preceded him so no one ever said anything back.
But before Fat Stacks could continue his tirade, another voice cut through the air.
"Shut up!" Gayle shouted from across the bleachers. "You washed up hoopers always talking! My cousin said you was sorry, anyway!”
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Shawn couldn't help but smirk.
Fat Stacks let out a cackle, always up for a back and forth. "Man, I’ll bust their ass right now! Coach, put me in! I'll give you fifteen and ten right now!”
"You going to break your hip just getting down there," Gayle shot back. "They don’t call you Fat Stacks for nothing, fat boy!”
The crowd's attention ping-ponged between the court and the verbal sparring match in the stands. Shawn found himself torn between amusement at the spectacle and frustration at the distraction from the game. He turned back to his phone, fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to decide how to frame this bizarre night in his article.
As the banter between Fat Stacks and Gayle escalated, Keshawn couldn't help but overhear. Despite his frustration, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The absurdity of the situation struck him as hilarious, definitely not something he’d have experienced back at Thornwood Prep. A chuckle escaped his lips, then another, until he found himself laughing outright.
His teammates looked at him, puzzled, but Keshawn's laughter was infectious. Soon, Vic was grinning too, and the tension that had gripped the team began to dissipate.
"Alright, alright," Coach Hopkins called, fighting back a smile of his own. "Let's refocus. Come on guys, we got this, alright?”
As the ball was inbounded, Keshawn felt lighter, the weight of expectation and recent events reminding him he was just playing a game. He took a deep breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he moved into position.
The opposing point guard brought the ball up court, coordinating the offense as they sprung into action. As he tried to throw the ball into the post, Keshawn pounced, his quick hands deflecting the ball. He scooped it up and took off down the court, his legs suddenly feeling fresh and springy.
Two defenders converged on him as he approached the basket. In a split second decision, Keshawn euro-stepped, freezing the first defender before gliding past the second for a smooth finger roll. The ball kissed off the backboard and dropped through the net.
The crowd erupted, and Keshawn felt a surge of energy course through him. On the next defensive possession, he fought through a screen, staying tight on his man and forcing a contested shot that clanged off the rim. He secured the rebound and hit Vic with an outlet pass.
This time, Vic slowed the pace, setting up the offense. He called for a high pick-and-roll with Keshawn, using the screen to create space. As the defense collapsed to deny the entry pass to Keshawn, he whipped a no-look pass to A.J., where he teammate was wide open for three. Swish.
The momentum had shifted. Keshawn was everywhere on defense, his lateral quickness on full display as he hounded ball handlers and disrupted passing lanes. On offense, he orchestrated the attack with precision, alternating between aggressive drives to the hoop and crafty passes to open teammates when he got doubled in the paint.
With two minutes left in the game, they had clawed back to within three points. Vic dribbled at the top of the key, his eyes darting between his teammates as they ran through their offensive sets. The opposing team's defense was tight, denying passing lanes and sticking close to shooters. With the shot clock winding down, Vic nodded to Keshawn, who set a solid screen on Vic's defender.
As Vic used the pick to drive right, two defenders collapsed on him. In a lightning-quick move, he whipped a behind-the-back pass to Keshawn, who had slipped the screen and was rolling to the basket. Keshawn caught the ball in stride, took one power dribble, and exploded towards the rim. The help defense rotated, but a fraction too late. Keshawn double-clutched in mid-air, absorbing contact from the rotating big man, and somehow managed to kiss the ball off the glass and through the hoop.
The whistle blew. And-one.
The crowd erupted as Keshawn pumped his fist, the energy in the gym electric. He took a deep breath, bouncing the ball three times before letting it fly. The free throw arced through the air, hanging for what seemed like an eternity before dropping cleanly through the net. Tie game.
On the ensuing possession, the opposing team worked the ball around the perimeter, trying to find a crack in the defense. Keshawn hounded his man, denying him the ball, while Vic applied relentless on-ball pressure. With five seconds left on the shot clock, their point guard was forced to hoist up a contested three-pointer. The shot clanged off the back iron, and Keshawn soared for the rebound, securing it with both hands.
Vic brought the ball up court, the seconds ticking away. He signaled for a high screen from Keshawn, using it to create space as he dribbled to his left. The defense sagged, anticipating a drive. Instead, Vic stepped back behind the three-point line, rising up for a shot.
Time seemed to slow as the ball left his hands. The defender, realizing his mistake too late, lunged forward, crashing into Vic as he landed. The whistle blew just as the ball reached its apex.
The gym held its collective breath as the shot descended. It hit the front of the rim, bounced high, teetered on the edge for a heart-stopping moment, and then finally, mercifully, dropped through the net.
"I can't believe you just left him there" Eleanora hissed at her son sitting in the passenger seat, her voice a mixture of disappointment and fury. "I don’t expect him to know any better but you should!”
Vic remained silent, his shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller. The weight of his mother's words pressed down on him like a heavy blanket.
Keshawn fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, still processing the whirlwind of events that had unfolded at the police station. His mind raced, replaying the moment when the officers had approached them, the cold metal of the handcuffs against his wrists, and the surprising calm that had washed over him during the entire ordeal. He kept waiting for the fear and anxiety to set in but it never did. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the surreal nature of it all but truth be told, he was at peace the entire time.
"I mean, honestly," Eleanora continued, her words punctuated by sharp turns of the steering wheel, "What the fuck did you think was going to happen?”
He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it, knowing that any attempt at explanation would only fuel her tirade.
Keshawn, unable to contain himself any longer, blurted out, "It's fine, Auntie, I’m the one that told him to drop me off. I just wanted to hang out with my friends for a little bit, I didn’t think-”
Eleanora's eyes darted to Keshawn, her expression softening slightly. "That's not the point, Ke. You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. What were you going to do, walk all the way back to Baldwin?"
“I don’t know,” Keshawn shrugged, “I just went for a walk."
“I guess we’re rubbing off on you and the cops can smell it,” Vic scoffed, his mother failing to find the humor in his comment, “What? He spends an hour in a police station — not even a cell — and it’s the end of the world but you don’t even visit Trey?”
Keshawn felt out of place as the two exchanged looks up front, unspoken words hanging in the air between them.
“Your brother put himself in that cell,” Eleanora countered, “And you’re lucky they didn’t say anything about that alcohol on y'all breath either, drinking that cheap ass liquor.”
…
"But we can't just let this shit slide, Vic!" Angela exclaimed, her eyes blazing with the fire of injustice. "Keshawn was detained for no reason other than existing while Black. That was the whole point of starting Children of the Movement!”
“Ain’t it called The Black Excellence or some shit now?” Vic teased, changing his tone at the sight of her furrowed brow, “Look, Ange, I get it. What happened to Keshawn was messed up but it's not like he was arrested or anything. They just held him for a bit and let him go. It happens all the time."
Angela's eyes narrowed. "That's exactly the problem! It shouldn't happen at all, let alone 'all the time.' We need to do something, y’all especially need to do something!”
Vic felt his stomach drop at the suggestion. "Are you serious? Babe, we've only got three games left. Three games to make an impression on the scouts, try to get a scholarship out this bitch. Ain’t nobody doing nothing because the motherfucker was in a neighborhood he had no business being, which I should have known better."
“You sound just like them,” she shook her head, “Why wait until some shit bad happens for us to take a stand? That was the whole fucking point of starting this club.”
"It's not that simple," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can't change the world overnight, Ange. Me taking a stand, taking a knee, whatever, ain’t gonna change shit. You doing, whatever, ain’t gonna change shit. Me getting a scholarship and getting the fuck up out of here? Yeah, that’s change. Same for you, same for Ke, same for everybody. You’re the one that’s always talking about we can’t sit around waiting for white people to save us.”
Angela opened her mouth to argue, but Vic cut her off. "Look, I get it, I really do, okay? But he’s my cousin and I fucked up letting it happen so if you want to get mad at somebody, get mad at me. Although, you didn’t seem that mad that night.”
Angela studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face. Finally, she cracked a smile. "So you’re saying this good-good is the reason why he got arrested?”
…
Coach Stewie's voice boomed from the sidelines, urging them to push the tempo. Keshawn's legs felt like lead, each step a Herculean effort as he fought against the fatigue that had settled deep in his bones.
Vic initiated the pick-and-roll, calling for a high screen from Keshawn. As Vic's defender fought through the pick, Keshawn took longer than anticipated to slip out, allowing his man to recover. The window of opportunity closed, and Vic found himself trapped near the half-court line, his dribble becoming more frantic.
"Move the ball!" Coach Hopkins bellowed, his frustration palpable.
Vic forced a pass to the wing, but it was telegraphed, easily intercepted by the opposing team's lanky small forward. As he sprinted back on defense, Keshawn's lungs burned. The season had taken its toll, each game and practice chipping away at his reserves. The 5 AM wake-up calls with Vic to run through their morning routine, followed by a full day of classes and evening practices, had left him perpetually exhausted.
There were no more Normatecs, no more ice baths, no more massages using his dad’s gym membership. A pack of ice was his only refuge.
On the next possession, Keshawn set up in the corner, ready for a catch-and-drive opportunity. The ball swung his way, and he rose up for the three-pointer, not wanting to exert the energy it would take to get to the lane. But his legs betrayed him, the shot falling short and clanging off the front of the rim.
After another basket by the opposition, Coach Hopkins called a timeout, and Keshawn trudged to the bench, his head hanging low. He could feel the weight of his teammates' expectations pressing down on him, having played well in their last few games. As he gulped water from his bottle, his mind drifted to the incident at the police station, the memory still fresh and raw.
The gravity of the situation had began to weigh on him, understanding just how close he came to potentially being the next face in a long line of others that came before him. But truth be told, selfishly and shamefully, he was more upset by the fact that the cop didn’t think he looked like belonged. What was it about him that no longer fit the manicured picture he was once featured in?
He also thought about his parents, how that situation wasn't just a momentary hassle but their reality, waking up each day a warden of the state.
"Chase, you with us?" Coach Stewie's voice snapped him back to reality. "Come on, man, wake up!"
…
Shawn shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic bleacher seat, his fingers flying across his phone screen. "Can't believe I drove all the way out here for this," he typed to his friend. "Kid's playing like he's got concrete in his shoes."
The local reporter had been impressed by Keshawn's performance against Westchester earlier in the month - a fluid athlete with defensive skills that would earn him minutes at a mid-major as a high school junior. But tonight? It was like watching a completely different player. Shawn's eyes darted between the court and his phone, debating whether to cut his losses and head home early and catch the second half of another game somewhere else.
Down on the court, Keshawn received the ball on the wing. He pump-faked, his defender biting just enough to create space. He dribbled once, twice, gathering himself for the shot. The crowd held its collective breath as the ball arced through the air - and then let out a groan as it bounced off the rim, not even grazing the net.
"Take that boy out!" Fat Stacks' voice boomed from a few rows behind Shawn. "He killing us!”
Shawn winced at the harshness of the heckle. He'd encountered Fat Stacks at games before - a former player himself, now reduced to living vicariously through the current crop of high school players. His heckling was legendary, often cruel, but usually tinged with a grain of truth. His reputation off the court also preceded him so no one ever said anything back.
But before Fat Stacks could continue his tirade, another voice cut through the air.
"Shut up!" Gayle shouted from across the bleachers. "You washed up hoopers always talking! My cousin said you was sorry, anyway!”
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. Shawn couldn't help but smirk.
Fat Stacks let out a cackle, always up for a back and forth. "Man, I’ll bust their ass right now! Coach, put me in! I'll give you fifteen and ten right now!”
"You going to break your hip just getting down there," Gayle shot back. "They don’t call you Fat Stacks for nothing, fat boy!”
The crowd's attention ping-ponged between the court and the verbal sparring match in the stands. Shawn found himself torn between amusement at the spectacle and frustration at the distraction from the game. He turned back to his phone, fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to decide how to frame this bizarre night in his article.
As the banter between Fat Stacks and Gayle escalated, Keshawn couldn't help but overhear. Despite his frustration, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The absurdity of the situation struck him as hilarious, definitely not something he’d have experienced back at Thornwood Prep. A chuckle escaped his lips, then another, until he found himself laughing outright.
His teammates looked at him, puzzled, but Keshawn's laughter was infectious. Soon, Vic was grinning too, and the tension that had gripped the team began to dissipate.
"Alright, alright," Coach Hopkins called, fighting back a smile of his own. "Let's refocus. Come on guys, we got this, alright?”
As the ball was inbounded, Keshawn felt lighter, the weight of expectation and recent events reminding him he was just playing a game. He took a deep breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he moved into position.
The opposing point guard brought the ball up court, coordinating the offense as they sprung into action. As he tried to throw the ball into the post, Keshawn pounced, his quick hands deflecting the ball. He scooped it up and took off down the court, his legs suddenly feeling fresh and springy.
Two defenders converged on him as he approached the basket. In a split second decision, Keshawn euro-stepped, freezing the first defender before gliding past the second for a smooth finger roll. The ball kissed off the backboard and dropped through the net.
The crowd erupted, and Keshawn felt a surge of energy course through him. On the next defensive possession, he fought through a screen, staying tight on his man and forcing a contested shot that clanged off the rim. He secured the rebound and hit Vic with an outlet pass.
This time, Vic slowed the pace, setting up the offense. He called for a high pick-and-roll with Keshawn, using the screen to create space. As the defense collapsed to deny the entry pass to Keshawn, he whipped a no-look pass to A.J., where he teammate was wide open for three. Swish.
The momentum had shifted. Keshawn was everywhere on defense, his lateral quickness on full display as he hounded ball handlers and disrupted passing lanes. On offense, he orchestrated the attack with precision, alternating between aggressive drives to the hoop and crafty passes to open teammates when he got doubled in the paint.
With two minutes left in the game, they had clawed back to within three points. Vic dribbled at the top of the key, his eyes darting between his teammates as they ran through their offensive sets. The opposing team's defense was tight, denying passing lanes and sticking close to shooters. With the shot clock winding down, Vic nodded to Keshawn, who set a solid screen on Vic's defender.
As Vic used the pick to drive right, two defenders collapsed on him. In a lightning-quick move, he whipped a behind-the-back pass to Keshawn, who had slipped the screen and was rolling to the basket. Keshawn caught the ball in stride, took one power dribble, and exploded towards the rim. The help defense rotated, but a fraction too late. Keshawn double-clutched in mid-air, absorbing contact from the rotating big man, and somehow managed to kiss the ball off the glass and through the hoop.
The whistle blew. And-one.
The crowd erupted as Keshawn pumped his fist, the energy in the gym electric. He took a deep breath, bouncing the ball three times before letting it fly. The free throw arced through the air, hanging for what seemed like an eternity before dropping cleanly through the net. Tie game.
On the ensuing possession, the opposing team worked the ball around the perimeter, trying to find a crack in the defense. Keshawn hounded his man, denying him the ball, while Vic applied relentless on-ball pressure. With five seconds left on the shot clock, their point guard was forced to hoist up a contested three-pointer. The shot clanged off the back iron, and Keshawn soared for the rebound, securing it with both hands.
Vic brought the ball up court, the seconds ticking away. He signaled for a high screen from Keshawn, using it to create space as he dribbled to his left. The defense sagged, anticipating a drive. Instead, Vic stepped back behind the three-point line, rising up for a shot.
Time seemed to slow as the ball left his hands. The defender, realizing his mistake too late, lunged forward, crashing into Vic as he landed. The whistle blew just as the ball reached its apex.
The gym held its collective breath as the shot descended. It hit the front of the rim, bounced high, teetered on the edge for a heart-stopping moment, and then finally, mercifully, dropped through the net.
Neighborhood.
Angela gotta go
Neighborhood.
From the Westside with Love - Episode 15 (Season Finale)
The smell of sizzling hot dogs and burgers wafted through the crisp winter air as Angela surveyed the scene before her. The Black Experience's tailgate party was in full swing, a sea of green and white team colors stretching across the parking lot outside Hamilton High School.
Angela sighed, clipboard clutched tightly to her chest. She'd spent weeks planning this community outreach event, and now it seemed like no one gave a damn. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Jamal and Keisha, usually reliable members of the club, engrossed in an intense game of cornhole instead of helping her recruit volunteers.
"Yo, Angela!" Tyrell called out, waving a spatula. "You want a burger or what? These bad boys are going fast!"
She forced a smile. "Maybe later, thanks."
Weaving through the crowd, Angela approached a group of giggling freshmen. "Hey guys! Have you heard about our upcoming--"
"You’re cool with Keshawn, right?” one of them asked, “Gayle ain’t really his girl, is she?”
“No, she doesn’t,” she rolled her eyes. "Ladies, I was wondering if you'd be interested in--"
But they had already scampered off, leaving Angela alone with her neglected sign-up sheet.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, scowling at the raucous crowd, “They’re not even making the playoffs.”
Angela pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. She spotted Tasha, expertly flipping burgers alongside Tyrell and made her way over.
"Please tell me you've had better luck than I have," Angela pleaded, leaning against the folding table that served as their makeshift grill station.
Tasha shot her a sympathetic look. "Sorry, girl. I've been trying, but..." She gestured vaguely at the party around them. "You know how it is. I mean, when was the last time we had a shot at beating Westchester? It don’t hurt that I wouldn’t mind letting Tajh and Keshawn…”
"They’re not even that fine," Angela scoffed, “Don’t you got a man?”
"What that got to do with anything?” Tasha laughed, “Shit, he can watch.”
…
With a lightning-quick crossover, Tajh blew past his defender, driving hard to the basket. Keshawn rotated, trying to cut off the lane, but Tajh was already airborne. He cocked the ball back with both hands, soaring over Keshawn's outstretched arms.
The rim rattled as Tajh threw down a thunderous two-handed slam, his momentum carrying him into Keshawn and sending the bigger player sprawling. Tahj landed on his feet, towering over his fallen opponent.
"Ayyyy!" Tajh roared, flexing his biceps as the traveling fans erupted.
Keshawn sprang up, his face contorted with rage. He shoved Tahj hard in the chest, sending him stumbling backward and crashing to the floor.
The gym exploded into chaos. Players from both teams rushed to separate the two, while fans screamed and jeered from the bleachers.
"Try that shit again, bitch ass nigga!" Keshawn yelled, struggling against his teammates' restraining arms as the words came out of his mouth more naturally now.
"Scoreboard, bitch!" Tajh shot back, being held back as well.
"Yeah, forty-four!” Fat Stacks encouraged from the sidelines, “Y’all in The Jungle now, motherfucker! East Side shit!”
The referees converged at center court, conferring briefly before approaching the scorer's table. The head official raised his arms, signaling a double technical foul.
"Technical foul, number 44 white, number 4 black," he announced, pointing to Keshawn and Tajh in turn.
As the game went on, the intensity ratcheted up to another level. Tajh and Keshawn locked eyes on every possession, a silent challenge passing between them. The rest of the players seemed to fade into the background as the two stars took center stage.
Tajh caught the inbound pass and immediately went to work. He sized up Keshawn, his dribble low and controlled. With a lightning-quick hesitation move, Tajh created just enough space to rise up for a silky-smooth jumper from the elbow. The ball arced through the air, swishing through the net with a satisfying snap.
Not to be outdone, Keshawn demanded the ball on the other end. He backed Tajh down in the post, using his superior strength to create space. With a quick spin move, Keshawn dropped a soft baby hook over Tajh's outstretched fingers.
The crowd was on its feet now, sensing the personal duel unfolding before them. Possession after possession, Tajh and Keshawn traded baskets and defensive stops. Their teammates seemed content to watch the show, clearing out to give the two stars room to operate.
Tajh showcased his entire offensive repertoire – step-back threes, acrobatic finishes at the rim, and precise mid-range pull-ups. His footwork was impeccable, each move flowing seamlessly into the next as he danced around Keshawn's defense.
But Keshawn was no slouch either. He used his strength to bully Tajh in the post, scoring with an array of drop steps, up-and-unders, and power moves. When Tajh sagged off to protect against the drive, Keshawn made him pay with a surprisingly soft touch from beyond the arc.
The game became a chess match, each player trying to anticipate and counter the other's moves. Tajh would use a lightning-quick first step to blow by Keshawn, only for the bigger player to recover and swat his shot off the backboard. Keshawn would back Tajh down, looking for that baby hook, but Tajh would time his jump perfectly to get a piece of the ball.
As the game wound down, both players were drenched in sweat, chests heaving with exertion. The score remained tight as Westchester was unable to pull away. The crowd was in a frenzy, alternating between chants of "De-fense!" and gasps of awe at each spectacular play.
With just under a minute left, Tajh received the inbounds pass and immediately went into attack mode. He sized up Keshawn at the top of the key, his dribble low and tight. With a lightning-quick hesitation move, Tajh exploded towards the basket, his first step leaving Keshawn momentarily flat-footed.
The crowd held its breath as Tajh appeared to have a clear path to the rim. But Keshawn's recovery was explosive. In two long strides, he was back in position, his arms outstretched to cut off Tajh's driving lane. As Tajh gathered for what looked to be a acrobatic layup attempt, Vic had jumped into the lane, poking the ball out from Tajh’s possession.
In one fluid motion, Vic pivoted and launched a rocket of an outlet pass. The ball sailed over the outstretched arms of Tajh's teammates, finding Keshawn in stride just past half-court. As he caught the pass, Keshawn's eyes locked onto the stands, seeking out one face in particular.
There she was – Gayle, leaning forward in her seat, eyes wide with anticipation. A cocky grin spread across Keshawn's face as he accelerated towards the hoop, his powerful strides eating up the court in seconds. Westchester, caught flat-footed by the sudden turnover, could only watch helplessly as Keshawn approached the paint.
With a burst of explosive athleticism, Keshawn launched himself skyward. But instead of going straight for the rim, he tossed the ball high off the backboard. H
e had been practicing the move the past few weeks during the early morning sessions with Vic, almost serving as a treat at the end of their workouts. The success rate was middling at the best but the brief shared moment with Gayle gave him all the confidence he needed.
Time seemed to slow as the ball arced through the air, spinning lazily as it rebounded off the glass. Keshawn's leap carried him to an impossible height, his head nearly level with the rim. As the ball descended, he snatched it out of the air with both hands. In a display of jaw-dropping body control, Keshawn whipped the ball between his legs in mid-air, transferring it from his right hand to his left.
The crowd erupted as Keshawn hammered home a thunderous one-handed slam, the force of his dunk shaking the entire backboard. He hung on the rim for a moment, legs swinging, before dropping back to earth.
The gym was absolute pandemonium as Fat Stacks stood to his feet, throwing up his set directed towards the visiting section from Westchester, “Real East Side shit, nigga! Jungle Stone that’s on Blood, fuck nigga!”
As Fat Stacks' words echoed through the gymnasium, the atmosphere shifted palpably. The refs exchanged worried glances, their whistles poised at their lips. In a matter of seconds, two uniformed officers who had been stationed near the entrance made their way onto the court, hands hovering near their belts. This is what they had been worried about with so much anticipation heading into the game.
"All right, let's everybody calm down now," the taller officer announced, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd. His partner spoke quietly into his radio, calling for backup.
Meanwhile, Keshawn's teammates were lost in a frenzy of celebration. They swarmed around him, slapping his back and chest, their faces contorted in expressions of disbelief and joy. Vic, who had seen him try and fail that dunk countless of times, was jumping up and down, screaming, "I told you they can’t fuck with you!”
Through the sea of bodies, Keshawn's eyes sought out Gayle. He found her in the stands, her hand covering her mouth in shock as she — and many others — still couldn’t believe what they had witnessed. For a moment, their gazes locked, and Keshawn felt a surge of confidence unlike anything he'd experienced before. He flexed his arms, his biceps bulging beneath his sweat-soaked jersey, a cocky grin spreading across his face.
The cops were now at center court, trying to restore order. "We need everyone to return to their seats immediately," the shorter officer commanded, his voice stern but tinged with nervousness.
Fat Stacks, still on his feet, continued to throw up his set. "East Side run this shit!"
The refs huddled together, then approached the scorer's table. The head official raised his arms, signaling for silence. "Due to security concerns, we are temporarily suspending play. All players, please return to your benches."
Keshawn's teammates were still celebrating, oblivious to the growing tension. As more officers filed into the gym, the crowd's mood began to shift from excitement to unease. Parents were ushering their younger children towards the exits, while others stood their ground, shouting protests at the police presence.
Through it all, Keshawn remained in the eye of the storm. He was still locked in a staring contest with Gayle, his chest heaving from exertion and adrenaline. He flexed again, this time adding a wink that made Gayle blush and look towards her friend, giggling like a school girl. In that moment, Keshawn knew something had fundamentally changed. Whatever happened next – whether the game resumed or was called off entirely – he had made his mark.
Not far behind her was Angela as she stood transfixed, her clipboard forgotten at her side. The chaos around her seemed to fade into the background as she watched Keshawn bask in the aftermath. The way he commanded attention, not just from his teammates but from everyone in the gym, was mesmerizing. Even as the police tried to restore order, all eyes were on Keshawn. He stood there, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his dark skin, a living embodiment of raw power and athleticism that had always been a focal point of the Black experience.
Maybe Vic had been right all along. Maybe there was something special about him.
The smell of sizzling hot dogs and burgers wafted through the crisp winter air as Angela surveyed the scene before her. The Black Experience's tailgate party was in full swing, a sea of green and white team colors stretching across the parking lot outside Hamilton High School.
Angela sighed, clipboard clutched tightly to her chest. She'd spent weeks planning this community outreach event, and now it seemed like no one gave a damn. Her eyes narrowed as she watched Jamal and Keisha, usually reliable members of the club, engrossed in an intense game of cornhole instead of helping her recruit volunteers.
"Yo, Angela!" Tyrell called out, waving a spatula. "You want a burger or what? These bad boys are going fast!"
She forced a smile. "Maybe later, thanks."
Weaving through the crowd, Angela approached a group of giggling freshmen. "Hey guys! Have you heard about our upcoming--"
"You’re cool with Keshawn, right?” one of them asked, “Gayle ain’t really his girl, is she?”
“No, she doesn’t,” she rolled her eyes. "Ladies, I was wondering if you'd be interested in--"
But they had already scampered off, leaving Angela alone with her neglected sign-up sheet.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, scowling at the raucous crowd, “They’re not even making the playoffs.”
Angela pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. She spotted Tasha, expertly flipping burgers alongside Tyrell and made her way over.
"Please tell me you've had better luck than I have," Angela pleaded, leaning against the folding table that served as their makeshift grill station.
Tasha shot her a sympathetic look. "Sorry, girl. I've been trying, but..." She gestured vaguely at the party around them. "You know how it is. I mean, when was the last time we had a shot at beating Westchester? It don’t hurt that I wouldn’t mind letting Tajh and Keshawn…”
"They’re not even that fine," Angela scoffed, “Don’t you got a man?”
"What that got to do with anything?” Tasha laughed, “Shit, he can watch.”
…
With a lightning-quick crossover, Tajh blew past his defender, driving hard to the basket. Keshawn rotated, trying to cut off the lane, but Tajh was already airborne. He cocked the ball back with both hands, soaring over Keshawn's outstretched arms.
The rim rattled as Tajh threw down a thunderous two-handed slam, his momentum carrying him into Keshawn and sending the bigger player sprawling. Tahj landed on his feet, towering over his fallen opponent.
"Ayyyy!" Tajh roared, flexing his biceps as the traveling fans erupted.
Keshawn sprang up, his face contorted with rage. He shoved Tahj hard in the chest, sending him stumbling backward and crashing to the floor.
The gym exploded into chaos. Players from both teams rushed to separate the two, while fans screamed and jeered from the bleachers.
"Try that shit again, bitch ass nigga!" Keshawn yelled, struggling against his teammates' restraining arms as the words came out of his mouth more naturally now.
"Scoreboard, bitch!" Tajh shot back, being held back as well.
"Yeah, forty-four!” Fat Stacks encouraged from the sidelines, “Y’all in The Jungle now, motherfucker! East Side shit!”
The referees converged at center court, conferring briefly before approaching the scorer's table. The head official raised his arms, signaling a double technical foul.
"Technical foul, number 44 white, number 4 black," he announced, pointing to Keshawn and Tajh in turn.
As the game went on, the intensity ratcheted up to another level. Tajh and Keshawn locked eyes on every possession, a silent challenge passing between them. The rest of the players seemed to fade into the background as the two stars took center stage.
Tajh caught the inbound pass and immediately went to work. He sized up Keshawn, his dribble low and controlled. With a lightning-quick hesitation move, Tajh created just enough space to rise up for a silky-smooth jumper from the elbow. The ball arced through the air, swishing through the net with a satisfying snap.
Not to be outdone, Keshawn demanded the ball on the other end. He backed Tajh down in the post, using his superior strength to create space. With a quick spin move, Keshawn dropped a soft baby hook over Tajh's outstretched fingers.
The crowd was on its feet now, sensing the personal duel unfolding before them. Possession after possession, Tajh and Keshawn traded baskets and defensive stops. Their teammates seemed content to watch the show, clearing out to give the two stars room to operate.
Tajh showcased his entire offensive repertoire – step-back threes, acrobatic finishes at the rim, and precise mid-range pull-ups. His footwork was impeccable, each move flowing seamlessly into the next as he danced around Keshawn's defense.
But Keshawn was no slouch either. He used his strength to bully Tajh in the post, scoring with an array of drop steps, up-and-unders, and power moves. When Tajh sagged off to protect against the drive, Keshawn made him pay with a surprisingly soft touch from beyond the arc.
The game became a chess match, each player trying to anticipate and counter the other's moves. Tajh would use a lightning-quick first step to blow by Keshawn, only for the bigger player to recover and swat his shot off the backboard. Keshawn would back Tajh down, looking for that baby hook, but Tajh would time his jump perfectly to get a piece of the ball.
As the game wound down, both players were drenched in sweat, chests heaving with exertion. The score remained tight as Westchester was unable to pull away. The crowd was in a frenzy, alternating between chants of "De-fense!" and gasps of awe at each spectacular play.
With just under a minute left, Tajh received the inbounds pass and immediately went into attack mode. He sized up Keshawn at the top of the key, his dribble low and tight. With a lightning-quick hesitation move, Tajh exploded towards the basket, his first step leaving Keshawn momentarily flat-footed.
The crowd held its breath as Tajh appeared to have a clear path to the rim. But Keshawn's recovery was explosive. In two long strides, he was back in position, his arms outstretched to cut off Tajh's driving lane. As Tajh gathered for what looked to be a acrobatic layup attempt, Vic had jumped into the lane, poking the ball out from Tajh’s possession.
In one fluid motion, Vic pivoted and launched a rocket of an outlet pass. The ball sailed over the outstretched arms of Tajh's teammates, finding Keshawn in stride just past half-court. As he caught the pass, Keshawn's eyes locked onto the stands, seeking out one face in particular.
There she was – Gayle, leaning forward in her seat, eyes wide with anticipation. A cocky grin spread across Keshawn's face as he accelerated towards the hoop, his powerful strides eating up the court in seconds. Westchester, caught flat-footed by the sudden turnover, could only watch helplessly as Keshawn approached the paint.
With a burst of explosive athleticism, Keshawn launched himself skyward. But instead of going straight for the rim, he tossed the ball high off the backboard. H
e had been practicing the move the past few weeks during the early morning sessions with Vic, almost serving as a treat at the end of their workouts. The success rate was middling at the best but the brief shared moment with Gayle gave him all the confidence he needed.
Time seemed to slow as the ball arced through the air, spinning lazily as it rebounded off the glass. Keshawn's leap carried him to an impossible height, his head nearly level with the rim. As the ball descended, he snatched it out of the air with both hands. In a display of jaw-dropping body control, Keshawn whipped the ball between his legs in mid-air, transferring it from his right hand to his left.
The crowd erupted as Keshawn hammered home a thunderous one-handed slam, the force of his dunk shaking the entire backboard. He hung on the rim for a moment, legs swinging, before dropping back to earth.
The gym was absolute pandemonium as Fat Stacks stood to his feet, throwing up his set directed towards the visiting section from Westchester, “Real East Side shit, nigga! Jungle Stone that’s on Blood, fuck nigga!”
As Fat Stacks' words echoed through the gymnasium, the atmosphere shifted palpably. The refs exchanged worried glances, their whistles poised at their lips. In a matter of seconds, two uniformed officers who had been stationed near the entrance made their way onto the court, hands hovering near their belts. This is what they had been worried about with so much anticipation heading into the game.
"All right, let's everybody calm down now," the taller officer announced, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd. His partner spoke quietly into his radio, calling for backup.
Meanwhile, Keshawn's teammates were lost in a frenzy of celebration. They swarmed around him, slapping his back and chest, their faces contorted in expressions of disbelief and joy. Vic, who had seen him try and fail that dunk countless of times, was jumping up and down, screaming, "I told you they can’t fuck with you!”
Through the sea of bodies, Keshawn's eyes sought out Gayle. He found her in the stands, her hand covering her mouth in shock as she — and many others — still couldn’t believe what they had witnessed. For a moment, their gazes locked, and Keshawn felt a surge of confidence unlike anything he'd experienced before. He flexed his arms, his biceps bulging beneath his sweat-soaked jersey, a cocky grin spreading across his face.
The cops were now at center court, trying to restore order. "We need everyone to return to their seats immediately," the shorter officer commanded, his voice stern but tinged with nervousness.
Fat Stacks, still on his feet, continued to throw up his set. "East Side run this shit!"
The refs huddled together, then approached the scorer's table. The head official raised his arms, signaling for silence. "Due to security concerns, we are temporarily suspending play. All players, please return to your benches."
Keshawn's teammates were still celebrating, oblivious to the growing tension. As more officers filed into the gym, the crowd's mood began to shift from excitement to unease. Parents were ushering their younger children towards the exits, while others stood their ground, shouting protests at the police presence.
Through it all, Keshawn remained in the eye of the storm. He was still locked in a staring contest with Gayle, his chest heaving from exertion and adrenaline. He flexed again, this time adding a wink that made Gayle blush and look towards her friend, giggling like a school girl. In that moment, Keshawn knew something had fundamentally changed. Whatever happened next – whether the game resumed or was called off entirely – he had made his mark.
Not far behind her was Angela as she stood transfixed, her clipboard forgotten at her side. The chaos around her seemed to fade into the background as she watched Keshawn bask in the aftermath. The way he commanded attention, not just from his teammates but from everyone in the gym, was mesmerizing. Even as the police tried to restore order, all eyes were on Keshawn. He stood there, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his dark skin, a living embodiment of raw power and athleticism that had always been a focal point of the Black experience.
Maybe Vic had been right all along. Maybe there was something special about him.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Angela still shady though, the agenda is plain to see