Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
9 points against Rider? Buuuuuuuuuum!
Neighborhood.
The California Student Association's bi-monthly meeting slowly started to build a crowd as students filed into the room. Angela stood at the front of the room, her natural curls framing her face as she gestured emphatically at the PowerPoint slide behind her.
"Look, I know we're all thinking about settling in, adjusting to the new semester," she said, her voice carrying across the room with practiced confidence, "But fall orientation might be the best time for us to really maximize the value that this organization has to offer to the community. My first semester here, I felt completely lost—like I was dropped on an island with no map."
Heads nodded around the room. The CSA president, a senior named Langston, leaned forward in his chair.
"What exactly are you proposing?" he asked.
"A mentor system," she replied without hesitation. "Pair each incoming freshman with a sophomore or junior who shares similar interests or backgrounds. Someone they can text when they don't know where a building is, or which professor to avoid." She clicked to the next slide, revealing a mock-up of a mobile app interface. "And we can build this into the existing campus app."
Vic smiled proudly from his seat in the back row. He'd heard Angela rehearse this pitch three times at the library, but her passion still impressed him.
"The isolation isn't just logistical," Angela continued, her voice dropping slightly. "It's cultural too. I know we think because we’re all Black we’re just going to mold together and be a perfect family but it doesn’t work like that.”
"I love this," said Tiana, the CSA's treasurer. "But what's the budget look like? I mean, building an app, maintaining it, sounds like it’s going to cost."
Angela smiled. She'd been waiting for this question. "That's the beauty of it. The app development can be done as a project by the computer science department—I've already spoken with several students that are willing to do it as their class project. The only real costs are publicity materials and maybe some kickoff events which we’re going to be hosting anyway.”
“I like her,” Tiana smiled, “What’s your name, again?”
…
Keshawn shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the plush leather seat at Mastro's feeling too fancy for his usual post-game ritual back at Hamilton of milk shake and burgers. The private dining room provided them a sense of intimacy as the room buzzed with conversation, crystal glasses clinking as servers poured wine for the adults.
"You looked like you belonged out there," Coach Bronstein announced to the table, his thick accent cutting through the ambiance. "Not bad for a freshman debut, boychick. But I need you to be more aggressive.”
"Alon," Nina chided softly, placing her hand on her husband's arm. "The boy just won his first college game, let him enjoy it."
Keshawn's father Elijah nodded appreciatively. "He needs the occasional, pardon my French here ladies, kick in the ass. I’ll be on him about his studies, you keep on him about the basketball court. Again, thanks for having us.”
"Of course," Coach Bronstein waved dismissively. "Appreciate you guys allowing us to share this moment with Keshawn and his family.”
Across the table, Nadia sat quietly, her curls framing her face as she pretended to study the menu. Keshawn caught her glance up at him for the third time in five minutes, her eyes quickly darting away when he noticed. He felt his neck warm slightly, grateful that his dark skin wouldn't betray the blush. They hadn’t spoken since the protest and when she showed up in the restaurant, he was too frazzled for a proper greeting to put away any lingering uneasiness.
"Baby, you barely touched your steak," Loraine said, nudging Keshawn's plate toward him.
"I'm good, Ma," Keshawn replied, but cut into the medium-rare filet anyway. No use arguing with Loraine Chase in public.
His sister Simone smirked knowingly beside him. "You too nervous to eat?" she whispered, nodding subtly toward Nadia.
"Shut up," Keshawn muttered, taking a deliberate bite of steak.
“I know she’s going to take my head off,” Coach Bronstein laughed, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder, “But against San Francisco? I need you to attack, boychick. There’s not a single big man on that team that can stay in front of you, not one. They’re big but they’re slow and they’re scared of playing in space. Get into them, blow past them and attack the rim. Trust me, after the first basket, they won’t keep jumping with you.”
Keshawn’s first game had gone better than he expected but instead of congratulations, it seemed that all Coach Bronstein wanted to talk about was how he needed to get better. Coach Palmer was the same when Keshawn reached the lockers after the game, telling him to be more aggressive on the boards.
…
Fat Stacks paced across the damp grass in Elysian Park, his breath visible in the cold night air.
"You're late," Morrow said, not bothering to look up from his phone. The Wood stood with his back against a tree, his white t-shirt practically glowing in the darkness, the swastika on his neck barely visible in the shadows.
"Had some shit to handle," Fat Stacks replied, scanning the perimeter for any sign of movement. "Can’t really be speeding around these parts looking like I do.”
Morrow finally pocketed his phone, his eyes cold as he assessed Fat Stacks. "Your ‘homeboy’ Trey vouched for you. That's the only reason we're having this conversation."
"Then let's not waste time. You know what I need.”
"I heard." Morrow's voice was flat, emotionless. "But I don't do charity work. Half up front."
Fat Stacks scoffed. "Half? Man, I don't even know if your shit is worth shit out in these streets.”
"Not negotiable." Morrow crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't front product to people I don't know. Especially not your kind.”
The night air grew tense as Fat Stacks weighed his options. Truth be told, he didn’t have any. He was running through the dope that Dro was supplying him as a mean of flooding the street and hurting Dro’s bottom line, creeping into his territory by undercutting him. But it also meant that profit margins were thinner and sooner or later, Dro would be wise to the situation and cut his water off. No dope, no money. No money, no power.”
"I can do thirty percent now, seventy when I move the bitch," Fat Stacks countered, stepping closer.
Morrow didn't flinch. "Fifty percent. I'm already cutting you a deal because of Trey. He’s done a lot of good work in there for me and my people."
Fat Stacks pulled out a roll of bills from his jacket pocket. "Forty. That's as high as I go. You want my business or not?"
A tense silence hung between them, broken only by the distant sound of a police siren somewhere in the city.
"Fine. Forty." Morrow finally nodded. "But if there's any problem with payment later, I won't be coming after your product. I might need to hunt you down but your boy, your ‘Blood’, I know exactly which cell he’s in.”
Fat Stacks counted out the bills, handing them over with a steady hand that belied his inner tension. "When can I expect delivery?"
"About a week." Morrow quickly counted the money before tucking it away. "Come alone, again. Too many of you niggers makes me nervous."
…
The dinner was winding down, dessert plates cleared away as conversations shifted to quieter tones. Coach Bronstein was deep in conversation with Elijah about the upcoming season schedule, while Loraine and Nina exchanged phone numbers, promising to coordinate for future games.
Keshawn noticed Nadia slipping away from the table, heading toward the restaurant's small outdoor terrace. He glanced at Simone, who raised her eyebrows and tilted her head slightly in Nadia's direction.
"Go talk to her," Simone whispered. "Stop being weird about it."
Keshawn took a deep breath and stood up, straightening his shirt as he followed Nadia's path. The night air felt cool against his face as he stepped onto the terrace. Nadia stood at the railing, looking out at the city lights. She turned slightly at the sound of his footsteps, her expression guarded.
"Hey," Keshawn said, stopping a respectful distance away.
"Hey," she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sounds like you had a good game tonight."
"Thanks." He moved closer, leaning against the railing. "Listen, Nadia, about what happened at the protest... I wanted to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just stepped in like that and robbed you of that opportunity.”
Nadia's shoulders relaxed slightly. "No, I—" She sighed. "I probably overreacted. It was a complicated situation, and you were just trying to help.”
"I could've handled it better," Keshawn offered.
"Probably." A small smile tugged at her lips. "You wouldn’t be my grandfather’s pupil without some toxic masculinity.”
“Pupil is a bit strong,” Keshawn laughed, “But I’ll take it.”
“Are you kidding me? He’s coached god knows how many players. I’ve only seen you at his house and now here, making sure he went to your first game? You’re his pupil, bro.”
“Could be worse, I guess,” Keshawn shrugged.
“How’s UCLA? Besides saving damsels in protests.”
"It's different," Keshawn admitted. "A lot different from Hamilton, shit, even Thornwood. I don’t know, feels right though. This is your second year?”
"Yup," she nodded. "First year living on campus though so I feel like a freshman sometimes.”
Keshawn nodded slowly. "Yeah... I get that. New place, familiar faces, still feels like starting over."
Nadia glanced at him, her expression softer now. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
He looked at her, the hum of the city below filling the silence between them. “Maybe not.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just the cool breeze, the faint clatter of dishes being cleared inside, and the low beat of music from someone’s car drifting up from the street.
Nadia pushed off the railing. “I should probably get back in there before someone thinks we’re out here smoking.”
Keshawn chuckled. “I can’t really picture you smoking.”
She raised an eyebrow, half-smile playing on her lips. “What do you picture me doing?”
He didn’t answer right away, just watched her turn toward the door.
“It’s hard to say,” he said quietly, “Feel like I’m just now starting to crack away at the mystery. I guess we’ll see.”
Nadia paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Guess we will.”
Then she disappeared inside, leaving Keshawn alone with the night.
Neighborhood.
Hoops Classic Tournament: November 8th, 2024 - Lloyd Noble Center, Norman, Oklahoma
USF | 44 | 29 | 73
UCLA | 42 | 58 | 100
Starting Lineups
(Sr) Marcus Williams - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(So) Ryan Beasley - G - Skyy Clark (Jr)
(Jr) Malik Thomas - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) Ndewedo Newbury - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Carlton Linguard Jr - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)
G Marcus Williams, Senior: 12 pts, 4 ast, 3 to, 4-10 FG, 3-5 3PT F Malik Thomas, Junior: 17 pts, 5 reb, 2 ast, 2 to, 6-15 FG, 4-6 FT C Carlton Linguard Jr, Senior: 14 pts, 15 reb, stl, blk, 6-11 FG, 2-2 FT
G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 11 pts, 4 reb, 3 ast, 3 stl, 4-7 FG, 2-5 3PT G Sky Clark, Junior: 14 pts, 2 reb, 4 ast, 2 stl, 3-6 FG, 3-5 3PT, 5-6 FT F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 17 pts, 7 reb, 3 stl, 5-10 FG, 2-4 3PT F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 4 pts, 4 reb, 2-4 FG F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 8 pts, 6 reb, blk, 3-8 FG F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 21 pts, 4 reb, 3 ast, 9-14 FG, 3-3 FTUpcoming Schedule College Hoops Classic vs. Denver (1-0)
Neighborhood.
Where you get your icons from?
Neighborhood.
Got a little smile from a white woman and now he balling. 
Neighborhood.
Fox Sports.
https://www.foxsports.com/college-football/conferences
Coach Bronstein gave him the blueprint
Neighborhood.
Hoops Classic Tournament: November 9th, 2024 - Lloyd Noble Center, Norman, Oklahoma
(2-1, 0-0 Summit) Denver Pioneers vs. UCLA Bruins (2-0, 0-0 Pac-12)
DEN | 24 | 31 | 55
UCLA | 26 | 34 | 60
Starting Lineups
(Jr) Tommy Bruner - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(So) Tevin Smith - G - Skyy Clark (Jr)
(So) Coban Porter - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) Tyree Corbett - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Gavin Baxter - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)
G Tommy Bruner, Junior: 9 pts, 2 ast, 4 TO, 3-4 FG, 1-2 3PT G Tevin Smith, Sophomore: 12 pts, 6 ast, 4-5 FG, 1-2 3PT, 3-4 FT F Gavin Baxter, Senior: 6 pts, 4 reb, stl, blk, 2-5 FG, 2-2 FT G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 3 pts, 2 ast, 4 stl, 1-3 FG, 1-3 3PT G Sky Clark, Junior: 8 pts, 2 reb, 3-4 FG, 2-2 FT F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 14 pts, 3 ast, stl, 4-9 FG, 2-4 3PT F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 0 pts, 2 reb, 2 TO, 0-2 FG F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 13 pts, 9 reb, 2 ast, 6-8 FG, 1-3 FT F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 14 pts, reb, stl, 2-3 FG, 10-12 FTUpcoming Schedule vs. Boston University (0-0), at Memphis (2-0)
Neighborhood.
Keshawn twisted his key in the lock, shouldering the door open with a wince, the twelve free throws against Denver taking a toll on his body. Coach Cronin ran them ragged that next day in a surprise practice, courtesy of their slim margin of victory over an inferior opponent, before getting on the flight back to Los Angeles right after. All he wanted was to collapse on his bed and maybe ice his knee before mandatory team dinner.
"Fuck," he muttered, dropping his gym bag with a thud.
The door swung wide, and Keshawn froze. Gloria stood in the middle of his dorm room, a gift basket wrapped in cellophane clutched in her hands, a hesitant smile playing on her lips.
"Hey, Ke," she said, her voice soft against the sudden silence.
"Gloria? What are you—how did you get in here?"
"A girl has her ways." She extended the basket toward him. "I hope I didn’t freak you out, just wanted to surprise you.”
Keshawn stepped forward and took the basket, the cellophane crinkling under his fingers. Through the clear wrapping, he could make out an assortment of items: a couple of Epsom salt bath bombs, his favorite chips, some trail mix, a neck pillow, and what looked like a portable charger.
"You didn't have to do all this," he said, guilt crawling up his spine as he realized he hadn't texted her back even before they left for the tournament.
Gloria shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just figured you could use some self-care after your first couple of college games." Her eyes met his, and there was something in them—not accusation, but a quiet knowing that made his chest tighten. “I know we’re like…or anything…so I really hope I’m not coming across like some stalker bitch or something.”
"Not at all. I’ve been meaning to link with you honestly," he said, the lie sounding hollow even to his own ears. "It's just been crazy with games and..."
"You don't have to explain." Gloria's smiled as she sat on the bed. "I get it. The season’s started, you’re getting pulled a thousand different ways. I just want to have a piece for myself. I mean, if that’s what you want, too.”
Keshawn set the basket on his desk, the guilt intensifying. Ever since that weekend during his recruiting visit, he'd struggle to see her as anything but that, a fun time on a fun weekend. And she was still fun, and attractive and convenient. All the things a college freshman would want in a partner but yet, she often left Keshawn wanting something different, something more.
...
Dro leaned against his black Escalade, watching the sun set behind the palm trees lining Crenshaw Boulevard. Rommel approached, his muscular frame moving with deliberate steps, eyes scanning their surroundings before stopping beside Dro.
"How the meeting with nephew go?" Dro asked, his voice gravelly from years of Newport cigarettes.
Rommel shook his head. "I told you his ass wasn't going to show, it was just Benji and the young boy. Again."
Dro's jaw tightened. "I don't know what type of game this nigga playing with me."
"Except you do know," Rommel shook his head, "The motherfucker wasn't asking around for no reason. If his boy Trey in there getting friendly with them White folks, it's for a reason."
"He don't got it in him," Dro muttered, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with practiced efficiency. He took a long drag, the smoke curling around his face in the evening air. "The type of move you talking about, that ain't no squabble or DP. He know better than that, we talking real shit that'll put kill squad on the streets."
Rommel leaned against the car, his arms crossed. "What else could he be doing, my nigga? He setting his own shit up, he ain't showing up to meetings, he ain't showing up to parties or none of that shit. He's insulating himself for a reason, Blood, and it ain't to surprise you with a fucking cake."
"I practically raised that boy," Dro said, flicking ash onto the cracked asphalt. "I don't know who put him up to it or if he's just feeling himself but ain't no way this nigga really going to step to me like that."
"What you want to do?" Rommel asked, his hand instinctively moving toward the bulge beneath his jacket.
Dro shook his head. "Ain't trying to start no war with my fucking nephew, nigga. Blood still means something to me, even if it don't to him." He took another drag. "Just...keep an eye on the motherfucker. Maybe it's another play that we ain't seeing or he don't feel comfortable bringing to me until it's set."
"Alright," Rommel nodded, "But at some point, shit is what it is and we're just letting this nigga get a head start."
...
The bass thumped through the studio, vibrating the foam panels on the walls as Gayle leaned into the mic, her eyes closed, feeling the rhythm. Lamont nodded behind the mixing board, his fingers dancing across the sliders as he adjusted levels in real-time.
"That's it, that's the vibe," he encouraged through the talkback. "One more time from the top of the hook."
Gayle adjusted her headphones and took a deep breath.
Tay leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he watched her through the glass. When Gayle hit the high note at the bridge, he straightened up, tapping Lamont on the shoulder and gesturing toward the door.
"Yo, I need to holla at you.”
Lamont held up a finger, waiting until Gayle finished the take before setting the board to loop. "Keep running it," he told her through the mic.
"I'm not feeling this, man," Tay said as soon as the door closed behind them. "Her energy's cool and all, but this track needs something bigger."
Lamont raised an eyebrow. "The song not even done, you only got one verse laid down.”
"You know what I mean," Tay insisted. "This supposed to be my girl anthem on the mixtape, right? These bitches want to listen to Kandi, not this girl who nobody even knows. How the fuck am I going to get attract a new audience with some girl that don’t even have an audience?”
"Kandi?" Lamont rubbed his beard, a hint of frustration crossing his face. "You know what she charges for a verse these days? The girl was at the Grammy’s, my nigga.”
"It's an investment, man. This next shit gotta hit, bro. I can't be coming with no local talent when everyone looking at me like I’m just some niggas from around the way.”
Lamont glanced through the small window in the door, watching Gayle in the booth, completely in her element, unaware of the conversation happening. He shook his head.
"We can't afford Kandi right now. Not with what we've already sunk into those last couple of projects. The label's watching every dollar, like I told you.”
"So what, I'm supposed to settle for your homegirl from around the way?" Tay's voice rose. "This my career on the line."
"First of all, you introduced me to her so she ain’t my home girl," Lamont countered, his tone remaining even. "And she's delivering exactly what we needed. You got a fucking smash hit that I can sell to these people, alright, we’ll get fucked on the points and get someone like Kandi on the track. But a song with one verse written? Nah, I need more than that, playboy.”
Neighborhood.
Just 3 points? 
Man's was boogeyman on defense tho
Man's was boogeyman on defense tho