The stale air of the recording booth felt like a judgment as Gayle leaned against the soundproofed wall, arms crossed, the memory of the scattered diamonds still vivid. It had been a few weeks since the club incident, weeks of her phone blowing up with a mix of DMs—some cheering her on, others calling her every name in the book—and weeks of Lamont patiently, persistently, trying to get her back in here.
“Look, Gigi…” Lamont began, his voice calm, measured, from the other side of the glass, where he sat perched on a stool in front of the mixing console. He always called her Gigi in here, a subtle reminder of the persona he was trying to build, a persona she was now deeply ambivalent about.
Gayle pushed herself off the wall. "I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“You don’t?” He swiveled slightly, one eyebrow raised, “Maybe you’re not an artist after all.”
"If being an artist is about that, then, yeah, maybe I’m not.”
“Being an artist is about living your life and expressing it through your art.” Lamont’s gaze was steady, unblinking. “The video’s got, what, three million views across all platforms? Your track, the one you were performing before shit went left, has seen a thirty percent bump in streams. So yeah, that is now part of your life which is what your next song needs to be about.”
“Yeah, Gigi the hoodrat who snatches chains and swings on niggas in the club!” she retorted, pacing the small space of the vocal booth. “That’s what you want for me? Ratchet Barbie?”
Lamont let out a slow breath. “Right now, Gayle, you ain’t got a brand. You got a viral moment. And in this game, a moment is currency. You can either spend it or let it expire. You think anyone out there was checking for ‘Gayle, the nice girl from around the way who can kinda rap’? Nah. They’re checking for the girl who stood up for herself, even if it was messy. They’re checking for the drama.”
“So I’m supposed to lean into that? Start beefs? Act a fool for clicks?” The thought made her stomach churn. It was one thing to have a reputation around the way, it was another for it to be broadcasted to the internet to millions of people who would never get a chance to meet her. Never get a chance to see that behind the varnish, there was a real person.
“I’m not saying go start World War Three on IG Live every damn night,” Lamont said, his tone softening slightly. “But you can’t pretend it didn’t happen. You can’t act like you’re above it. Because right now, that is your entry point. That’s what got their attention. What you do with that attention, that’s on you. But you gotta have their attention first.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the console. “Look, everybody starts somewhere. Cardi B was a stripper and then a social media personality and then got on a reality show and never looked back after that. Now, you wanna turn this moment into music, or you wanna just be another forgotten meme by next month?”
…
The club was a different kind of chaos, a controlled explosion of sound and light that Keshawn was still trying to navigate. He stood near the edge of their makeshift VIP area—a roped-off section near the DJ booth that a hyperactive promoter had insisted upon after spotting him. “What’s up, Keshawn?!” the promoter had yelled, his voice laced with familiarity despite never having actually met the man.
“So, this how we doin’ it now, huh?” Stefan had muttered to Keshawn, a smirk playing on his lips. “Big man on campus gets the velvet rope treatment. About time they recognized the real talent.”
He clapped Keshawn on the shoulder, a little too hard, but Keshawn just nodded, unsure how to respond. He knew Stefan was mostly joking, but there was an edge there, a reminder of the shifting dynamics within the team, within their friendship.
Most of the team was there too, one of the few times they had gone out as a collective, a sign of the change of times in major college sports. Among the players that actually played, only Keshawn, Stefan and a guard named Dylan were from Los Angeles County. The rest of the team were mostly transfers from out of state, older players that UCLA were either their final pit spot or a launching spot, to the league or elsewhere.
With the regular season winding down, Kobe, the senior leader, had finally got the team to agree on one final outing prior to the beginning of the postseason as a means of getting it out of their system before locking in for the home stretch.
Now, Stefan was holding court with a couple of the other younger players and a group of girls Keshawn vaguely recognized from campus. Andrea was there and of course, so was Gloria. She offered Keshawn a small, polite wave when their eyes met, which he returned with a nod before slowly looking away, taking a sip of his drink.
He felt a presence slide up next to him and turned to see Tommy, a drink in his hand.
"Yo, Chase," Tommy started, his voice a little louder than necessary to be heard over the thumping bass. “Can I ask you some real shit? Be honest with me too, bro.”
Keshawn raised an eyebrow, surprised by the slur in his speech already. They’d only been there for an hour or so. "What's good?”
“You and Alexis,” his eyes met Keshawn’s directly, “That ain’t like a thing, right? Not for real?”
Keshawn took a slow sip of his own drink, buying himself a moment. He wasn’t entirely surprised by the question. Alexis and Tommy were best friends after all. She surely would have mentioned something to him once their encounters began to pile up. "She told me y’all were just friends," Keshawn said, keeping his tone neutral. He paused, then added, "I ain’t trying to kiss and tell but we’ve hooked up, once or twice. Or more than that." He wasn't trying to be a dick, just honest. There was no point in lying about it, Tommy likely knew the answer.
Tommy’s face flickered with something – surprise? Disappointment? – but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He let out a short, forced laugh. "Oh, word? Nah, I was just curious, man. You know, she’s cool and all and I know you also got a thing with Gloria so like I was just trying to figure out what the play really was." He took a swig of his drink, trying to look casual, but his eyes kept darting back to Keshawn. “That ain’t a bad little roster, there.”
Keshawn felt a familiar annoyance prickle at him. "Yeah, aight," Keshawn said, his voice flat. The longer he stared at the side of Tommy’s pale face, the angrier he got.
"Look, man, if you got something to say, just say it. Otherwise, get out my face with all that 'just curious' shit,” Keshawn shook his head, the mere sight of Gloria filling him with guilt which he quickly replaced with anger.
Tommy lingered for a moment, then, with a muttered, "Aight, chill," he moved off, disappearing back into the crowd.
Keshawn watched him go, the anger slowly deflating like a punctured lung, replaced by a familiar, sinking guilt. He knew Tommy. new that beneath the attempted nonchalance, the dude was probably hurting. And yeah, he probably did have a thing for Alexis, a serious one, not just the casual hookups Keshawn had stumbled into. He’d basically confirmed Tommy’s worst fears and then snapped at him for even asking. It wasn’t that long ago that Keshawn had been Tommy, the guy relegated to watching the girl he crushed on be drapped all over someone else.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, the bass vibrating through his sneakers. He should find him, try to smooth things over, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. Apologize for being a dick, at least.
He scanned the throng, looking for Tommy's pale skin and button-down, but the crowd was a shifting kaleidoscope of faces and bodies. Sighing, Keshawn pushed himself off the wall, deciding to make a lap. He edged past a cluster of laughing girls, their voices high-pitched over the music, and nearly collided with a stumbling figure.
"Whoa there," he said, steadying Jessica by her arm. She was a mess, her usually vibrant energy curdled by too much alcohol. Her eyes were unfocused, cheeks flushed, and she giggled, leaning heavily into him.
"Keshawn!" she slurred, her voice overly bright. "You're like, super tall. Did you know that?"
Before Keshawn could respond, Vic materialized at her side, his arm possessively snaking around her waist, pulling her away from Keshawn. His eyes, hard and narrowed, fixed on Keshawn.
"You good?" Vic asked, carrying himself with an aggressive energy.
Keshawn met his glare, a fresh wave of irritation washing over him. “I’m always good, nigga.”
Vic shifted, subtly blocking his path. "Aight, just making sure, Ke.”
"A nigga that coaches at fucking Hamilton High can never make sure I’m good, Victor. Y’all won tonight or something? Celebrating with your…girl?”
Vic’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing. For a second, Keshawn thought he might swing, and he braced himself, but Vic just shook his head, "Aight, brodie, just keep that same energy when it’s just us.”
He stepped around Vic, deliberately brushing his shoulder, and headed for the exit, not bothering to look back. The apology to Tommy would have to wait. Right now, all he wanted was air.
…
Keshawn, still in his dark jeans and stylishly oversized t-shirt from the party—the one he’d bailed on—pushed a piece of pancake around his plate with his fork. Across from him, Nadia, swallowed a mouthful, her UCLA sweatshirt bunched around her elbows, the drawstrings of her shorts dangling.
“So,” Nadia began, a smear of syrup at the corner of her mouth which she casually wiped away with the back of her hand, “is this, like, your standard post-social-obligation wind-down? Trading forced small talk for the therapeutic properties of batter and syrup?”
Keshawn managed a slight smile. “Something like that. My brain doesn’t really do ‘off’ switches easily.” He gestured vaguely with his fork. “Especially not after… crowds.”
“Tell me about it,” Nadia said, nodding sympathetically. “Mine prefers to use the quiet hours to host its own internal debate club, usually on topics I have no control over. Pancakes are excellent moderators, I find. They absorb the angst.”
“They do have a certain… absorbent quality,” Keshawn agreed, finally taking a bite. The sweetness was a welcome, uncomplicated sensation. “You’ve always been a night owl?”
“For a while now,” she said, a playful glint in her eyes. “You know, the whole dead mom thing?”
“How could I forget?” Keshawn let out a small chuckle, the phrase becoming an inside joke between the two of them.
"I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that you’re the only one that doesn’t wince at that,” Nadia poked at her stack of pancakes.
Keshawn chuckled, a genuine laugh this time, and the lingering tightness in his chest eased another notch. "I don’t know, I guess I understand using comedy or light-heartedness to heal trauma or accept it or something. I’ve only taking one psych class, if that’s not obvious.”
"Enough to psycho-analyze me?” Nadia asked.
"I’ll take a crack at it,” Keshawn placed his fork down, intently making eye contact with Nadia before she broke away with a smile, "Come on, I’m being serious.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” she steadied herself.
"What are you thinking about at night? Like, what is it that keeps you up?”
"I don’t think you’re ready for that, buddy,” she shook her head, “You need like at least three classes to open that up.”
"Try me,” Keshawn shrugged, taking a sip from his cup.
“You asked for this,” she could barely contain her smirk, "When I was like nine or whatever, I woke up one night to my dad pointing a gun at my mom.”
“Holy shit,” Keshawn cleared his throat, “You weren’t fucking kidding, I was not ready.”
"I’m sorry,” she laughed, “You should really see your face.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“Well, yes, but it did happen,” she managed to get in between chortles, “Don’t worry, he didn’t actually shoot her.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Not that night anyway,” she followed up, “See? I told you it’s some fucked up shit. How do you think I ended up this way?”
“You’re a sick person, Nadia,” Keshawn joked as he shook his head.
“Aren’t we all?” she took another bite, “Okay, now it’s your turn to unveil your trauma.”
G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 2 pts, 2 ast, 1-1 FG
G Desmond Claude, Junior: 16 pts, 3 reb, 2 ast, 5-9 FG, 2-2 3PT, 4-6 FT
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G Mekhi Mason, Junior: 10 pts, 5 reb, 3 stl, 3-8 FG, 2-5 3PT, 2-2 FT
G Gabe Madsen, Senior: 14 pts, 3 reb, 4 ast, 2 stl, 7-13 FG, 0-2 3PT