Neighborhood.

[Caesar]

Angela should've swung on Jessica ass tbh. It's California. They wouldn't have trumped up those charges because she's pregnant.

Keshawn gonna leave his budding friend zoning with Nadia to go back to Gayle to have a rapper baddie now that he's in the league?

[Captain Canada]

You definitely take the crown on messiest characters

Portland is... unfortunate.

[Soapy]

Angela should've swung on Jessica ass tbh. It's California. They wouldn't have trumped up those charges because she's pregnant.

Keshawn gonna leave his budding friend zoning with Nadia to go back to Gayle to have a rapper baddie now that he's in the league?

And she's Mexican. You might be onto something.

You have the right idea, wrong person though @ rapper baddie

You definitely take the crown on messiest characters

Portland is... unfortunate.

I was definitely surprised by it but no DeAndre Ayton, no Anfernee Simmons. The path is there for us to be an instant impact player

[Soapy]

A Long Red Hot Los Angeles Summer Night - Episode 1
The silence between them was deafening. Vic kept his head down as he carefully folded his shirts and placed them in the duffel bag, acutely aware of Angela's watchful gaze. Her brow was furrowed, jaw clenched, arms crossed defensively over her chest.

She had spent the past few days processing it all but it still felt raw, tender. She felt stupid for allowing herself to dream about a life back in Los Angeles with Vic, building a life together. The last few weeks had been great, a reminder of the love they once had, the good times they once shared. But it was all a lie, the foundation of their relationship irreparably shattered by Vic’s cheating. No, not just cheating. He had brought life into this world with someone else. Someone that looked nothing like Angela.

Stealing a glance at Angela, Vic could see the pain and confusion etched across her features. He longed to reach out, to beg for her forgiveness, to promise that it would never happen again. But the words caught in his throat, suffocated by the thick tension in the air. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done.

Vic hesitated, then finally spoke up. "Angela, I...I'm so sorry. I know words don’t mean shit right now but you have to know that I didn’t mean for any of this."

He paused, searching her face for any hint of softening, but her expression remained hardened. "Whatever it takes, whatever work I have to do to rebuild this trust, I’m willing to do it, baby. I know I don’t deserve you but I need you."

Angela's jaw tightened further as she listened. She shook her head slowly, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I can't do this right now, Vic. I need time...time to figure out what the fuck we’re even doing here."

…

Keshawn let out a deep sigh as he stepped into the hotel room, his tired body sinking into the plush mattress. Another day, another hotel - he was growing weary of the transient lifestyle of a rookie in the summer league.

As he lay there, he couldn't help but reflect on how much his life had changed in the past year. It felt like just yesterday he was moving into college dorm, going through the growing pains of a freshman that on track to be redshirted. Now, he was a small fish in a big pond once more, fighting for his chance to prove he belonged in the NBA.

Keshawn closed his eyes, the exhaustion from the day's grueling practice seeping into his bones. Just as he was drifting off, his phone chimed with a new email. Cracking one eye open, he saw it was from Coach Bronstein - a reminder of his meeting with the Jordan Brand representatives in the morning.

A wave of dread washed over him. Another day of practices, meetings and decisions to be made. Forcing himself to sit up, he reviewed the email one more time, committing the details to memory. As he set his phone aside, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror - the tired, determined expression on his face a reflection of the journey that lay ahead.

This was only the beginning, Keshawn reminded himself. The real work was just getting started.

…

Dro tapped his knuckles against the table in the dimly lit office of his auto body shop, his mind racing. He needed to find a way to regain control over the situation with Stacks, and he was running out of options. It was only a matter of time before even neutral bystanders would side with Stacks, effectively ending his reign. At best, he’d get a DP, maybe lose an eye. At worse, his life.

Pausing, Dro turned to one of his remaining lieutenants, a short, heavy set man they ironically called Slim. "What you know about Trey’s baby mom?"

"I wouldn’t mind fucking her," Slim let out a wry chuckle, "Can’t believe the dumb motherfucker took fifteen for that fat fuck when he had that at home."

"She still stay over there?" Dro asked. He had tried to go after Stacks’ baby mom but he had smartly moved her out of the city. Dro wasn’t planning on hurting her, at least not initially, maybe just a light kidnapping as a way to garner some leverage against his nephew. Trey was the next best thing, having control of the yard on the inside.

"I don’t know," Slim shrugged, "I ain’t exactly been showing face over there."

"Feel that out for me," Dro commanded.

"What are we talking about here?" Slim raised an eyebrow.

"I ain’t telling you to smoke the bitch," Dro clarified, "Just find out where she’s staying, how she’s living. Maybe she needs some fucking money, I don’t know, nigga. Just find out, aight?"

[Captain Canada]

Angela extra offended that Vic impregnated a woman that's not black? That's crazy work.

[Soapy]

Angela extra offended that Vic impregnated a woman that's not black? That's crazy work.

You know what type of time she always on and she's lowkey valid

[Soapy]

A Long Red Hot Los Angeles Summer Night - Episode 2
Quincy's eyes snapped open at 5:17 AM, thirteen minutes before his alarm was set to go off. The familiar clarity, and weight, of sobriety pressed against his chest like a stone, heavier this morning than it had been the day before.

"Fuck," he whispered into the darkness of Trey's old bedroom.

The room still held traces of his nephew—basketball trophies on a shelf, faded posters of Kobe Bryant on the wall—but Quincy had begun to make it his own. A small stack of sobriety pamphlets sat on the nightstand next to a plastic cup of water. A few months ago ago, he would have reached for something stronger to start his morning.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet on the cool hardwood floor. The digital clock now read 5:19 AM. Time moved differently in sobriety—agonizingly slow, each minute fully experienced without the numbing filter of substances.

Down the hall, Quincy could hear Eleanora moving around in the kitchen. His sister had always been an early riser, a trait he was grateful for this morning. The smell of coffee drifted under his door, beckoning him.

"Just another day," he muttered to himself, rubbing his palms against his face. "Just gotta make it through another day.”

The first day at the fairgrounds had been a breeze—the novelty of honest work after so long had carried him through. The second day had been harder, but still manageable with the lingering excitement of a paycheck on the horizon. But this third morning brought with it a familiar emptiness, a void that alcohol and drugs had once filled so effectively.

In the bathroom, Quincy splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection. At fifty-two, his face carried the map of his struggles—lines etched deep around his eyes, a permanent furrow between his brows. But his eyes were clear now, not bloodshot and hazy like they had been for so many years.

"Be the man you want to be," he told his reflection. "Not the man you had to be.”

As he brushed his teeth, his mind wandered to the liquor store three blocks from the fairgrounds. He knew exactly how much a pint of cheap gin cost. He knew how it would burn going down, how the edges of the world would soften, how the constant noise in his head would quiet. That was his favorite part; how the world would slowly drift away. He’d catch "that wave" he would call it, that moment where he felt like he was floating, gliding through life no matter his surroundings or circumstances. It was a beautiful feeling, one he still missed.

The toothbrush paused mid-stroke. Quincy closed his eyes and counted to ten, a technique his sponsor had taught him. When he opened them again, he spat into the sink with force, as if expelling the craving itself.

In the kitchen, Eleanora was making breakfast, her back to him as he entered.

"Morning," she said without turning around. "You want some eggs?"

"Just coffee," Quincy replied, reaching for a mug from the cabinet.

…

Alexis tapped her acrylic nails against the steering wheel of her white Range Rover, checking her watch for the third time in five minutes. The sun beat down on the vehicle, making the leather seats uncomfortably hot despite the air conditioning running at full blast. She was parked in front of a dilapidated apartment complex in North Long Beach, far from the manicured lawns and security gates of her parents' estate.

"Come on, Stefan," she muttered, peering through her designer sunglasses at the building's entrance. The car had drawn attention as soon as she pulled up and Stefan had hopped out, saying it would only be a minute but as the minutes passed, so did the wandering eyes.

Just as her patience was about to snap, Stefan emerged, walking with that confident swagger that had first caught her attention. He was now sporting a bookbag which was slung over his shoulder.

He slid into the passenger seat, tossing the bag into the back. "My bad. Took longer than I thought."

"Twenty minutes longer," Alexis corrected, but her annoyance quickly dissolved when Stefan leaned over and kissed her.

"We can get going," he said, settling back in his seat.

As Alexis pulled away from the curb, Stefan adjusted his position, and his shirt rode up just enough to reveal the black handle of a pistol tucked into his waistband. A small smiled played across her lips as she drove out of the parking lot.

They drove in comfortable silence for a few blocks, passing through neighborhoods that grew progressively rougher. Stefan directed her with occasional gestures, his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings with a vigilance that was foreign for her.

"Right here," Stefan pointed to a corner where three young men stood watching their approach. "Park across the street."

Alexis did as instructed, cutting the engine but leaving the keys in the ignition as Stefan had taught her. "Another twenty minute quick stop?"

"Just one more stop after this," Stefan promised, his hand briefly squeezing her thigh. "Then I'm taking you to that seafood spot you like."

"The one in Redondo Beach?" Alexis brightened.

"Yeah, the one with them fire crab legs," Stefan smiled.

"You know I love me some crab legs," she nodded, "Alright, cool, just don’t take too long."

"Don’t worry," Stefan winked, "I’ll make it up to you with more than just crab legs, baby."

…

Gayle stared at the mostly blank page of her notebook, the same lined paper that had mocked her for the past three hours. The single line she'd written and not erased—"They all want a piece of me"—sat lonely at the top, a sad testament to her creative drought. Her apartment felt too quiet, too empty without Lamont's energy filling the space, his ideas bouncing off the walls.

"Fuck!" She tossed the pen across the room, watching it bounce off her vision board—a collage of magazine cutouts featuring Nicki Minaj, Megan Thee Stallion, and Cardi B alongside her own hastily scribbled goals. The board had seemed so inspiring when she'd made it last year. Now it just reminded her of how far she had to go.

The music video for "Snatch Yo Chain" had dropped a few days ago and already had hundreds of thousands of views. Her Instagram followers had doubled overnight. Her phone hadn't stopped buzzing with notifications. Everyone wanted to know when the mixtape was dropping, when they could hear more from the girl that had gone viral for snatching a rapper’s chain.

But that voice wasn't really hers. It was Lamont's—his words, his flow, his vision.

Gayle’s eyes kept lingering towards her phone. One call and she’d be at his studio with his notepad full of lyrics, ready to craft her next song. He'd done it before. He could do it again.

She tossed her phone onto the couch and stood up, stretching her arms above her head. Her reflection caught her eye in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. The girl who stared back at her—in sweatpants and a sports bra, hair piled messily on top of her head—didn't look like Gigi, the confident rapper who had commanded attention in that music video. She looked like Gayle from Baldwin Village, the girl who did nails at Polished to pay her half of the rent.

"What the fuck do I have to say?" she told her reflection.

The answer didn't come immediately, but something stirred inside her. Gayle returned to her notebook, flipping to a fresh page. Instead of trying to craft rhymes, she just started writing—about her momma working two jobs, about doing hair in her kitchen when she was fourteen to make extra money, about the first time a boy broke her heart, about the reputation she had gotten in the neighborhood just because she dated two friends of each other and how she learned not to care what other people thought, about the day she met Lamont and how he looked at her like she was already somebody.

An hour later, her hand cramped from writing, but the pages were filled. Not with polished lyrics, but with her story. The words weren't perfect yet, but they were hers. For the first time since "Snatch Yo Chain" blew up, Gayle felt like maybe—just maybe—she actually had something to say.

The beat she'd been struggling with all day suddenly made sense in her head. She hummed the melody, trying different flows over the rhythm in her mind. Gayle grabbed her phone again, but not to call Lamont. She opened the voice memo app and hit record.

[Captain Canada]

Shordies getting turned on by guns is crazy to me, but we move.

Rare no Keshawn or Vic update.

[The JZA]

That chokehold on Quincy ain't letting up no time soon

[Chillcavern]

Oh wow Alexis is messy messy,

Quincy trying too man…addiction is a disease. Good job showcasing that Soap

Gayle getting inspired? Love to see that - wonder how things are going to go with her getting “real” with it.