She navigating through life, brodie
Nooticer indeed
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Tommy stared at the vacant locker, where Stefan was supposed to be, a familiar frustration rising in his chest.
"This motherfucker," he muttered, pulling his practice jersey over his head with more force than necessary.
It was the third workout Stefan had missed this summer, each absence chipping away at Tommy's already thin patience. The team was supposed to be building chemistry, preparing to defend a national championship after losing many of their best players, including Keshawn. Yet Stefan, with his undeniable talent and equally undeniable unreliability, continued to treat these sessions as optional.
Coach Georgeton entered the locker room, clipboard in hand, his eyes immediately noting the empty spot where Stefan should have been. He said nothing, but the slight tightening of his jaw spoke volumes. Tommy recognized that look—disappointment mixed with resignation, the expression of a man who had given up expecting better.
"Everybody on the court in five," Coach announced, his voice echoing off the metal lockers.
As the other players finished getting ready, Tommy pulled out his phone, scrolling through his social media feeds. He wasn't looking for anything specific—at least that's what he told himself—until he found himself on Alexis's Instagram. Her main page showed nothing recent, but something compelled him to check her close friends story, where he'd been surprisingly kept despite their friendship cooling in recent months.
There it was. Where Stefan always was.
…
Angela paced her apartment, chewing her bottom lip and checking the time every few minutes. The text to Vic had been simple—"Can you come over? We need to talk"—but its implications weighed heavy. She'd spent days turning their situation over in her mind, examining it from every angle, and had finally reached a decision that felt both devastating yet necessary.
When the knock came, her heart leapt into her throat. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and opened the door.
Vic stood there, looking more vulnerable than she was used to. His eyes held a cautious hope that made her stomach twist with guilt.
"Hey," he said softly, stepping inside when she moved aside.
"Thanks for coming," Angela replied, closing the door behind him.
The small living room felt charged with tension as they settled onto opposite ends of the couch.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Angela began, her voice steadier than she felt.
Vic nodded, his eyes fixed on her face. "I know. I have too."
"I love you, Vic," she continued, meeting his gaze directly. "I think a part of me always will. But I don't know if I can forgive what happened. Not fully, not right now."
"I understand that," he said quickly. "I know what I did, I know that I hurt you. I don’t expect you to just move on like nothing happened."
"That's just it," Angela interrupted gently. "I have to move on. I can’t be stuck here, emotionally, just paralyzed with everything that happened. It’s like, life moves on. I have to go back to D.C. and I just don’t trust us to do long distance. I don’t trust you to do long distance."
Vic flinched as if she'd struck him, but he didn't argue. They both knew she was right. The silence stretched between them, filled with all the things they'd once promised each other, all the futures they'd imagined together.
Finally, Vic stood up. His movement was deliberate, resigned. "I get it," he said quietly. "I fucked up."
Angela felt tears prickling behind her eyes but refused to let them fall. "I'm sorry," she whispered, though they both knew she had nothing to apologize for.
He walked to where she sat and bent down, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment, as if memorizing the feeling. "I’ll always love you, Ang," he murmured against her skin. "You were my person."
…
The small taco shop in El Segundo buzzed with the lunch crowd, a mix of locals and airport employees grabbing quick meals before returning to work. Keshawn and Candace sat at a corner table, their knees occasionally brushing beneath the wooden surface as they shared a plate of carne asada nachos.
"I still can't believe you've never been here before," Candace said, reaching for a particularly cheese-laden chip.
"I usually don't venture this far south," Keshawn admitted, watching her with amusement as she tried to manage the long string of cheese stretching from the nachos to her mouth.
Candace, despite the minimal makeup and laid back attire, still carried herself with the same confidence that commanded stages. It was this duality that continued to fascinate Keshawn and quite frankly, he was eager to learn from.
A young boy, maybe eight or nine, approached their table hesitantly. His father stood a few steps behind, looking apologetic.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt," the father began, placing a gentle hand on his son's shoulder. "But my son recognized you and—"
"Are you really Keshawn Chase?" the boy blurted out, his eyes wide with wonder.
Keshawn's face immediately softened. "I am," he confirmed, turning his full attention to the child. "What's your name, little man?"
"D.J.," the boy replied, his voice suddenly shy. "My dad took me to one of your games last year!"
"That's dope," Keshawn said, genuinely touched. He had been recognized before but mainly on campus where, midway through last season, his face, usually next to Kobe Johnson’s, was on all of the posters around school grounds. "You hoop?"
D.J. nodded enthusiastically.
"Keep listening to your dad and your coach," Keshawn told him, "That’s what I did."
As Keshawn dapped up the young boy, he noticed the father taking out his phone. "Would you mind if we got a quick picture?" the man asked.
"Not at all," Keshawn stood, kneeling down to D.J.'s height as the father snapped a few photos.
"Thank you so much," the father said, shaking Keshawn's hand firmly. "Good luck this season, man!"
"No problem at all," Keshawn replied warmly. "Thanks for the support."
Candace watched the entire interaction with a small smile playing on her lips, something warm stirring in her chest. As Keshawn settled back into his seat, she tilted her head slightly.
"That was sweet," she said, her voice softer than usual.
Keshawn shrugged, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "I definitely paid them to do that."
"The acting job was top tier," Candace did a chef’s kiss with her fingers, "For real, though. You were really good with him. Not everyone is, you know. Some people in our positions can get... impatient with fans, forget they used to be one too."
In her years in the industry, she'd seen how fame changed people.
"So," she said, changing the subject, "When do you head up to Portland?"
Keshawn's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of anxiety crossing his features. "I’ll be probably be headed there next week, get settled in before camp start. Still need to find a crib, car, all the adult things."
"Nervous?" Candace asked, reading his face.
"A little," he admitted. "I've never really been away. Even in college, I was still here so this is definitely going to feel different."
Candace nodded in understanding. "It’s hard at first, I won’t lie. I really struggled when I first moved here and then just when I got comfortable, it was time to tour and that was a completely different ordeal."
"How'd you handle it?" Keshawn asked, genuinely curious.
"Found routines," she replied. "Little things that made each city feel a bit more like home. Figured out which little restaurant you like in each city. Where to avoid, where to get away to." She smiled at the memories. "You adapt faster than you'd think."
"I hope so," Keshawn said, pushing the now-empty plate aside.
"Besides," Candace smiled, "Portland’s only a two-hour flight. Not that I checked it last night or anything."
"That is true," Keshawn laughed.
"Indeed it is,” Candace nodded, her eyes meeting his with deliberate intention. "Though my house is even closer to us right now."
"Is that right?" he managed, his pulse quickening as he held her gaze.
Candace nodded, her fingers still lightly touching his on the table. "I'm just saying, if you wanted somewhere quiet to hang out before you head north... my door's always open."
"I’d like that," Keshawn finally said, turning his hand to properly hold hers.
…
Stefan lounged on the wooden porch steps of Lorenzo's house as he passed a blunt to Dre, one of his cousin's homeboys.
"He over there talking and shit to the homie, getting real aggressive with it," Lorenzo continued his story, eyes wide with animated intensity. "Man, I crept up behind the nigga and went bing-bang-boom on this ass. Socked the nigga out!"
The small crowd of Crips gathered around the porch erupted in laughter. Alexis sat perched on the step next to Stefan, sticking out like a sore thumb. She shifted uncomfortably, checking the time on her phone for the third time in fifteen minutes.
"Baby, I'm hungry," she whispered to Stefan, placing a manicured hand on his knee.
Stefan barely glanced at her, his attention fixed on the story. "We’ll get something soon, I promise. Just waiting on the homie to come through."
Alexis rolled her eyes, the excitement of hanging on the 'block' with her 'gangbanger boyfriend' wearing thin after four hours of the same stories and posturing. The thrill she initially felt in these Long Beach escapades with Stefan had faded into boredom and hunger pangs.
"I swear to God, if we don't leave in the next thirty minutes, I'm calling an Uber," she muttered, though they both knew she wouldn't.
Lorenzo was midway through another prison tale when a black Charger with tinted windows crawled down the street, music thumping behind closed windows. The attention on the porch shifted towards the approaching vehicle.
"That’s Baby Chris and them?" Lorenzo asked.
"Yeah, that’s his car. I don’t know why he moving so scary though," Stefan sucked his teeth. "Same from last week?"
"Yeah," Lorenzo nodded, keeping an eye on the car, "And tell that bright ass bitch to not come rolling down my block blasting his music and shit. Bringing down my property value and shit."
Stefan stood up and slipped through the front door as the car parked across the street. Inside the house, Stefan moved quickly through the cluttered living room toward Lorenzo's bedroom. Stefan pushed aside a stack of shoeboxes in the closet, feeling for the loose floorboard where Lorenzo kept his stash. His fingers had just closed around the roll of bills when the sound of gunfire erupted outside – sharp, rapid pops that made the windows rattle.
"Shit!" Stefan hissed, abandoning the money and reaching for the pistol tucked in his waistband. His heart hammered against his ribs as he sprinted back through the house, adrenaline flooding his system.
Outside was chaos. Bodies were scattered across the yard, taking cover behind cars and trash cans. Return fire came from the porch and the side of the house, the air thick with gun smoke and shouting. The black Charger was already speeding away, back windows shattered from bullets.
Stefan ducked behind a concrete planter, squeezing off three shots toward the retreating vehicle before scanning the yard for casualties. You didn’t want to be the only one with a cold gun, a lesson his cousin had taught him years ago. Lorenzo was crouched by the steps, reloading his weapon.
Stefan's eyes darted across the scene, searching for Alexis' bright blue dress among the chaos.
"Alexis?" he called out, panic rising in his throat. "Yo, where's Alexis at?"
Lorenzo shook his head, still focused on the street for any sign of them spinning the block. "I thought she went inside with you."
Stefan's mind raced. Maybe she did run inside when the shooting started – smart move if she had. He pushed himself up from his position and sprinted toward the house, keeping low.
As he reached the porch steps, his blood turned to ice. A pair of slender legs in sandals extended from behind the railing, motionless on the wooden planks.
"Alexis!" Stefan scrambled up the steps, heart pounding. "Alexis, you good?"
She didn't respond, didn't move.
Neighborhood.
Wanted to get dicked down by a thug nigga and now she headed to the
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4745
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Stupid games played, stupid prizes won
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
The squeak of basketball shoes against polished hardwood echoed through Hamilton High School's gymnasium, a sound that ha come to define Keshawn’s life. Now, awaiting his NBA debut, he towered over the high school players who stared up at him with undisguised awe, their expressions a mixture of reverence and intimidation.
"I need eyes on me," Coach Stewie called out, clapping his hands to regain his team's attention. "I don’t care that he got drafted, he still can’t guard me."
A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the gathered teenagers. Keshawn shook his head as he looked towards Vic in the corner, his cousin suppressing a smirk as he leaned against the wall, clipboard in hand. This had been Vic’s idea—bringing in the hometown hero, the kid who'd made it out and made it to the league, to inspire his team before the season started. For Keshawn, it was a no-brainer. Hamilton wasn’t like the other L.A. schools with a plethora of success stories. If his success could help any kid, even one, the few hours would be worth it.
"Alright, we're going to run a three-man weave and then running action off it," Coach Stewie continued, diagramming the drill with his hands. "Keshawn's going to demonstrate with Coach Singleton and Coach Spence first, then rotate through with each of you."
For the next hour, Keshawn worked with the team, demonstrating techniques, offering advice, and occasionally challenging the bolder players to one-on-one matchups that inevitably ended with good-natured groans as he scored over them. The kids soaked up every moment, and Keshawn found himself enjoying it more than he'd expected. There was something pure about their enthusiasm, untainted by the business of professional and collegiate sports.
"Good workout," Coach Stewie announced as the session wound down. "Everyone thank Mr. Chase for his time."
A chorus of thanks rose from the tired but energized players. Several approached for handshakes or fist bumps, a few asking for selfies which Keshawn, accepting his newfound fame. Through it all, he noticed Vic hanging back.
As the gym gradually emptied, Keshawn grabbed his water bottle and made his way over to where Vic was gathering equipment.
"Appreciate you coming through," Vic said, bumping fists with his cousin. "These kids gonna be talking about this for weeks. You know some of them are going to say they beat you in ones, right?"
"I don’t blame them," Keshawn laughed, helping Vic collect the scattered basketballs.
"Shit, at least I can say I brought an NBA player back here," Vic shrugged, "Even if I don’t win another game as a coach. Shit, that’s even if I’m still coaching."
"What? You not coaching this year?"
"Time is money, cuz," Vic explained, "They added another shift at the warehouse but I’d be missing practice pretty much every day and I got Macy’s during the weekend even if we do get a weekend game."
Keshawn stopped, studying his cousin's face. He could see the reluctance there, the frustration simmering beneath the surface. "Thought you loved coaching."
"I do," Vic said, pushing the ball cart toward the storage room. "But love don't pay bills, and Jessica's due in a few months."
The mention of Jessica hung in the air between them. Keshawn knew that things with Vic and Angela had come crashing down. He followed Vic into the storage room, watching as his cousin methodically arranged the equipment.
"What’d you think about coming with me to Portland?" Keshawn said suddenly, forming the idea in real time.
Vic glanced over his shoulder. "What you mean?"
"Come with me to Portland," Keshawn said. "Be my guy."
Vic stared at him, confusion evident in his furrowed brow. "Your guy? Nigga, I ain’t no entourage type of nigga."
"Nah, man," Keshawn shook his head, leaning against the doorframe. "Not like that. I need someone I trust up there. Keep me focused, keep me on point."
Vic let out a short, skeptical laugh. "So what, I'm supposed to just drop everything and move to Portland? Nigga, I just told you I got a baby on the way."
"You'd get paid, obviously," Keshawn continued, undeterred. "Enough to send money back, more than you'd make at the warehouse. It’s only a two-hour flight, which I’d take care of. You can fly back, especially when I’m on the road."
The possibility flickered in Vic's eyes for a moment before doubt clouded over. "I don't know, man. I'm not trying to be some handout type of nigga, living off my cousin's NBA checks."
"It's not charity," Keshawn insisted, his voice firm. "It's a job. A real one, one I’ll have to hire anyway. And I'm not offering because we're family—I'm offering because you're good at what you do. I ain’t start hooping for real until you was coaching me."
"That is true," Vic smiled, "You were sorry as fuck."
Keshawn shook his head but could see that he was considering it.
"I don’t know, bro," Vic finally spoke up, "Jessica is probably going to think I’m baling on her ass. Shit, she probably already thinks that with how everything went down."
"You wouldn't be bailing. You'd be providing. Better than you could here. I need you," Keshawn continued, "I’m drafted high enough that people are going to have expectations of me but just low enough that I can fuck it all up in one year. Having you, moves me one step closer to not fucking it up."
Vic looked up towards Keshawn, conflict written across his features. He thought about Jessica, about the baby coming, about the child support he was already struggling to imagine paying. But he also thought about Angela, about the life he'd lost with her.
"What exactly would I be doing?" he asked, a note of cautious interest in his voice.
Keshawn recognized the opening and pressed forward. "Training with me. Helping me study film. Making sure I'm eating right, sleeping enough, staying on schedule. You'd be like my personal coach, my accountability partner."
The more Keshawn spoke, the more Vic could visualize it—not just tagging along as part of an entourage, but having a purpose, a role that utilized his skills and knowledge. Something that would make his son or daughter proud someday.
"I don't know," Vic said, but his resistance was weakening. "Portland ain’t exactly down the road, bro. This is a pretty big move."
"Life is about big moves," Keshawn replied. "I almost went to Howard, remember? I didn’t even know I was signing with UCLA when I woke up that day."
Vic nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That worked out alright for you."
"More than alright," Keshawn agreed. "And this could too. For both of us."
…
"Sir, I've told you everything I can at this moment," the nurse at the reception desk said, her voice strained with practiced patience. "The doctors are still working on her."
"Who was with her?" Tommy demanded, his voice cracking. "They just dropped her off?"
The nurse's expression softened slightly. "Look, we get those all the time. They don’t want to get questioned by the police."
Tommy slammed his palm against the wall, causing several people nearby to flinch.
She didn’t need to answer, he already knew who it must have been. Tommy had warned her, had tried to pull her back from the edge, but she had only laughed at his concern.
Across the waiting room, Alexis's family huddled together in a tight circle of grief. Her father, normally commanding and authoritative in his tailored suits, looked diminished, his shoulders hunched as he held his sobbing wife.
The guilt crashed over Tommy in waves. He had seen the warning signs, had even spoken to Alexis about it. But he hadn't pushed hard enough, hadn't gone to her parents, hadn't done anything that actually mattered, hadn’t stepped to Stefan. And now Alexis was fighting for her life behind those swinging doors.
…
Gayle stood outside Lamont's studio door, her hand hovering over the knob.
"Just do it," she muttered to herself, trying to summon some confidence.
She knocked twice, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. For a moment, there was silence, and Gayle wondered if he was even there. Then came the sound of footsteps, and the door swung open.
Lamont stood before her, his expression unreadable.
"Hey," she said, her voice smaller than she intended.
"Hey," he responded, neither welcoming nor dismissive.
"Can I come in?" she asked, fighting the urge to fidget.
Lamont hesitated for just a moment before stepping aside. The studio was empty today—no session booked, no engineers, no other artists. Just the two of them and the equipment that had brought them together in the first place.
Gayle walked to the center of the room, turning to face him as he closed the door. The familiar surroundings that had once felt like a second home now felt strange.
"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "About the other night. I was drunk, and stupid, and I shouldn't have—"
"Gayle—" Lamont tried to interject, but she pressed on.
"No, let me finish. I respect you too much to pretend like it didn't happen. I crossed a line, and I'm sorry. You've done so much for me, for my career, and the last thing I want is for things to be weird between us because I had too many drinks and forgot my place."
Her words tumbled out, rehearsed yet sincere. She'd practiced this speech dozens of times in her bathroom mirror, trying to find the perfect combination of remorse and professionalism that might salvage their working relationship.
Lamont watched her, his face softening slightly as she spoke.
"Are you done?" he asked when she finally paused for breath.
Gayle nodded, bracing herself for whatever came next.
"I've been thinking about that night too," Lamont began, "We both probably had too much to drink."
"Tell me about it," Gayle scoffed as she shook her head.
"I wish I could stand here and tell you that after that night, nothing changed and we can just go back to how it was but I can’t," Lamont continued, "And I don’t want it to, Gayle."
Lamont leaned in, his lips finding hers in a kiss that answered all her questions at once.
…
The abandoned construction site on the outskirts of the city stood silent in the darkness, skeletal frameworks of unfinished buildings reaching toward the sky like bony fingers. Dro's Cadillac rolled quietly along the gravel path, headlights off, guided only by the dim glow of the dashboard. Beside him, Slim checked his pistol for the third time, the metallic click echoing in the car's interior.
"We’re still good?" Slim asked, his voice barely above a whisper despite being miles from anyone who might overhear.
Dro nodded, his scarred face illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the windshield. Years of conflict with his nephew had led to this moment—a chance to end it once and for all.
"Don't seem right," Slim muttered, scanning the darkness outside. "Stacks ain't stupid enough to come out here by himself."
"This is where he meets his gun connect from the Woods," Dro replied, "If Trey told him to be here, he’s going to be here."
They rounded a corner, approaching the designated meeting spot—an empty lot surrounded by concrete pillars and half-finished walls. Dro slowed the car, eyes narrowed as he searched for any sign of his nephew's vehicle.
The first shot shattered the windshield.
Glass exploded inward as bullets tore through the car's exterior, the rapid staccato of automatic gunfire drowning out Slim's shout of surprise. Dro slammed on the brakes and threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding a round that punched through the headrest where his head had been a second earlier.
"Fuck!" Slim yelled, returning fire through his window.
Blood sprayed across the dashboard as a bullet caught Slim in the shoulder, his cry of pain cut short by another round that found his chest. Dro didn't have time to mourn. Survival instinct took over as he kicked open his door and rolled out onto the gravel, the concrete biting into his skin as bullets continued to rain down on the vehicle.
He scrambled behind a stack of cement bags, drawing his own weapon. He could make out shadowy figures moving between the construction equipment, at least five of them, all converging on his position.
"Snake-ass motherfucker," Dro hissed through clenched teeth, firing blindly toward the closest attacker.
He knew he was outgunned and outmanned. The only option was to move. Keeping low, Dro darted between piles of construction materials, bullets kicking up dust at his heels. He spotted a narrow alleyway between two half-built structures and made a sprint for it.
The alley provided momentary shelter, but Dro quickly realized his mistake. The passage ended in a concrete wall—no exit, no escape. He pressed his back against the cold surface, breathing heavily, gun raised toward the alley's entrance. Footsteps approached, unhurried now. They knew they had him cornered.
A figure appeared at the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the faint ambient light. Even in shadow, Dro recognized the build, the stance, the confidence in those shoulders.
"Nephew," he called out, his voice steady despite the circumstances. "Should've known better than to trust a motherfucker dumb enough to go away for some shit he didn’t even do."
Stacks stepped forward. Behind him, more figures waited, weapons ready.
"Come on, Unc," Stacks replied, moving closer.
Dro's laugh was bitter, edged with resignation. "So this how it ends?"
As Stacks advanced, Dro raised his weapon, finger tightening on the trigger. But something in his nephew's eyes made him hesitate—not fear or hatred, but a profound sadness that seemed out of place in this moment. Dro lowered his weapon. The younger man closed the distance between them, and before Dro could react, Stacks wrapped his arms around him in an embrace.
"It always was going to end like this," Stacks whispered, tears welling in his eyes as he held his uncle.
Dro felt the cold press of a gun barrel against his ribs, hidden from the watching eyes by their embrace. He understood then—this final hug was both genuine and practical, a moment of connection and the perfect cover for what needed to be done.
"I loved you, Unc," Stacks murmured, his voice breaking.
Neighborhood.
God damn, Lamont. Ain't no well-adjusted Black women OR men in this shit. Cheating on his wife for some 19 year old pussy 
Neighborhood.
The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and wilting flowers. Tommy hesitated at the doorway, the bouquet of yellow daisies suddenly feeling inadequate in his sweaty palm. Alexis lay propped against a mountain of pillows, her normally vibrant complexion faded away.
"Tommy boy," she said, her voice stronger than her appearance suggested. "You’re back."
Tommy forced his feet to move, approaching her bed with what he hoped was a casual smile. "Brought you these. Yellow's still your favorite, right?"
"You know it," Alexis reached for them, wincing slightly as she extended her arm. "What was it, Mrs. Patterson’s class when you stole all the yellow crayons to give them to me?"
Tommy placed the flowers on her bedside table, next to an impressive array of get-well cards and half-empty water cups. "Something like that."
Tommy pulled the visitor's chair closer, the metal legs scraping against linoleum. The sound echoed in the too-quiet room as he stared at the medical equipment surrounding her bed, the IV line disappearing into her arm, the monitors with their steady, rhythmic beeping.
"Everyone from Crossroads sent their best," he finally said. "You know they’re already planning a reunion?"
"We just graduated," Alexis laughed as she adjusted herself against the pillows, "Let me guess, it’s Mauve’s idea?"
"Who else?" Tommy shook his head.
"I guess I’ll need to find an outfit that goes with this wheelchair."
"Have they said anything about..." He gestured vaguely toward her legs beneath the blanket.
Alexis's expression hardened. "Physical therapy starts next week. They're 'cautiously optimistic,' whatever the fuck that means."
"That's good, right?"
"It means they don't know if I'll walk again." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Could be temporary, could be permanent."
Tommy swallowed hard. "Shit, Lex."
"Yeah. Shit."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft beeping of monitors.
"Have you heard from Stefan?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Alexis's face changed instantly, like shutters slamming closed. "Don't."
"I just thought—"
"I don't want to talk about him."
…
The sun beat down on Elijah's neck as he surveyed the half-finished facade of Chase Family Market. Concrete dust coated his boots, and the smell of fresh asphalt from the newly paved parking lot filled his nostrils. A handful of workers milled about, their progress slow but steady.
Gordon wiped sweat from his brow, his suit looking out of place among the construction debris. "You know, Elijah, we could speed this up considerably."
Elijah shook his head, squinting up at the partially completed storefront. "We're doing fine with what we've got."
"Fine isn't great," Gordon said, stepping carefully around a pile of lumber. "And time is money."
"So is hiring the contractors you’re talking about," Elijah replied, his voice tight. He'd already done the math a dozen times. Every extra dollar spent was another dollar he'd owe—to Gordon, to his son. The weight of debt already hung heavy around his neck. "We're on budget this way."
Gordon sighed, checking his watch. "Look, I respect your position here. But this isn't just about the money. The longer construction drags on, the longer you're without income from the store. We’ve already pushed back the projected opening date twice and another delay and we’re looking at early spring at the best."
"I appreciate the concern," Elijah said, the words feeling stiff on his tongue. Pride was about all he had left these days. "But we’re currently on track, even without those contractors."
"Fair enough," Gordon conceded, raising his hands in surrender. "Are you ready to continue our conversation about Mateo?"
Elijah's jaw tightened. "I don't need a babysitter, Gordon."
"It's not about babysitting. It's standard procedure for all our investments." Gordon's tone shifted, more businessman than advisor-of-Keshawn’s now.
"So he'll be reporting back to you," Elijah said flatly.
"To the investment group, yes." Gordon slipped his phone back into his pocket. "But he's here to help, Elijah. You said you wanted me to treat this project, to treat you, like all of my other investments. This is how we do it and unless you want to revisit that conversation…"
Elijah kicked at a loose piece of gravel, watching it skitter across the fresh asphalt.
"When does he start?" he finally asked.
"Next week at the latest," Gordon clapped him on the shoulder.
Elijah nodded but said nothing. Above them, a worker called out as a beam was hoisted into place. Slow progress, but his progress. For now, that would have to be enough.
…
The digital clock on the nightstand flashed 1:47 PM. Keshawn stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, counting the little bumps until they blurred together. The pregame nap wasn't happening. His heart had been hammering for hours, making sleep impossible despite the heaviness in his limbs.
A knock rattled his bedroom door. "Yo, Ke! Food's almost ready!" Vic's voice carried through the wood.
Keshawn groaned, rubbing his palms over his face. "Coming," he called back, his voice scratchy from hours of silence.
He swung his long legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cool hardwood. The house still felt new, unfamiliar—three bedrooms in a modest Portland neighborhood, nothing flashy but more than he'd ever had growing up. A rookie salary went further here than it would in Los Angeles or New York, one of the few perks of his draft day 'slide'.
His phone buzzed again on the nightstand—it had been doing that all afternoon. Keshawn picked it up, scrolling through the notifications. Dozens of texts and social media mentions.
From Mom: Baby boy I am so proud of you. Watching tonight with everyone. Love you.
From Coach Bronstein: Remember what we worked on. You belong there.
Keshawn's thumb hovered over a text from Candace. Been thinking about you all day. You're gonna kill it tonight.
He kept scrolling and stopped at an Instagram notification. Gloria had posted a picture of herself in his jersey—his game worn Bruins jersey that he wore to one of the tournament games with the caption "Day One supporter. So proud of you @KeshawnChase!"
His stomach twisted. They weren't together anymore, not that they ever were and especially not with him moving to Portland and her still at UCLA, but it still felt complicated especially as things continued to advance with Candace.
"Yo!" Vic appeared in the doorway, wooden spoon in hand. "You said you wanted to get to the arena early, cuz. Fuck is you doing?"
Keshawn quickly locked his phone. "Yeah, sorry."
Vic's eyes narrowed as he leaned against the doorframe. "What I’d tell you about being on your phone, bro? You don’t need that shit right now."
Keshawn nodded, following his cousin through the hallway into the kitchen.
"Carbs and proteins, nigga," Vic announced proudly, gesturing to the plates he'd already prepared. "You ain’t gonna blame your shitty performance tonight on me."
"Fuck outta here," Keshawn shook his head with a smile as he took a seat at the kitchen counter. His gym bag sat by the front door, already packed and waiting.
"Your headphones are in your bag," Vic reminded him, "Got some snacks and shit in there if you don’t look like what the team got for you at halftime."
"Appreciate it," Keshawn twisted pasta around his fork. “For real, Vic."
Vic waved him off as he checked the time on the microwave. "Get to eating motherfucker, we got places to be and niggas to lock up."
Neighborhood.
Highlight Game: October 22nd, 2025 - Moda Center, Portland, Oregon
(1-0) Minnesota Timberwolves at Portland Trail Blazers (0-1)
MIN | 28 | 24 | 40 | 22 | 114
POR | 16 | 27 | 33 | 13 | 89
Starting Lineups
Mike Conley - G - Jrue Holiday
Anthony Edwards - G - Shaedon Sharpe
Jaden McDaniels - F - Deni Avdija
Julius Randle. - F - Toumani Camara
Rudy Gobert - C - Donovan Clingan
G Mike Conley 5 pts, 8 ast, 2-4 FG, 1-2 3PT G Anthony Edwards 25 pts, 6 reb, 7 ast, 6-12 FG, 1-5 3PT, 12-12 FT F Jaden McDaniels 4 pts, reb, 1-3 FG, 0-2 3PT F Julius Randle 25 pts, 7 reb, 4 ast, 10-20 FG, 2-7 3PT C Rudy Gobert 4 pts, 9 reb, 2 blk, 2-3 FG
G Jrue Holiday 4 pts, 5 ast, 5 TO, 2-8 FG, 0-2 3PT G Shaedon Sharpe 19 pts, 2 reb, 4 ast, 6-11 FG, 4-7 3PT F Deni Avdija 12 pts, 3 reb, 6 ast, 6-14 FG, 0-3 3PT F Toumani Camara 3 pts, 3 reb, 2 stl, 1-5 FG, 1-3 3PT C Donovan Clingan 2 pts, 4 reb, 3 stl, 1-6 FG F Keshawn Chase 16 pts, 10 reb, 5 ast, 7-13 FG, 0-1 3PT, 2-4 FT---
(0-3)
@ 
(1-1)GSW | 21 | 19 | 23 | 38 | 101
POR | 34 | 29 | 18 | 21 | 102
GSW G Stephen Curry: 29 pts, 4 reb, 5 ast, 12-23 FG, 5-11 3PT
POR F Keshawn Chase: 8 pts, 5 reb, 5 ast, 3-6 FG, 2-2 FT
Upcoming Schedule at Los Angeles Clippers (2-0), at Los Angeles Lakers (1-1)
Season Stats 12 PPG, 7.5 RPG, 5 APG, 0.5 SPG, 0.0 BPG, 0.5 TOPG, 52 FG%, 0 3PT%, 66 FT%