Kay Ki Bliye Non Ou
The locker room smelled like damp turf and disinfectant, the kind of sharp bleach tang that clung to the back of your throat. Sweat-stained pads slumped against open lockers, cleats stacked by the door where mud still clung to the soles. Voices bounced off the cinderblock walls, low and restless — the sound of boys killing time before practice turned them back into soldiers.
Caine pushed through the doorway with his helmet tucked under one arm, his voice carrying easy as he talked with Corey. Corey had one cleat in his hand, pounding it against the floor to loosen a pebble wedged in the tread, his other hand still gesturing through the air like he was running a slant.
“I’m telling you,” Corey said, shaking his head, “you gotta throw that shit sooner. Corner sat on it ‘cause you waited. Give me the rock out the break, not two steps later.”
Caine smirked, dropping onto the bench in front of his locker. “You round your shit again, that’s on you. Ball was on time. You slow motherfucker, not me.”
“Slow?” Corey laughed, throwing the shoe against the wall with a hollow thump. “Nigga, I dusted that corner by three yards. Ask anybody out there. You floated that bitch like you thought I was Randy Moss jogging on air.”
“I put it where only you could get it,” Caine shot back, tugging his practice jersey over his head. The fabric clung to his shoulders, still damp from earlier heat. “You drop it, that’s on you. You catch that, it’s a tuddy. Don’t blame me ‘cause you half-paying attention.”
Corey made a face like he wanted to argue more, but he couldn’t hide the grin pulling at his mouth. “Alright, QB1. We gon’ see. Just don’t underthrow me next time. Ain’t tryna come back on no corner for free.”
Their laughter cut through the locker room noise, sharp enough to draw a couple glances from teammates.
One pair of eyes lingered longer than the rest. Jay.
He brushed past on his way to his locker, his shoulder clipping against Caine’s like it wasn’t an accident. His face stayed blank but his eyes said plenty — sharp, dark, carrying the heat of something unspoken. The air between them thinned for a beat.
Caine didn’t look back. He kept talking to Corey, like Jay wasn’t even there.
“Run the post right,” Caine said, tapping his temple. “Read the safety, cut it, ball gon’ be waiting on you. I see all that shit — just trust me.”
Corey nodded, pulling his shirt on. “Bet. Just don’t make me look like no fool out there.”
Caine gave a half-smile. “Don’t need me for that.”
Corey laughed, tossing a towel at him, but the sound in the room shifted when a voice cut across the chatter.
“Guerra. My office.”
Coach Joseph.
His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried the weight of expectation. A hush slid over the players within earshot, that instinctive quiet that came when authority marked one of them out.
Caine rose and made his way across the room. The floor was slick from cleats, the air thick with Axe body spray and stale Gatorade. He pushed open the office door and stepped inside.
Coach Joseph leaned back in his chair, a pen tapping against the surface like a metronome.
“Close the door,” Joseph said.
Caine did, settling into the chair across from him. His posture was calm, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the way he carried every interaction like it might change the course of his year.
“You still locked in?” Joseph asked, eyes steady on him. “Football. Everything that comes with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Grades?”
“Keeping ‘em straight.”
Coach’s eyes narrowed a fraction. He tapped the pen twice, then leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk. “Anybody been reaching out to you? Colleges?”
Caine shook his head. “Just Alcorn. That one coach a couple weeks back.”
Joseph grunted. He reached for his phone, scrolled through it, then pulled a sticky note from the pad by his elbow. The pen scratched quick across the yellow square. He slid it across the desk.
Caine looked down. Names and numbers, written in the coach’s firm block print.
Arkansas-Pine Bluff. Nicholls. Samford. Stetson. Tarleton State.
Caine blinked. “What’s this?”
“Coaches,” Joseph said matter-of-factly. “Called about you.”
Caine frowned. “Me? Coach, I ain’t play but two games.”
Joseph shook his head, leaning back again, chair groaning under the shift. “Son, you’re the quarterback for the top team in the state. We got five, six FBS commits already, same number for FCS if not more. They ain’t just watching you — they watching us. Every snap, every throw, somebody got an eye on it.”
Caine sat still, the sticky note in his hand heavier than it should’ve been. His thumb rubbed over the ink like he needed to prove it was real.
Two games. That was all he’d played, and already his name was bouncing around phones he’d never dialed.
“Don’t let this get in your head,” Joseph said, cutting through his silence. “You still gotta play ball. Still gotta go to class. Still gotta keep your nose clean. None of this means nothing if you don’t finish the season the right way.”
Caine nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
Joseph’s eyes softened for a moment, but only just. “You got talent, Guerra. More than you believe, I think. But talent don’t mean shit if you can’t hold it together. You hear me?”
“I got you, coach.”
“Good. Now get back out there. We got work to do.”
Caine stood, slipping the sticky note into the inside pocket of his bag. His jaw was tight, but his movements stayed smooth, controlled.
As he opened the door, the noise of the locker room spilled back in — laughter, the metallic clang of lockers, the scrape of cleats on concrete. Corey looked up from lacing his shoes, eyebrows raised like he wanted to ask what went down. Jay’s eyes cut toward him from across the room, sharp and unyielding.
Caine said nothing. He just walked back to his locker, the weight of the paper in his pocket pressing against him.
~~~
The car smelled faintly of baby wipes and cheap vanilla air freshener, the kind Mireya picked up at Dollar General because it was three for five. The late-afternoon heat had already eaten through the A/C’s weak blast; sweat clung to the back of her neck where stray hairs curled damp against her skin.
She sat in the driver’s seat with her knees tucked up a little, phone balanced on the steering wheel, a half-eaten candy bar melting between her fingers. Her thumb kept flicking, screen light painting her face.
Reddit. College apps. A thread full of strangers telling her what she already knew she didn’t have.
“Join clubs—admissions want leadership, not just grades.”
“Volunteer hours look great, especially hospitals if you’re interested in nursing.”
“If you’re already a mom, write your essay about resilience. They eat that up.”
She snorted softly at that last one, the sound bitter in her own ears. Write about resilience. Like exhaustion and not sleeping counted as “resilience” when you were just trying to keep the lights on.
She wiped chocolate off her thumb with a crumpled napkin, scrolling slower now. Her eyes burned from staring too long. Every piece of advice stacked like another brick on her chest. Clubs. Sports. Student government. All that extra shit she’d never had time for even before Camila.
Another post:
“If you don’t have extracurriculars, consider a gap year. Work, save, then apply stronger.”
She let the phone drop into her lap, head leaning back against the seat. A gap year. Like she wasn’t already drowning in work now. Like a year later she’d somehow be less tired, less broke.
Her stomach gave a small twist; she took another bite of the candy bar, chewing slow, the sweetness cloying.
The lot outside the boutique was half-empty, asphalt shimmering with heat. She blinked when a sleek BMW swung in, black paint catching the sun. The engine purred, too clean for this side of town.
The boutique’s glass door chimed as Trina jogged out, ponytail bouncing, uniform shirt untucked. She trotted straight to the car like she’d been waiting.
The driver’s door opened. A tall Black man climbed out — broad shoulders, chain catching light, haircut sharp. He leaned down, kissed Trina quick on the mouth like it was routine. His other hand held a greasy Wing Stop bag and a small fold of bills pinched tight between his fingers.
Trina laughed, took both, and kissed him again before he slid back into the BMW. Engine rumbled, tires squealed soft as he eased back onto the street.
Mireya stared without meaning to, the image burned sharp: food and folded cash handed off like it was nothing.
Trina noticed her then, grinning as she crossed the lot. She swung the bag at her side, grease already spotting the bottom.
“When your break over?”
“Ten minutes,” Mireya answered, straightening a little in her seat.
Trina popped open the passenger door and leaned in, the smell of lemon pepper wings immediately filling the car. She fished out a fry and popped it in her mouth, talking around the chew.
“Who was that?” Mireya asked, nodding in the direction his car was.
“Girl, that’s my baby daddy homeboy Nuk.” Trina rolled her eyes like it was obvious. “He always trickin’ on a bitch.”
Mireya blinked, glancing at the money in her hand before Trina stuffed it into her bra.
“You get benefits for your kids?” Mireya asked after a pause.
Trina wiped her fingers on the crinkled Wing Stop bag. “Shit yeah. My grandma claim ‘em.”
Mireya frowned. “How?”
“‘Cause I don’t make shit and she old-school with the paperwork. Knew how to play the system before I even had the first one.” Trina smirked, licking salt off her thumb. “Why? You not getting nothing for yours?”
Mireya shook her head. “My mom makes too much.”
Trina sucked her teeth, long and loud. “Then you hustling backwards, girl. For real. You gotta fix that shit. Put her with your man’s mama, girl. Or his mawmaw or something. Someone broke.”
Mireya hesitated. “I don’t know—”
“Shit,” Trina cut her off, already stepping back out the door. “These white folks be doing it. Ain’t no reason to leave money on the table.”
She snapped the bag shut, gave a little wave, and headed back into the store. The chime echoed faintly before the door swung shut behind her.
Silence filled the car again.
Mireya sat still, fingers tight around her phone. Her candy bar wrapper crinkled in her lap. She could still smell lemon pepper in the air, her stomach knotting even though she wasn’t hungry.
“Hustling backwards,” she whispered, the words tasting strange in her mouth.
She thought of Camila’s daycare bill sitting unpaid on the kitchen counter. The gas gauge dipping near empty again. The way her mother’s face twisted whenever Mireya mentioned asking for help.
Put her with your man’s mama.
Mireya’s throat tightened. She stared down at her phone again, but the Reddit thread had gone dim, screen timed out. She didn’t turn it back on.
~~~
The room was cold, always cold. Concrete walls painted beige years ago, scuffed gray at the corners where chairs had scraped. A pane of scratched plexiglass covered the one slit of a window, letting in thin light that didn’t warm anything.
Ricardo sat at the table with his wrists resting flat, fingers tapping once, then still. His green DOC shirt clung damp to his shoulders from the walk over. The guard had said nothing, just led him down the hall and locked the door behind him.
Evan Broussard walked in a minute later, suit neat, tie loosened just enough to look worn from the day. He set a slim folder on the table, clicked his pen once, and sat across from Ricardo without adjusting his chair. His eyes flicked over his client like he was measuring distance, not greeting a man.
“The appeal process is underway,” Evan said, voice calm, level. He opened the folder, paper edges shuffling crisp. “We’ll be filing motions to review your trial record. It’ll take time. Could be months, more.”
Ricardo leaned back, arms crossed now. “So, what you need from me?”
“Anything that isn’t in here,” Evan said, tapping the file. “Something that strengthens your position. Circumstances. Details the transcripts don’t show.”
Ricardo shook his head. “Ain’t nothing else. You got what I got.”
Evan studied him for a beat, expression unreadable. He made a note on the margin of a form before continuing, his tone still even. “Then I have to ask this directly: do you have information prosecutors might want?”
The question hit like a sour note in the air. Ricardo’s eyes cut sharp. “Nah. Don’t start with that shit.”
“It’s my job to ask.”
Ricardo leaned forward, palms flat on the table. His voice stayed low, hard. “I’d rather sit down for the whole fifteen than open my mouth about anybody. Don’t bring that shit up again.”
Evan didn’t flinch. He clicked his pen closed, set it parallel to the folder. “Understood. I have clients who take different approaches. Some decide cooperation is worth it. I had to throw it out there.”
Ricardo’s jaw clenched. “Not me.”
Silence stretched. The faint buzz of the overhead light filled it, along with the hollow drip of a pipe somewhere in the hall.
“Then we work with what we have,” Evan said finally. He slid the folder back into his briefcase, movements methodical. “I’ll update you when there’s movement.”
“Get me out,” Ricardo muttered, leaning back again. “But I ain’t cooperating. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” Evan said. He closed the briefcase, stood, and buttoned his jacket in one smooth motion. His gaze lingered a second longer than before, not pity, not sympathy — just acknowledgment. Then he nodded once, sharp, and walked out.
The door clicked shut.
Ricardo stayed seated. His hands flexed against the table, fingertips pressing into the wood grain until it left pale marks on his skin. The chair across from him was already empty, as if Evan had never been there at all.
He sat like that for a while, listening to the hum of the fluorescent light, the faint muffled echo of a shout from down the tier. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck, leaving him chilled.
Finally he pushed back, the legs of the chair scraping loud against the floor. He walked to the door, lifted his hand, and knocked twice, knuckles sharp against metal.
The guard’s voice came muffled through the slit. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” Ricardo said. His own voice sounded flat in his ears.
The bolt slid, door opening with a slow groan. The guard didn’t look at him, just turned and started down the hall. Ricardo followed, hands loose at his sides, steps steady.
Back toward the tier, back toward the noise, back toward the cell that had become his world.
~~~
The front door stuck halfway before giving way with a groan. Caine leaned his weight into it until it banged shut behind him, the sound carrying through the house. He dropped his backpack by the wall and rolled his shoulder, sore from reps that afternoon.
He was out of his practice gear hours ago, but the sweat had followed him home. His polo stuck to his back, still damp even after a shower that hadn’t washed the turf out of his skin. His hair smelled faintly of sweat and grass, his legs heavy from the drills. He wanted to sleep, but the house carried a different weight: oil and bleach cut sharp through the air, wrapped in garlic, cumin, and the sweet edge of frying plantains.
In the kitchen, pots clinked, a wooden spoon scraped slow against the bottom of one. Sara’s voice carried steady, tired but firm: “Sit down. Food’s almost ready.”
Caine shifted toward the hall. “I’m going to Mireya’s.”
The scraping stopped. Sara stepped out, towel bunched in her hand. Her hair was pulled back tight, stray strands plastered damp at her temples from the stove’s heat. She looked at him for a long moment — not angry, but heavy with something else.
“Sit down,” she said again, softer. “I never get to spend time with you.”
He hesitated, then let out a slow breath. He lowered himself into the chair at the table. The wood creaked under him.
Sara turned back into the kitchen. Oil hissed as she shifted the pan. A minute later she slid a plate in front of him: arroz con frijoles, the beans dark and glossy over white rice, pollo frito golden and crisp across the top, tajadas stacked high on the side. Steam curled up, carrying spice and oil.
She pulled a chair close beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his sleeve.
“You gonna eat?” he asked, glancing at her.
“When you finish, I will.”
He didn’t press. He picked up the fork and dug in. The chicken cracked under his teeth, cumin sharp, vinegar heat lingering on his tongue. The rice and beans were heavy, the tajadas sweet and greasy at the back of his throat.
“¿Estás bien?” she asked.
He nodded once, eyes down. “Yeah.”
Sara reached over, plucked something from his hair — a stray blade of grass from the field. She held it a moment, then let it fall. Her fingers didn’t leave. They slid into his dreads, parting them slow, smoothing the new growth at the roots, her thumb pressing careful against his scalp.
“You sleep with your fists balled up,” she murmured. “Like you ready to fight even when you dreaming.”
Caine swallowed, shoulders shifting. “It is what it is.”
Her hand rested warm against his shoulder. “I worry about you. What that year in jail did. What living like you did has done. I’m sorry that I pushed you, made things harder for you.”
He shook his head. “You ain’t make it harder.”
She said nothing, just kept tracing her fingers through his hair, section by section, the touch as steady as her breathing.
“You want me to let you wash after you eat?” she asked.
He huffed a faint breath, not quite a laugh. “You gonna eat?”
“After you,” she said.
He knew what that meant. He kept chewing, letting the truth sit unsaid.
The kitchen buzzed with heat. The bulb overhead flickered faintly, shadows twitching across the walls. The smell of grease clung heavy in the air, but the food grounded him with every bite.
Sara rubbed slow circles across his back. At first she hummed low, then words slipped out — Spanish, soft and steady, the rhythm of a lullaby he knew without needing to name. Her voice was tired, but it filled the space, wrapping the room in something that felt older than either of them.
Caine bent over his plate, chewing slow, jaw tight. The sound pulled at him in ways he didn’t know how to answer. He ate until the chicken was gone, rice scraped clean.
For a long while he stayed there, letting her hand rest against him, her song spilling into the heat. Beyond the kitchen, the house carried on — cousins shouting, a TV too loud. But here, at the table, it was only her voice, the scrape of his fork slowing, the smell of fried chicken and plantains cooling on the counter.
- and still gets shit on. She going to get fed up one of these days and look for a dude with a BMW and some money to burn 
