The lobby was cool and bright, glass catching the sun and throwing it across trophy cases. Team photos ran the corridor in neat frames, faces lined up by years, jerseys dark then light then dark again. Caine crossed to the offices, the air smelling like cleaner and fresh carpet, the kind of quiet that comes after a weight room empties. Aplin’s door stood open. Voices inside, then chair legs, then the quick scrape of a pen cap.
“About time,” Aplin said, coming around the desk with a grin that said he knew him already. “How’s my guy?”
Caine bumped his hand once. “I’m here.”
“Good,” Aplin said, the word landing easy. He tipped a chin to the side chair. “Sit. This is Kaleo Fatu, our new offensive coordinator.”
The man by the window stood, sleeves rolled, pen tucked behind his ear. “Good to finally get you in the building,” he said.
“Good to be here,” Caine answered, and took the chair. The cushion eased under him. A whiteboard ate one wall, fresh marker over old ghosts. He didn’t stare, but it sat there, lines and numbers waiting.
Aplin slid back into his seat. “You gotten out in Statesboro any?”
“Not really,” Caine said. “Been at the motel.”
Aplin blinked once. “Motel? We can get you a hotel while you wait on housing.”
“I’m fine,” Caine said.
“We don’t have the Ritz,” Aplin said, waving it off, “but we can do better than the Budget Inn. We’ll handle it.” He let that die and shifted. “First off—congrats. State champs don’t grow on trees.”
“Appreciate it,” Caine said.
“How’s the jump feel?” Aplin asked. “High school to college?”
“Good,” Caine said. His eyes touched the board again, then came back.
“That’s what I want to hear.” Aplin sat back.
Kaleo leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. “And what Coach told you in recruiting stands. You’re gonna compete for the job. That’s still the case.”
Caine gave a small nod.
Kaleo’s pen pointed at empty space, naming as he went. “Room’s three back from last year—Weston Bryan, Turner Helton, Tyler Budge. Then the freshmen—Dillon Rasmussen, Terrell Tuggle, you.”
The names hung there. The HVAC hummed. Somewhere down the hall a plate kissed steel, soft and distant. Outside the window, pines moved once and went still again. The office light buzzed and settled.
“I won’t lie,” Aplin said. “You’re behind the eight ball a little. Last one to campus. But it’s open.”
“I’ll fight for it,” Caine said, a slight shrug.
Aplin and Kaleo traded a look that wasn’t for show, then nodded like they’d stacked that answer where it needed to go.
“Good,” Aplin said. He palmed a stress ball and set it back down without squeezing it. “You work, we coach. That exchange hasn’t changed.”
Silence held a moment. Caine’s keys sat against his thigh. The whiteboard waited with its angles and numbers, clean and blunt. Down the corridor, someone laughed, then a door clicked shut. It was a building that stayed busy even when no one was running.
Aplin stood, hands braced on the desk. “Since you couldn’t make the official, we’ll show you around after we talk.”
Caine rose. The chair legs scraped once and settled. From the hall, a scuff of sneakers crossed tile and faded.
Kaleo paused at the doorway, as if remembering the last thing on a list. “Food treating you alright so far? Being from Louisiana.”
Caine huffed a laugh through his nose. “It’s straight.”
Both coaches laughed with him, easy and short. The sound bounced off the whiteboard and faded.
“Alright,” Aplin said, the grin still there. “Let’s make this real.”
They stepped toward the hall. The office held the echo a second longer, then let it go.
~~~
The May heat sat wet even under the trees, thick with animal smell and fryer oil drifting from a cart that kept the oil popping. The lions were a heap of yellow and breath, chests rising slow. Camila pressed both hands to the glass, curls damp at her neck, breath making little clouds she wiped away with the side of her hand to make more.
“Lions, mommy” she said, soft like she didn’t want to wake them. “They sleeping.”
“They sleep a lot, baby,” Mireya said. Her voice came out even. The tired lived behind her eyes like grit. Three nights of Camila’s crying had stretched long and thin, FaceTimes that ended with goodnights and a small body shaking itself empty against her. The zoo was a plan she had made because she needed a different day than the last ones.
A fan somewhere pushed warm air that didn’t help. A peacock screamed far off and somebody laughed like it was part of the show. Camila pointed with a finger pressed to the glass. “That one big.”
“Muy grande,” Mireya said. She rubbed the strap mark her bag had cut into her shoulder and shifted her weight on aching feet. She kept her eyes forward.
Behind her, women’s laughter rose, bright with an edge she knew. She stayed with the glass and with Camila until the greeting landed.
“Oye, Mexicana.”
Alejandra’s voice carried easy and sharp through the heat. Mireya turned just enough to catch them, gave a small wave. Camila was still at the window, forehead making a clear spot on the glass.
They didn’t look like they did under club lights. Day made everything literal. Jaslene’s hoops flashed when she moved. Her top sat right and said she knew exactly what she was doing with it. Alejandra’s shorts rode high on the thigh, nails bright. Hayley’s tattoo sleeve ran her arm clean, lines and flowers dark against skin, and a long piece climbed the side of one leg, the shorts cutting high enough to show it. They turned heads among paper maps and dads pushing wagons full of kids and snacks.
“Your baby’s cute,” Jaslene said, eyes on Camila first, then up.
“Thank you,” Mireya said. That came easy. She touched the back of Camila’s head, felt the heat in her palm.
“What y’all doing out here?” she asked. It came out more careful than casual, but it was what she had.
Alejandra lifted her brows like the answer was obvious. “We can’t come see animals too?”
Jaslene rolled her eyes at her, smiling, and tipped her chin down the path. “We came with Mari.”
Mireya followed the gesture. A Latina about their age crouched by the next enclosure with a little girl, hand steady on the child’s back. Shorts. Plain T-shirt. Hair pulled up without a fuss. No lashes. No paint. She pointed into the exhibit and said something low the breeze didn’t carry. The kid leaned forward, mouth open at whatever moved inside.
Mireya looked back. “Does she…” The rest stuck in her mouth. It felt off to name it here, with Camila at the glass and families passing.
“Dance with us?” Jaslene said. “Yes.”
Mireya nodded once. It was information. She let it sit and didn’t make it bigger. Camila tapped the glass with the flat of her hand. “Mommy look,” she said, even though the lions hadn’t moved.
“I see,” Mireya said. She smoothed a curl from Camila’s cheek and felt how warm she ran.
Hayley shifted her weight, tattoos catching a stripe of sun. “She looks like you,” she said, voice soft, and then made a small face like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
People pushed past in slow waves. A stroller wheel squeaked. Somewhere a kid cried and then stopped. The snack stand bell dinged, and grease smell got louder. Sweat gathered at Mireya’s waistband and sat there. She adjusted the bag on her shoulder because the strap cut.
“Monkeys, mommy. I wanna see the monkeys,” Camila said suddenly, words tumbling quick like she might go without permission.
“In a second,” Mireya said. “Hold my shirt.”
Camila caught fabric in her fist and tugged. Mireya turned back to the women. Seeing them here felt strange in her chest, like two worlds had bumped into each other and stayed touching. She didn’t have a name for the feeling, only the urge to keep the space around Camila steady.
“It was good seeing y’all,” she said. “We’re gonna head over.”
Jaslene stepped close enough to lay a hand on Mireya’s shoulder, the weight there brief and warm. “Good seeing you,” she said, soft. It landed as kindness, not a pull.
“See you again soon, Mexicana,” Alejandra said, the grin still set. The nickname made Mireya’s mouth go flat, but she didn’t give it back to her. Camila was right there.
Hayley lifted two fingers in a small wave. Up close the ink looked clean. Well-done. Expensive.
They peeled off down the path the opposite way, hips loose, heads bent together. They didn’t look back to check on how she took it. That felt like its own answer.
“Monkeys now, mommy?” Camila asked, voice already happier because she believed it.
“Monkeys now,” Mireya said. She picked up the bag strap again and tucked it higher.
They walked toward the curve where the path turned into shade and concrete stayed slick with hose water. The air got cooler for three steps and then heavy again. A golf cart rattled by with a staffer in a faded shirt. Someone ordered snowballs at the stand in a voice that made Camila swivel her head.
Behind them, movement caught in the corner of Mireya’s eye. She glanced once. Mari and her daughter had left the glass and were coming the same way at an easy pace, the little girl skipping and then stopping to look at a sign with a cartoon monkey on it. She had the look of somebody awake for a long time who still made the day happen.
Camila craned around, walking backward for two wobbly steps. “She’s tall tall, mommy.”
“Yes, she was, baby,” Mireya said, knowing she meant Jaslene and kept them moving. She glanced back at Mari and the child and then sliding away as the path pulled them toward the next thing Camila wanted to see.
~~~
The daycare smelled like lemon cleaner and something sweet the kids had spilled and wiped halfway. Voices braided in the big room—little ones counting blocks, a cartoon jingle leaking from a tablet, a soft shush from one of the girls in the blue staff tee. Caine stepped in off the back lot, the door easing shut behind him. Air conditioning met the heat he brought in and lifted goosebumps on his forearms.
A woman stood at a folding table just off the main play space, head tipped down over a clipboard that had three lists clipped beneath a pink sticky note. She checked one box, then another, then tapped the eraser against the margin to make sure the lead didn’t smear. Her hair lay tidy and fixed, not a strand loose. A silver band caught the light when she moved her hand. She didn’t look up yet.
He waited at the edge of the rubber mats. The college girls in their tees and shorts kept moving—one knelt beside a toddler trying to fit a square into a circle, another stacked plastic cots against the wall with her hip holding the stack while she reached for the strap. Two boys pushed dump trucks back and forth and negotiated a right-of-way with grave faces. Sun came through the high windows in a soft square and landed on a row of small shoes.
“You Caine?” Laney said without lifting her eyes.
“Yeah that’s me.”
She drew a line through a name and then looked over, chin first, then eyes. “I’m Delaney. Just call me Laney.”
He’d expected older. Homelier. Not this ironed neat, not the clean lines or the way her voice landed without trying to fill the room. He nodded. “Laney.”
Her gaze clicked to the football logo on his T-shirt and back to his face. “You play ball, don’t ya?”
He nodded again.
“I’ll work ‘round your schedule,” she said. “Follow me.”
She slid the clipboard under her arm and moved. He fell in a step behind. As they crossed the play area, a little girl with tight pigtails left a line of foam blocks and made an early break. Laney didn’t turn her head.
“Walk,” she said, voice even. The child slowed like the word touched her shoulder and set her back down. The staffer at the cot stack looked up, smiled quick, went back to her strap.
Laney pushed through the back door into the heat again. The air pressed against his face, heavy from the afternoon. She didn’t comment on it. Gravel crunched under their feet. She took him along the path that skirted the play yard fence to a squat shed the color of dried clay. The lock hung open. She pulled the right-hand door and it stuck at the bottom before it gave.
“Anything you need’s in here,” she said, stepping to the side so he could see.
Metal shelves climbed both walls. The first held clear bins labeled in neat block letters—ZIP TIES, GLIDES, FELT PADS, TAPE. The next held cleaners, a coil of extension cords, a box of gloves. Folding tables leaned against the far wall in a tight row. Extra chairs nested two by two. A push broom stood upside down in the corner, bristles splayed from use.
“If you need something ain’t in here, you let me know,” she said. “You’re basically it for maintenance. Mr. Charlie helps some. We just keep him on because he likes to be here.”
“Alright.”
She gave him a small measuring look, then turned and led him back toward the building. The smell of fresh cut grass wandered in from the lot. Somewhere a child squealed and then giggled, the sound catching on cinderblock and settling.
Inside again, the noise of the room folded around them. Laney cut across to a hallway he hadn’t seen from the door. The floor changed to glossy tile that held reflections in long, dull strokes. She walked past a corkboard with a calendar, past a framed print with a Bible verse, straight toward the first of three offices.
She stopped in the doorway and turned back, palm up in a quiet halt. “Stay right there in the hall.”
He let one eyebrow climb. She held his gaze until he planted himself just outside the jamb. She went in alone. He heard the hush of a drawer and the soft clink of a stapler being shifted. A minute later she came back with a stack of forms and a pen with a church logo.
“Fill these out and bring ‘em back next week,” she said. “Work week starts Monday.”
“I can start tomorrow.”
“Bring ‘em back next week.” She didn’t blink.
He nodded. “Alright.”
She held the top page up to make sure the signature lines were visible, then gave him the stack. The papers were warm where her fingers had been. He took them, slid the pen under the clip.
“Your hours’ll be mostly working outside,” she said. “I imagine you ain’t got a problem sweating since you play ball.”
He nodded again. The hum of the AC filled the pause. The closest office had a little window that looked out on the hall. The blinds were sitting at a straight angle, each slat aligned.
A thump of sneaker soles slapped behind them. A boy about five came flying down the hall, hair damp with sweat, paper crown sliding off one ear. His socks slid on the gloss. Laney didn’t break eye contact with Caine.
“Walk,” she said, same even tone as before. The boy’s feet found a careful rhythm and he went past with a side look at Caine, crown catching on his eyebrow before he pushed it back up. The staffer from the playroom rounded the corner a second later and mouthed a thanks. Laney didn’t watch either of them go.
Caine noticed the precision. The way she occupied space without raising her voice or moving her body more than necessary. Rules sat inside the way she held her shoulders. He couldn’t tell if she was younger than him by much or older by a mile. He adjusted the papers in his hand.
“You’ll text me if you’re late,” Laney said. “Sick? You bring me a note. If something breaks, show me ‘fore you try fixin’ it.”
“Alright.”
She shifted the clipboard from her left arm to her right and checked one of the sticky notes again. “Lawn folks come on Thursdays. Mr. Charlie’ll tell you where they miss. He always fussing about edges.”
“Okay.”
She tipped her chin toward the playroom. “And don’t cause no trouble with the staff.” The sentence landed clean, no sermon in it. “They’re students at the school same as you. Remember this is a church.”
“Got it.”
She watched him a beat longer and then looked down the hall toward the door they’d come through, as if her eyes ran the day the way her hands ran the lists. “That’s it,” she said. “You can go on now.”
He nodded once more. “Thanks.”
Laney stepped back into motion before the word finished. He heard her pen click as she turned into the office again, then the drawer hissed on its rails.
He walked out the way she’d brought him in. The girls in blue were helping a boy line up plastic animals smallest to biggest. One of them laughed when a giraffe refused to stand straight. A baby in a striped onesie slept heavy on a cot, mouth open, hand damp against his cheek. The AC kept humming. The lemon cleaner hid the sweat and didn’t.
Outside, heat wrapped him like a wet towel. The shed door sat open an inch and bumped the wind with a dull clack. He paused there and looked in, tracing the shelf labels once, getting the map down in his head. He closed the door with his palm over the metal and felt the warmth the sun had stored there.
In the lot, his car waited where he’d left it. He slid the forms onto the passenger seat and sat with the door open, letting the air move through the cabin a second before he shut it. The papers made a neat stack. Monday sat there too, neat as a box he’d already agreed to carry.
~~~
The porch boards flexed under Ramon’s heel, dry and soft from too much sun. Late afternoon heat already clung to the block, the kind that made the smell of bleach from the kitchen mix with piss in the dirt and somebody’s old takeout. A box fan hummed in the window and did nothing. Down in the yard, a couple boys had their shirts off, smoke curling up lazy. A busted lawn chair leaned into a patch of crabgrass like it wanted to sleep.
Tyree held court on the step, talking with his hands like he was working a huddle that only existed in his head. “I’m sayin’, shorty put that leg on my shoulder and started singin’. Like church singin’. I had to tell her hush.” His grin showed his teeth
E.J. flicked ash and snorted. “Nigga, stop lying. You ain’t never getting no fucking pussy. Always coming to us like ‘say, say, big brudda. She got a homegirl?’”
Ramon let a laugh slide out, small enough to disappear under the music that seeped from the back room. He leaned against the railing and watched cars ease past the corner. Heat made the air shake above the hoods. Every sound felt too close. A siren wound somewhere far then died. Somewhere else, oil cracked in a pan.
Tyree pointed at E.J.’s shoes. “You saying that but y’all keep me around is to hear about new pussy. Both y’all nigga basically married anyway. Straight missionary, lights off. Especially you with that little snow bunny.” He let the words hang until E.J. rolled his eyes.
“I get more pussy than you, nigga,” E.J. said, mouth twitching. “On me. This not even a comparison.”
“Comparison? Nigga, my stats Hall of Fame,” Tyree said. He thumped his chest. “First ballot. You still in the minor leagues.”
Ramon shook his head, a half smile at the edge. The block had a rhythm he knew, even when jokes ran loud. A white sedan slow-rolled to the corner, paused where the stop sign used to be, then kept going. A stray dog crossed the street and laid down in the only slice of shade like it paid rent there.
Tyree kept going, tapping Ramon on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “EJ the type of nigga be apologizing after. ‘Was that okay for you, babe?’”
E.J. laughed for real then. “I ain’t never left a bitch unsatisfied to need to be asking that. Women appreciate this top tier customer service.”
“Customer service,” Tyree echoed, face bright. “Hoes gonna be trying to refund that shit. Coming with the receipt saying they wanna unsuck the dick.”
Ramon chuckled, low. “Y’all stupid.” He checked the mouth of the block again. Routine. Habit built in bone. Two little kids zipped a scooter past the gate, wheels rattling over broken concrete. Their aunt yelled from a doorway for them to stay where she could see them. The city never stopped watching.
Inside, someone banged a cabinet. A chemical bite of cleaner pushed into the humidity, sharp enough to catch in the throat. Sweat rolled behind Ramon’s ear and caught on his collar. He rubbed it away and looked up the line of shotgun houses, paint peeling like sunburn.
E.J. lifted his chin at Tyree. “Tell the truth. That girl ain’t even look at you twice. You got your story off Instagram.”
“Boy, I put work in. She was on me,” Tyree said. He swayed like a slow dance, hamming it up. “Say she like how I talk. Said I sound real.”
“Real broke,” E.J. said.
Ramon laughed harder at that, a quiet bark he swallowed as footsteps tapped quick on the sidewalk. The B.G. down the block had been leaning on a mailbox like decoration, eyes on nothing. Now he popped up straight, neck stretched toward the avenue. His mouth opened before he ran.
“Jakes! Jakes!” he yelled. “12, nigga! 12!”
The yard shifted fast. Shirts went back on. Hands emptied. A domino table snapped shut. Somebody kicked a bottle into the weeds. Ramon was already moving. He caught E.J.’s sleeve and pushed him toward the side gate.
Tyree glanced at the street, then at the front door like he might duck in. A radio popped from the avenue and the siren hit full voice. He shoved the gate and it stuck once, then swung with a scrape.
Gravel spit under their sneakers as they cut through the narrow alley. Fence to the left. Brick to the right hot like a stove. Sirens rose and fell and rose again. A voice on a loudspeaker cracked through with “Police,” thin as a wire from here.
Ramon palmed the top of the fence and went up. The wood flexed under him. A splinter bit his palm. He went over and dropped into a yard littered with kiddie toys and a busted grill. Tyree landed beside him with a thud and a laugh he couldn’t kill. E.J. cleared it ugly, one knee banging the plank on the way down.
“Go,” Ramon snapped. He cut left, hugged the line of a house, and squeezed between a rusted car and a hedge, the smell of dog shit high and sweet in the heat. He vaulted a low chain that rang like a bell when it caught his heel. Sirens floated and doubled back like they were tasting the block.
They came out behind the next row of houses. A woman looked up from a bucket, bleach clouded around her hands. She watched them cross, silent, eyes flat. Ramon lifted his palm quick, a sorry that didn’t need words. She sucked her teeth and went back to scrubbing the step.
By the third fence his forearms burned. He went anyway. The wood here had rot. It gave a little and threatened to send him through. He caught, adjusted, and rolled his belly over before dropping into a skinny run of grass. A cat shot from under the stairs.
“Go left,” E.J. panted.
Tyree’s breath came loud behind them. “I told y’all niggas I’m in shape.”
“Shut up,” Ramon said, but it came out without heat. He cut left. Another yard. Another fence. He found the rhythm. Up. Over. Down. The city folded and unfolded, yards like rooms in a shotgun with no roof.
They reached a back lane where weeds had taken the cracked asphalt hostage. Someone’s garden hose bled into a ditch. Ramon slowed just enough to listen. Sirens now behind them, voices swapping directions. “Spread on Claiborne,” floated on the air. He pointed toward a narrow path between two sheds. They took it and emerged on a street two over, the noise thinned by houses and trees. A city bus sighed at a stop. The driver stared forward like he never saw a thing in his life.
Ramon bent, palms on his knees for one breath, then straightened. He didn’t look back.
“Walk,” he said. They did, like three boys bored on a May evening, shirts damp, faces blank. A cut-up plastic bag tumbled at their feet and blew on past.
“Nigga huffing and puffing after a little sprint and trying to say he get all this pussy?” Tyree asked, voice low, grin creeping back in because he couldn’t help himself.
E.J. rubbed his knee and smirked. “Nigga, shut yo bitch ass up.”
Ramon huffed a laugh. The sirens spun off in the distance like a storm they’d skirted by inches. Heat sat heavy again. The block on this side smelled like frying fish and Pine-Sol. He touched the fence welt on his palm and kept moving, head down, pace easy.
~~~
The bar ran cool and dim, the kind of hush that soaked into your clothes after a long day. Sara pushed through the door and lifted two fingers toward the rail. “Hey, Lionel.”
“Evenin’, baby.” Lionel didn’t look up from the shaker, but he tipped his chin like he’d clocked her the second the bell rang.
Sara slid into the back booth where Nicole was already camped out, one arm draped across the vinyl like she owned the place. Nicole nudged a sweating glass toward her without breaking her sip.
Sara took a pull, then coughed. “Damn. That’s strong.”
Nicole’s mouth crooked. “Yeah, I told Lionel it was for you and he made it a double.”
“Of course he did.” Sara shook her head, half a laugh, fishing a little zip bag from her pocket. She popped a gummy onto her tongue, let it sit there a second, then chased it with another sip. The sugar and weed and liquor mixed in a way that promised warmth if she gave it time.
“How was your date?” she asked.
Nicole set her empty down and clicked her nails on the rim. “Never get on those apps. I’m serious. It’s a minefield of fucked-up people who lie about their height, their job, and whether they live with their cousin or their ‘roommate’.”
Sara snorted. “I don’t think a thirty-something single mom is surviving on or off those things.”
Nicole rolled her eyes. “Your kid is grown and out the house. Being an empty nester at thirty-seven got perks.”
“Like what?” Sara asked, “and don’t forget I got a granddaughter, too.”
Nicole leaned in, grin bright. “There might be some people out there who want hot grandma.”
Sara laughed for real at that, the sound loosening something between her shoulder blades. The AC hummed. Ice clinked somewhere down the bar. Somebody’s scratch-off got a low curse and a crumpled toss.
“You could do whatever you want,” Nicole went on. “Hook up, stay a night or two, leave in the morning. No one’s judging. You’re grown. Not twenty.”
“Living like that in my teens is how I ended up a mother,” Sara said, “and now a grandma in my thirties.”
Nicole raised her hands. “And I stand by what I said.”
Sara rubbed her thumb along the water ring on the table. “I just spend so much time worrying about Caine, I don’t have time for any of that.”
Nicole shrugged, lazy and sure. “He’s proven at this point he’s going to be alright with whatever he deals with.”
Sara let out a breath. “Probably so.”
Lionel drifted by, set fresh napkins down with a soft thap, gave Sara’s glass a pointed look like he knew where this was headed and didn’t mind helping it along. The place smelled like old wood and lemon cleaner, a little fried catfish leftover in the air from earlier. On the TV with the sound off, a pitcher shook off a sign, the closed captions racing behind.
Nicole tipped her chin at Sara’s drink. “Go on. Finish that so we can get another round.”
Sara raised the glass. The whiskey burned sweet and mean. She swallowed, let the heat spread slow across her chest, and took another sip.
Time to live it up.
