American Sun
-
djp73
- Posts: 9956
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
American Sun
Mireya putting a hit on Leo? Nice.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 5318
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
About damn time. That dude Leo gotta go
-
redsox907
- Posts: 2199
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
I was going to say. When I was out of town and my BM had the kids, best believe I sent at least 4 texts a day checking up lol
Mireya gonna ask Ramon to take care of the Leo problem hmm? But is Ramon going to ask why is the question
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Why y'all jump straight to violence? She could've been texting someone to handle this through the legal system.redsox907 wrote: ↑14 Oct 2025, 11:46I was going to say. When I was out of town and my BM had the kids, best believe I sent at least 4 texts a day checking up lol
Mireya gonna ask Ramon to take care of the Leo problem hmm? But is Ramon going to ask why is the question
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
If God’s Against Me, Who Can Be with Me
The last clip froze on a blown protection that had already been rewound three times. The projector fan wound down and left a tired hush in the room. Chairs scraped. Weston stretched like his back needed it and slapped Turner’s shoulder on the way out. Tyler, Dillon, and Terrell filed after them, half joking about lunch and half whispering about installs.
“Caine, hang back a second,” Coach Aplin said.
Caine stopped at the end of the row and slid his notebook back onto the desk. He didn’t sit right away. The room smelled like cold coffee and dry erase. Tape notes still sat on the board from the third down segment. Outside the door, shoes squeaked once and faded.
Aplin watched the door until it shut on the last voice, then turned with that even grin he used when he wanted the air to stay light. Coach Fatu stayed near the whiteboard with his hands tucked in his pockets. Coach Mizell leaned on the front table, arms crossed, a sharp eye that missed nothing.
“Been out here a month or so now, son,” Aplin said. “How are you feeling with things?”
Caine sank back into his chair, easy. “The food kinda trash,” he said, “but I’m feeling good.”
They laughed. The sound bounced around the low ceiling and took a little edge off the fluorescent hum.
Mizell nodded once. “We’ve been noticing the extra work you’re putting in,” he said. “Keep doing that. It’s seen.”
Caine dipped his chin. Didn’t say anything more to that.
Fatu stepped forward. “It’s still going to be an open competition next month,” he said. “You knew you had to do what it took to catch up. You’ve taken that to heart.”
Caine let the words pass through him. “Just doing what I gotta do.”
Aplin folded his arms and set one hip on the desk. “Reason we wanted to speak to you is to see where your head is. I think the group has a pretty good idea of where they all stand right now before we get out on the field again.”
Caine’s mouth tugged at one corner. He met Aplin’s look and then Fatu’s. “I been fighting to get on the field my whole life, coach,” he said. “Doing it one more time ain’t nothing to me.”
Fatu tilted his head, studying him like a test that already had the answers. “How do you feel about it? If come the second to last, last week of August, we tell you you’re going to be starting. True freshman, starting in a season opener. That’s a pressure cooker.”
Caine shrugged. “Pressure make diamonds, right?”
It wasn’t bravado. It was a fact said plain. The room held quiet for a beat, the only sound the tick of the projector cooling.
Aplin shared a look with Fatu. Mizell’s mouth went tight with something like approval. No one wrote anything down. They didn’t have to.
Before the pause could turn into a speech, Caine flipped his notebook open again out of habit. The last page held protections marked with arrows and a note about cadence. He tapped the spiral with his thumb.
Aplin pushed off the desk and reached for the remote. “We’ll cut you loose,” he said. “Go get some lunch. We’ll be back at it tomorrow.”
Caine stood, slid the notebook under his arm, and pulled his hoodie straight. As he passed the first row, he caught the edges of the empty chairs where Weston and the others had been. The room gave him back his reflection in the TV glass. He looked steady enough.
At the door he stopped himself and turned back. “Appreciate y’all giving me a chance.”
Aplin tipped his chin. “Keep showing us who you are, son.”
Caine let the corner of his mouth lift again, then eased the door open. The hallway outside held the same clean chill and the same long strip of light. Muffled voices carried from the next room where linemen were already arguing over a combo drill. He didn’t linger. He headed toward the stairwell with his stride even and unhurried.
Behind him, in the meeting room, the coaches looked among one another and nodded.
She caught herself checking her reflection in the dark restaurant window and hated that she did. The glass threw back her face and the little doubts she hadn’t invited. She smoothed a flyaway with the edge of her nail and pulled the door.
Air-conditioning rushed her skin and failed to soften the light. Midday slid over every glass, every fork. Tables gleamed like they were waiting for a richer crowd. Sara paused at the host stand until a young man in a black apron found his smile and led her through clatter and soft laughter to a two-top near the window. The silverware sat heavier than it needed to be. Her chair wobbled until she nudged it square with a toe.
Robert stood as she approached, the move practiced. Mid-forties, button-down tucked a little too hard, haircut with rules. He reached, then seemed to remember this was a first date and not a meeting, settling on a polite nod.
“Sara,” he said.
She nodded back. “Robert.”
They sat. Water glasses arrived and sweated into perfect rings. She took a sip and ran her fingertip through the condensation, erasing the circle before it set. He asked about the drive, and she said traffic was light near the river. He murmured something about construction and the city never finishing anything on time. They agreed the weather couldn’t pick a season. It was the sort of talk that kept people from saying the true things.
“How’s work?” he asked.
“Busy.” She had dressed clean and simple, a soft blouse, hair pulled back on purpose. “Yours?”
“Steady.” He smiled like steady was a merit badge. “The office is in Metairie. We do compliance for regional distributors. Nothing exciting, but someone’s got to keep folks honest.”
She made the right noise. The waiter came and they ordered without ceremony. She asked for iced tea, lemon on the side. He asked about the salad options and chose the one that sounded healthy. The server left them with a practiced “I’ll be right back with that tea.”
Robert leaned in a notch. “Good place. My coworkers like it.” He chuckled before his next line, warming himself up. “Girls these days, though, they don’t want to cook anymore.”
He laughed at his own joke. It landed in the space between them and sat there, smiling at itself. Sara lifted her lemon wedge and pressed it along the rim, seeds shining like small eyes. She didn’t give the line a landing strip.
“I do fine,” she said, stirring. “Kitchen or otherwise.”
He nodded fast, like he’d expected that and wanted credit for it. “That’s great. Really. Independence is important. But, you know, it’s nice to have someone who appreciates… tradition.”
The iced tea was cold enough to make her teeth sing. She stirred a little longer than necessary and set the spoon down quiet.
When he asked about family she said, “One son.” She felt the small pride sharpen her voice and let it. “He’s almost nineteen. In college.”
Robert’s face changed by degrees. Not a frown, exactly. A reassessment. “That’s… brave,” he said, then softened the word with a pitying tilt. “Raising a boy alone.” His tone shifted into advice dressed like concern. “Must’ve been hard finding discipline without a man in the house.”
The air tightened. Chairs scraped somewhere behind her, metal on tile. Sara’s mouth found a small smile that read as polite and stayed there.
“He turned out well enough,” she said, and left it at that.
“Of course.” He lifted both hands a little. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I just think boys need, you know, structure. Male role models. Traditional families used to make that clearer.”
The plates arrived with a soft thud that sounded expensive. The server hovered to ask if they needed anything else. Sara said no, thank you, and Robert waited for the man to leave before he kept going, as if he’d saved a speech for when the help was out of earshot.
“Single mothers have it tougher,” he said. “Because they make things tougher on themselves.” He forked a bite, already nodding along with his own point. “I see it in my niece’s school. Women doing it all, then wondering why it’s hard. If they just slowed down and chose better—”
She slid her napkin into her lap and focused on the weave of the fabric against her fingers until the impulse to answer passed. What would she say that didn’t give him a way to make her an example. She tasted her food and found it fine. The iced tea did more work than the plate. She stirred it again, slow, the spoon ringing against the glass once like a small bell.
He told a story about traffic on Veterans and another about his neighbor’s dog. He glanced at her hands when she lifted her glass, lingering on the lack of a ring like they weren’t on a date.
Then he asked, “Are you even thinking about starting over now that your son’s grown?” the subtext didn’t bother to hide.
She set her glass down. The lemon pulp had left a bright crescent on the rim. “I start over every day,” she said, and let the half-smile soften the edge.
He didn’t hear it the way she said it. “I mean dating,” he clarified, kind enough to explain her own life back to her. “You don’t want to miss your window. It’s harder later. Everyone’s set in their ways.”
A woman at a nearby table laughed, a bright burst that spilled and was gone. Sun knifed through the blinds and turned the silverware mean. Sara kept her posture loose, shoulders down, neck soft. There was no version of this conversation that ended with her feeling better about the day.
Robert studied her face again, as if adjusting an estimate. “You don’t look like someone with a grown kid,” he said, aiming it at compliment. “But I guess time moves different for women who stay busy.”
There it was. The last nudge disguised as praise.
Sara set her fork down. No clatter. She brought the napkin up, dabbed the corner of her mouth the way her grandmother had taught her, then folded it into a neat rectangle and dressed the plate with it. She reached into her purse, thumb counting bills by touch, and slid enough cash beneath the edge of her water glass to keep it from lifting in the air.
“Thank you for the company,” she said, standing. Her chair legs made a single clean sound against the floor. She left her half of the bill and a little more for peace.
He blinked, still smiling like he hadn’t rehearsed an exit. “Already?”
“I’ve got to get back.” She offered a small, untroubled smile.
He made one anyway. “I hope I didn’t—”
“You didn’t,” she said, kind as a closed door.
She stepped past him, past the table with the laughing woman, past the bar where glassware glittered like it meant something. The host called a soft goodbye. She lifted a hand without turning.
Outside, the early afternoon hit hard. Sun off windshields. Heat off concrete. She squinted into it and kept walking, the glare wiping the room’s shine from her eyes with every step.
The boutique’s AC rattled and breathed warm air that only moved heat around. The glass front threw a milky glare across the floor, and the scent of sizing and a tired vanilla candle clung to everything. Mireya walked in with her tote tight to her side and felt the hum of the place sink into her shoulders. A stack of tops waited on the center table, edges crooked from the last customer who had rifled and drifted out.
She didn’t touch them. Not today.
The office door sat at the back under a crooked EXIT sign. The light over it flickered like it was thinking about going out. She knocked once and pushed in before anyone answered.
Arelle stood behind the small desk, arms folded. Her mouth already had a line in it, like she’d been born mid-sigh. The computer ran some inventory screen, green rows snaking past.
“I’m quitting,” Mireya said. She kept her voice even. “It’s my last day.”
Arelle didn’t blink long enough to count as surprise. “Well, you can leave now then.”
The words dropped between them. Mireya felt the push of them and didn’t move. “Cool,” she said. “I’ll take my last check.”
“It’ll be mailed.” Arelle’s tone stayed flat. “Payroll’s tomorrow.”
“I need it now.”
Arelle clicked her tongue against her teeth, eyes already back on the monitor. “Can’t cut a check today. Tomorrow. Unless you want to come back for it, it’s going to be mailed.”
The room held the old smell from a mop bucket someone hadn’t rinsed right. Mireya let the silence sit long enough to show she’d heard everything.
“Whatever,” she said, not loud. She slid the lanyard over her head, the plastic badge catching a strand of hair, and tossed it onto the desk. It landed near a stapler with a small slap.
Arelle didn’t reach for it.
Mireya turned and stepped out. The hallway back to the sales floor felt shorter now that she didn’t owe it anything. She kept her chin level as she crossed past a pair of customers studying a mirror, past the register’s dead glow. The door chime gave a thin note when she pushed through to the heat.
Outside, the lot wavered. Noon light laid itself on the hoods of cars until they looked slick with it. The air held grease from the chicken place across the street and something sweet from a spilled daiquiri drying on the curb. She squinted and headed toward her car.
Voices caught at the edge of the building. Trina leaned into a silver sedan, one elbow on the door, ponytail hanging over her shoulder. Nuk sat behind the wheel, wrist out, chain glinting, saying something that made Trina laugh with her head thrown back so the sound carried. A man rode shotgun, eyes on his phone, thumb moving steady. Another sat in the back, one knee forward, gaze up and still.
The backseat man looked at Mireya. Not a hard stare. A steady read.
Trina noticed and popped up from the window. “Bitch, where you going?” She said it like a greeting.
Mireya kept walking but angled a little toward her. “I quit.”
Trina barked a short laugh. “Girl, you went got you a sugar daddy or something now that your baby daddy done dipped? Or just got one of these niggas tricking on you?”
Mireya shook her head and let a small laugh slide out. “No. Just got a new job.”
Trina’s mouth curled. “Shit, y’all hiring?”
“Don’t know,” Mireya said. She had a hand on her tote strap and shifted it higher. “I’m still new.”
“Aight, girl. Well if y’all is, let me know.” Trina turned back to the window without waiting for a promise, attention already sliding back to Nuk. “You heard that? Put me on if they paying.”
Nuk grinned up at her, one hand light on the wheel. The man in the back said something to the passenger and he nodded.
Mireya kept moving. The sun hit the back of her neck and her shirt stuck there. She could feel the watch of the backseat on her again, calm and unblinking. She didn’t return it. The keys hid in her bag somewhere under a tangle of chapstick and receipts. She found them by touch and pressed the unlock.
Her car answered with a tired clunk. She opened the door and the inside heat climbed at her face in a rush. For a beat, the lot’s sounds sharpened. A distant siren wound down toward silence. A gull screamed over the strip. From the sedan, Trina’s laugh rose and then thinned as she dropped her voice to talk to Nuk again.
Mireya slid in and set the tote on the passenger seat. The vinyl burned her thighs through the denim and she breathed once, slow. Across the lot, a van eased past with music turned low enough that the bass just shivered the windows. She closed her door, and the heat kept itself pressed close, turning the air heavy.
She placed both hands on the wheel. Through the windshield she saw the reflection of the four figures at the sedan clipped into ridges of light. Trina’s elbow lifted and fell with the rhythm of conversation. Nuk’s head tipped, smiling. The passenger didn’t look up from his screen. In the back, the man who had watched her rested his shoulder against the seat and kept that line of attention fixed, the kind that measured distance and let it be.
As she pulled out, the backseat man’s gaze held a fraction longer. Then the angle changed and her mirror filled with road, sun, and the thin shimmer that always lived over this lot.
She drove toward the exit and the light caught the side of her face and laid it bare. The car’s AC blew louder. She eased into the street, left hand loose on the wheel, and the boutique slipped behind her in the glare.
She didn’t look back.
Laney parked her lawn chair tight to the chain-link where the third-base line ran chalk-bright and thin. The sun set on everything hard. Dust stuck to calves. Water bottles sweated in rings under chairs. Moms bunched in the little shade a tent threw across the grass and talked through the clink of bats and the papery slap of balls into small gloves.
She crossed her ankle over her knee and rubbed the tender place without thinking. Skin was bare now. No wrap. Just heat under her thumb and a little pull when she flexed.
A coach in a wide hat clapped two times and pointed. Seven-year-olds in jerseys that still ran big shuffled their feet and tried to look like a team. Helmets bobbled down the dugout rail. One boy chased a dragonfly to the foul line before somebody’s granddaddy hooked a finger in his collar and steered him back.
Knox stood at short with his cap too low and his glove tapping his thigh. A clean little grounder came easy and he reached late. The ball kissed the heel of his glove and rolled on into the outfield. Knox kicked a pout of dirt and made a face he thought was tough.
Laney set two fingers in her mouth and let a whistle carry, sharp enough to cut but soft on him. She lifted both hands where he could see and showed him slow, palms low, glove mouth open, body behind the ball.
He looked over, eyes bright under the brim, and nodded like he heard every bit. She dropped her right hand into half a heart and held it. Knox grinned, raised his free hand into the other half so the fence cut their little sign into neat squares, then turned back toward the pitcher like he was supposed to.
Chairs creaked. Someone’s fan buzzed on and off. Mere leaned in with her sunglasses shoved up in her hair and a program damp with finger sweat.
“You gon’ be on PTA and the moms’ group again this year, Laney?” she asked, a little breathless like she had been waiting to get it out.
Caitlin rolled her chair a notch closer and set her elbows on her knees. “Don’t you run off on us now.”
Laney slid her shades down her nose just enough to see both of them. A small twitch fired under her left eye and she smoothed it with a blink. “’Course,” she said, easy as a porch swing.
Mere let a laugh go and waved a hand. “Good, ’cause with Jim back workin’ in Savannah, it’s a chore and a half gettin’ that man’s lunch ready every day. He want a real plate, too. Not no sandwich.”
“Lord,” Caitlin said, shaking her head. “With five boys and that man, I might as well open me a little restaurant. I tried them meal boxes them folks in New York and Los Angeles use. Elroy said they had too much green in ’em. Said the salad was for those types.”
Caitlin snorted. “How you do it with everythin’ you do, Laney? I know a military man can eat enough for three.”
Laney pressed her lips to a line, then let them soften. “Lotta plannin’ on the weekends,” she said. “Good menu go a long way. I write it down Saturday night. Post it. Boys don’t have to ask.”
“See,” Mere said, tapping her can against Laney’s cooler like a toast. “That’s why you run everything.”
Out on the field, a helmeted head turned toward the outfield and somebody yelled to face home. A bat pinged thin. Foul. The ball skittered under the backstop. The ump, young and trying to sound old, brushed the plate like it mattered and called for the next pitch.
Laney set her bottle of water by the chair leg and sat a little straighter. Knox shook his hands out like he’d seen on TV and dropped his butt lower. He tapped the glove twice in rhythm with his breathing. Kid rituals. A coach along the line made a little square with his hands and mouthed “ready.” Knox set his toes.
“Stay down, baby,” Laney said under her breath. “Don’t stab at it.”
A breeze that wasn’t a breeze at all moved a strand of hair across her cheek and left. The tent flapped once. Somebody’s toddler announced he had to pee and a mama scooped him up without missing a sentence. Sunscreen and cut oranges pushed up from a cooler that had lost its fight with the sun.
The pitcher, a skinny kid in glasses, let go a soft one that tumbled. The batter chopped and sent a truer hop toward short. Knox slid one step, glove out front, eyes big as quarters. The ball rode in and kissed leather clean. His little hands fumbled a heartbeat on the switch from glove to grip. He pulled it in, put his feet under him, and pushed a throw that had just enough on it. First base caught it with a hop and stepped through the bag.
The ump’s arm shot out flat. It did not need to be fancy. Out was out.
Knox spun toward third, searching, and found his mama tucked in her spot by the fence. He forgot to be cool and showed all his teeth. Laney lifted her hand and gave him a steady thumbs-up, wrist loose and sure, everything in it saying she had seen the bobble and the fix and the throw and the heart behind it. The smile that rose on her face answered him, unguarded and warm, and held while he jogged back to his place.
The yard ran dull and flat in the late hour, heat pressed low over gravel and busted rebar. The warehouse door rattled shut behind Leo as he stepped out, thumbs busy on his screen. He whistled under his breath, teeth flashing at whatever filter-lit girl was answering back on Snapchat. Diesel hung in the air. Somewhere across the lot a gull cussed at a dumpster. The night crew was gone. Only a pair of sleepers sat on the far fence line, chrome fenders catching light from the streetlights.
Leo got in his truck, paused before starting it and checked his messages. The last one to Mireya still sat above the gray word delivered. No read. No reply. He chewed the inside of his cheek, typed half a new line, erased it, typed again. When the passenger door popped, the sound cracked through him.
He looked up. Ramon slid in clean, shut the door soft, and leveled a pistol at Leo’s eye line. No shake in his hand. No hurry.
“Fuck,” Leo said, hands jumping up fast. “Hey. Hey. I got money in the glovebox.”
“Keys,” Ramon said.
Leo swallowed. He pinched the key from the ignition with two fingers, slow, and handed them to Ramon. Ramon threw them into the back seat. They landed in the gap between seats with a dull clack.
“You got a gun?” Ramon asked.
Leo hesitated. The muzzle didn’t move. The small click of the hammer sounded loud in the cab.
“No,” Leo said. “No gun. Cash in the box. Take it.”
“Wallet.”
Leo fished it out one-handed, arm straight. Ramon took it without looking away, flipped for the ID, and held the plastic up just enough to catch the dash glow.
“Leo Ardoin,” he read, voice even. “128 F Street, Belle Chasse. Is that where you live, Leo Ardoin?”
Leo nodded so hard his hat slid. Sweat ran under his collar. “I ain’t—listen, man—”
“Phone,” Ramon said. “Unlock it. Delete everything on your iCloud. Hold it where I can see.”
Leo fumbled his passcode. The wrong haptic thud hit his thumb. He tried again. The home screen opened to a grid of apps and heat rose to his ears. He tapped into settings, into his name, into iCloud. His breathing went shallow.
“Don’t fuck around, Leo Ardoin,” Ramon said. “Delete it all. And don’t try nothing stupid. The cops ain’t superheroes. You’ll still be dead either way.”
Leo nodded fast. He opened iCloud. Thumbnails crowded the screen in thin little squares. He dragged to select. A number climbed. Hundreds. Thousands. He hit delete. The phone asked if he was sure. He hit yes. Spinning wheels rolled, then dropped away. The screen felt empty and naked. He showed it to Ramon.
“Recently deleted,” Ramon said.
Leo opened it. The folder sat fat with trash he thought was gone. He pressed select. He hit delete all. The confirmation popped. He hit yes. Another wheel spun. Sweat slipped from the corner of his jaw to his collarbone.
“Passcode,” Ramon said, palm out.
Leo handed the phone over. He said the numbers, the day he and his wife got married. Ramon tapped and changed it. He slid the phone into his pocket. Then he popped the glovebox with his other hand and pulled the cash roll free. He counted it with his thumb. He didn’t smile.
“Listen,” Leo said, voice thin now. “I don’t know what you think—”
“Leo Ardoin,” Ramon said, calm enough to sound bored. “128 F Street, Belle Chasse. You’re not gonna tell anyone who was in your truck tonight. Is that right, Leo Ardoin?”
He tucked Leo’s license into his own pocket like a receipt. He kept the gun steady.
“I swear, man,” Leo said. His voice cracked. “I ain’t even—”
“Put your hand out,” Ramon said.
Leo blinked. Confused. The barrel nudged a whisper closer.
“Put your fucking hand out,” Ramon said again.
Leo raised it slow, palm out over the steering wheel.
“Remember this,” Ramon said. “I got proof you a chomo. You ain’t telling nobody nothing about tonight, Leo Ardoin, 128 F Street, Belle Chasse.”
Leo’s mouth moved, words breaking on each other. “Wa—wai—wait—”
Across the lot, a trucker jerked awake to a sound that didn’t fit the quiet. A flat crack rolled over gravel and steel. Birds burst up from the fence as the echo died. A scream tore out after it, high and panicked, whipping around the empty yard before it died against the warehouse wall.
The last clip froze on a blown protection that had already been rewound three times. The projector fan wound down and left a tired hush in the room. Chairs scraped. Weston stretched like his back needed it and slapped Turner’s shoulder on the way out. Tyler, Dillon, and Terrell filed after them, half joking about lunch and half whispering about installs.
“Caine, hang back a second,” Coach Aplin said.
Caine stopped at the end of the row and slid his notebook back onto the desk. He didn’t sit right away. The room smelled like cold coffee and dry erase. Tape notes still sat on the board from the third down segment. Outside the door, shoes squeaked once and faded.
Aplin watched the door until it shut on the last voice, then turned with that even grin he used when he wanted the air to stay light. Coach Fatu stayed near the whiteboard with his hands tucked in his pockets. Coach Mizell leaned on the front table, arms crossed, a sharp eye that missed nothing.
“Been out here a month or so now, son,” Aplin said. “How are you feeling with things?”
Caine sank back into his chair, easy. “The food kinda trash,” he said, “but I’m feeling good.”
They laughed. The sound bounced around the low ceiling and took a little edge off the fluorescent hum.
Mizell nodded once. “We’ve been noticing the extra work you’re putting in,” he said. “Keep doing that. It’s seen.”
Caine dipped his chin. Didn’t say anything more to that.
Fatu stepped forward. “It’s still going to be an open competition next month,” he said. “You knew you had to do what it took to catch up. You’ve taken that to heart.”
Caine let the words pass through him. “Just doing what I gotta do.”
Aplin folded his arms and set one hip on the desk. “Reason we wanted to speak to you is to see where your head is. I think the group has a pretty good idea of where they all stand right now before we get out on the field again.”
Caine’s mouth tugged at one corner. He met Aplin’s look and then Fatu’s. “I been fighting to get on the field my whole life, coach,” he said. “Doing it one more time ain’t nothing to me.”
Fatu tilted his head, studying him like a test that already had the answers. “How do you feel about it? If come the second to last, last week of August, we tell you you’re going to be starting. True freshman, starting in a season opener. That’s a pressure cooker.”
Caine shrugged. “Pressure make diamonds, right?”
It wasn’t bravado. It was a fact said plain. The room held quiet for a beat, the only sound the tick of the projector cooling.
Aplin shared a look with Fatu. Mizell’s mouth went tight with something like approval. No one wrote anything down. They didn’t have to.
Before the pause could turn into a speech, Caine flipped his notebook open again out of habit. The last page held protections marked with arrows and a note about cadence. He tapped the spiral with his thumb.
Aplin pushed off the desk and reached for the remote. “We’ll cut you loose,” he said. “Go get some lunch. We’ll be back at it tomorrow.”
Caine stood, slid the notebook under his arm, and pulled his hoodie straight. As he passed the first row, he caught the edges of the empty chairs where Weston and the others had been. The room gave him back his reflection in the TV glass. He looked steady enough.
At the door he stopped himself and turned back. “Appreciate y’all giving me a chance.”
Aplin tipped his chin. “Keep showing us who you are, son.”
Caine let the corner of his mouth lift again, then eased the door open. The hallway outside held the same clean chill and the same long strip of light. Muffled voices carried from the next room where linemen were already arguing over a combo drill. He didn’t linger. He headed toward the stairwell with his stride even and unhurried.
Behind him, in the meeting room, the coaches looked among one another and nodded.
~~~
She caught herself checking her reflection in the dark restaurant window and hated that she did. The glass threw back her face and the little doubts she hadn’t invited. She smoothed a flyaway with the edge of her nail and pulled the door.
Air-conditioning rushed her skin and failed to soften the light. Midday slid over every glass, every fork. Tables gleamed like they were waiting for a richer crowd. Sara paused at the host stand until a young man in a black apron found his smile and led her through clatter and soft laughter to a two-top near the window. The silverware sat heavier than it needed to be. Her chair wobbled until she nudged it square with a toe.
Robert stood as she approached, the move practiced. Mid-forties, button-down tucked a little too hard, haircut with rules. He reached, then seemed to remember this was a first date and not a meeting, settling on a polite nod.
“Sara,” he said.
She nodded back. “Robert.”
They sat. Water glasses arrived and sweated into perfect rings. She took a sip and ran her fingertip through the condensation, erasing the circle before it set. He asked about the drive, and she said traffic was light near the river. He murmured something about construction and the city never finishing anything on time. They agreed the weather couldn’t pick a season. It was the sort of talk that kept people from saying the true things.
“How’s work?” he asked.
“Busy.” She had dressed clean and simple, a soft blouse, hair pulled back on purpose. “Yours?”
“Steady.” He smiled like steady was a merit badge. “The office is in Metairie. We do compliance for regional distributors. Nothing exciting, but someone’s got to keep folks honest.”
She made the right noise. The waiter came and they ordered without ceremony. She asked for iced tea, lemon on the side. He asked about the salad options and chose the one that sounded healthy. The server left them with a practiced “I’ll be right back with that tea.”
Robert leaned in a notch. “Good place. My coworkers like it.” He chuckled before his next line, warming himself up. “Girls these days, though, they don’t want to cook anymore.”
He laughed at his own joke. It landed in the space between them and sat there, smiling at itself. Sara lifted her lemon wedge and pressed it along the rim, seeds shining like small eyes. She didn’t give the line a landing strip.
“I do fine,” she said, stirring. “Kitchen or otherwise.”
He nodded fast, like he’d expected that and wanted credit for it. “That’s great. Really. Independence is important. But, you know, it’s nice to have someone who appreciates… tradition.”
The iced tea was cold enough to make her teeth sing. She stirred a little longer than necessary and set the spoon down quiet.
When he asked about family she said, “One son.” She felt the small pride sharpen her voice and let it. “He’s almost nineteen. In college.”
Robert’s face changed by degrees. Not a frown, exactly. A reassessment. “That’s… brave,” he said, then softened the word with a pitying tilt. “Raising a boy alone.” His tone shifted into advice dressed like concern. “Must’ve been hard finding discipline without a man in the house.”
The air tightened. Chairs scraped somewhere behind her, metal on tile. Sara’s mouth found a small smile that read as polite and stayed there.
“He turned out well enough,” she said, and left it at that.
“Of course.” He lifted both hands a little. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I just think boys need, you know, structure. Male role models. Traditional families used to make that clearer.”
The plates arrived with a soft thud that sounded expensive. The server hovered to ask if they needed anything else. Sara said no, thank you, and Robert waited for the man to leave before he kept going, as if he’d saved a speech for when the help was out of earshot.
“Single mothers have it tougher,” he said. “Because they make things tougher on themselves.” He forked a bite, already nodding along with his own point. “I see it in my niece’s school. Women doing it all, then wondering why it’s hard. If they just slowed down and chose better—”
She slid her napkin into her lap and focused on the weave of the fabric against her fingers until the impulse to answer passed. What would she say that didn’t give him a way to make her an example. She tasted her food and found it fine. The iced tea did more work than the plate. She stirred it again, slow, the spoon ringing against the glass once like a small bell.
He told a story about traffic on Veterans and another about his neighbor’s dog. He glanced at her hands when she lifted her glass, lingering on the lack of a ring like they weren’t on a date.
Then he asked, “Are you even thinking about starting over now that your son’s grown?” the subtext didn’t bother to hide.
She set her glass down. The lemon pulp had left a bright crescent on the rim. “I start over every day,” she said, and let the half-smile soften the edge.
He didn’t hear it the way she said it. “I mean dating,” he clarified, kind enough to explain her own life back to her. “You don’t want to miss your window. It’s harder later. Everyone’s set in their ways.”
A woman at a nearby table laughed, a bright burst that spilled and was gone. Sun knifed through the blinds and turned the silverware mean. Sara kept her posture loose, shoulders down, neck soft. There was no version of this conversation that ended with her feeling better about the day.
Robert studied her face again, as if adjusting an estimate. “You don’t look like someone with a grown kid,” he said, aiming it at compliment. “But I guess time moves different for women who stay busy.”
There it was. The last nudge disguised as praise.
Sara set her fork down. No clatter. She brought the napkin up, dabbed the corner of her mouth the way her grandmother had taught her, then folded it into a neat rectangle and dressed the plate with it. She reached into her purse, thumb counting bills by touch, and slid enough cash beneath the edge of her water glass to keep it from lifting in the air.
“Thank you for the company,” she said, standing. Her chair legs made a single clean sound against the floor. She left her half of the bill and a little more for peace.
He blinked, still smiling like he hadn’t rehearsed an exit. “Already?”
“I’ve got to get back.” She offered a small, untroubled smile.
He made one anyway. “I hope I didn’t—”
“You didn’t,” she said, kind as a closed door.
She stepped past him, past the table with the laughing woman, past the bar where glassware glittered like it meant something. The host called a soft goodbye. She lifted a hand without turning.
Outside, the early afternoon hit hard. Sun off windshields. Heat off concrete. She squinted into it and kept walking, the glare wiping the room’s shine from her eyes with every step.
~~~
The boutique’s AC rattled and breathed warm air that only moved heat around. The glass front threw a milky glare across the floor, and the scent of sizing and a tired vanilla candle clung to everything. Mireya walked in with her tote tight to her side and felt the hum of the place sink into her shoulders. A stack of tops waited on the center table, edges crooked from the last customer who had rifled and drifted out.
She didn’t touch them. Not today.
The office door sat at the back under a crooked EXIT sign. The light over it flickered like it was thinking about going out. She knocked once and pushed in before anyone answered.
Arelle stood behind the small desk, arms folded. Her mouth already had a line in it, like she’d been born mid-sigh. The computer ran some inventory screen, green rows snaking past.
“I’m quitting,” Mireya said. She kept her voice even. “It’s my last day.”
Arelle didn’t blink long enough to count as surprise. “Well, you can leave now then.”
The words dropped between them. Mireya felt the push of them and didn’t move. “Cool,” she said. “I’ll take my last check.”
“It’ll be mailed.” Arelle’s tone stayed flat. “Payroll’s tomorrow.”
“I need it now.”
Arelle clicked her tongue against her teeth, eyes already back on the monitor. “Can’t cut a check today. Tomorrow. Unless you want to come back for it, it’s going to be mailed.”
The room held the old smell from a mop bucket someone hadn’t rinsed right. Mireya let the silence sit long enough to show she’d heard everything.
“Whatever,” she said, not loud. She slid the lanyard over her head, the plastic badge catching a strand of hair, and tossed it onto the desk. It landed near a stapler with a small slap.
Arelle didn’t reach for it.
Mireya turned and stepped out. The hallway back to the sales floor felt shorter now that she didn’t owe it anything. She kept her chin level as she crossed past a pair of customers studying a mirror, past the register’s dead glow. The door chime gave a thin note when she pushed through to the heat.
Outside, the lot wavered. Noon light laid itself on the hoods of cars until they looked slick with it. The air held grease from the chicken place across the street and something sweet from a spilled daiquiri drying on the curb. She squinted and headed toward her car.
Voices caught at the edge of the building. Trina leaned into a silver sedan, one elbow on the door, ponytail hanging over her shoulder. Nuk sat behind the wheel, wrist out, chain glinting, saying something that made Trina laugh with her head thrown back so the sound carried. A man rode shotgun, eyes on his phone, thumb moving steady. Another sat in the back, one knee forward, gaze up and still.
The backseat man looked at Mireya. Not a hard stare. A steady read.
Trina noticed and popped up from the window. “Bitch, where you going?” She said it like a greeting.
Mireya kept walking but angled a little toward her. “I quit.”
Trina barked a short laugh. “Girl, you went got you a sugar daddy or something now that your baby daddy done dipped? Or just got one of these niggas tricking on you?”
Mireya shook her head and let a small laugh slide out. “No. Just got a new job.”
Trina’s mouth curled. “Shit, y’all hiring?”
“Don’t know,” Mireya said. She had a hand on her tote strap and shifted it higher. “I’m still new.”
“Aight, girl. Well if y’all is, let me know.” Trina turned back to the window without waiting for a promise, attention already sliding back to Nuk. “You heard that? Put me on if they paying.”
Nuk grinned up at her, one hand light on the wheel. The man in the back said something to the passenger and he nodded.
Mireya kept moving. The sun hit the back of her neck and her shirt stuck there. She could feel the watch of the backseat on her again, calm and unblinking. She didn’t return it. The keys hid in her bag somewhere under a tangle of chapstick and receipts. She found them by touch and pressed the unlock.
Her car answered with a tired clunk. She opened the door and the inside heat climbed at her face in a rush. For a beat, the lot’s sounds sharpened. A distant siren wound down toward silence. A gull screamed over the strip. From the sedan, Trina’s laugh rose and then thinned as she dropped her voice to talk to Nuk again.
Mireya slid in and set the tote on the passenger seat. The vinyl burned her thighs through the denim and she breathed once, slow. Across the lot, a van eased past with music turned low enough that the bass just shivered the windows. She closed her door, and the heat kept itself pressed close, turning the air heavy.
She placed both hands on the wheel. Through the windshield she saw the reflection of the four figures at the sedan clipped into ridges of light. Trina’s elbow lifted and fell with the rhythm of conversation. Nuk’s head tipped, smiling. The passenger didn’t look up from his screen. In the back, the man who had watched her rested his shoulder against the seat and kept that line of attention fixed, the kind that measured distance and let it be.
As she pulled out, the backseat man’s gaze held a fraction longer. Then the angle changed and her mirror filled with road, sun, and the thin shimmer that always lived over this lot.
She drove toward the exit and the light caught the side of her face and laid it bare. The car’s AC blew louder. She eased into the street, left hand loose on the wheel, and the boutique slipped behind her in the glare.
She didn’t look back.
~~~
Laney parked her lawn chair tight to the chain-link where the third-base line ran chalk-bright and thin. The sun set on everything hard. Dust stuck to calves. Water bottles sweated in rings under chairs. Moms bunched in the little shade a tent threw across the grass and talked through the clink of bats and the papery slap of balls into small gloves.
She crossed her ankle over her knee and rubbed the tender place without thinking. Skin was bare now. No wrap. Just heat under her thumb and a little pull when she flexed.
A coach in a wide hat clapped two times and pointed. Seven-year-olds in jerseys that still ran big shuffled their feet and tried to look like a team. Helmets bobbled down the dugout rail. One boy chased a dragonfly to the foul line before somebody’s granddaddy hooked a finger in his collar and steered him back.
Knox stood at short with his cap too low and his glove tapping his thigh. A clean little grounder came easy and he reached late. The ball kissed the heel of his glove and rolled on into the outfield. Knox kicked a pout of dirt and made a face he thought was tough.
Laney set two fingers in her mouth and let a whistle carry, sharp enough to cut but soft on him. She lifted both hands where he could see and showed him slow, palms low, glove mouth open, body behind the ball.
He looked over, eyes bright under the brim, and nodded like he heard every bit. She dropped her right hand into half a heart and held it. Knox grinned, raised his free hand into the other half so the fence cut their little sign into neat squares, then turned back toward the pitcher like he was supposed to.
Chairs creaked. Someone’s fan buzzed on and off. Mere leaned in with her sunglasses shoved up in her hair and a program damp with finger sweat.
“You gon’ be on PTA and the moms’ group again this year, Laney?” she asked, a little breathless like she had been waiting to get it out.
Caitlin rolled her chair a notch closer and set her elbows on her knees. “Don’t you run off on us now.”
Laney slid her shades down her nose just enough to see both of them. A small twitch fired under her left eye and she smoothed it with a blink. “’Course,” she said, easy as a porch swing.
Mere let a laugh go and waved a hand. “Good, ’cause with Jim back workin’ in Savannah, it’s a chore and a half gettin’ that man’s lunch ready every day. He want a real plate, too. Not no sandwich.”
“Lord,” Caitlin said, shaking her head. “With five boys and that man, I might as well open me a little restaurant. I tried them meal boxes them folks in New York and Los Angeles use. Elroy said they had too much green in ’em. Said the salad was for those types.”
Caitlin snorted. “How you do it with everythin’ you do, Laney? I know a military man can eat enough for three.”
Laney pressed her lips to a line, then let them soften. “Lotta plannin’ on the weekends,” she said. “Good menu go a long way. I write it down Saturday night. Post it. Boys don’t have to ask.”
“See,” Mere said, tapping her can against Laney’s cooler like a toast. “That’s why you run everything.”
Out on the field, a helmeted head turned toward the outfield and somebody yelled to face home. A bat pinged thin. Foul. The ball skittered under the backstop. The ump, young and trying to sound old, brushed the plate like it mattered and called for the next pitch.
Laney set her bottle of water by the chair leg and sat a little straighter. Knox shook his hands out like he’d seen on TV and dropped his butt lower. He tapped the glove twice in rhythm with his breathing. Kid rituals. A coach along the line made a little square with his hands and mouthed “ready.” Knox set his toes.
“Stay down, baby,” Laney said under her breath. “Don’t stab at it.”
A breeze that wasn’t a breeze at all moved a strand of hair across her cheek and left. The tent flapped once. Somebody’s toddler announced he had to pee and a mama scooped him up without missing a sentence. Sunscreen and cut oranges pushed up from a cooler that had lost its fight with the sun.
The pitcher, a skinny kid in glasses, let go a soft one that tumbled. The batter chopped and sent a truer hop toward short. Knox slid one step, glove out front, eyes big as quarters. The ball rode in and kissed leather clean. His little hands fumbled a heartbeat on the switch from glove to grip. He pulled it in, put his feet under him, and pushed a throw that had just enough on it. First base caught it with a hop and stepped through the bag.
The ump’s arm shot out flat. It did not need to be fancy. Out was out.
Knox spun toward third, searching, and found his mama tucked in her spot by the fence. He forgot to be cool and showed all his teeth. Laney lifted her hand and gave him a steady thumbs-up, wrist loose and sure, everything in it saying she had seen the bobble and the fix and the throw and the heart behind it. The smile that rose on her face answered him, unguarded and warm, and held while he jogged back to his place.
~~~
The yard ran dull and flat in the late hour, heat pressed low over gravel and busted rebar. The warehouse door rattled shut behind Leo as he stepped out, thumbs busy on his screen. He whistled under his breath, teeth flashing at whatever filter-lit girl was answering back on Snapchat. Diesel hung in the air. Somewhere across the lot a gull cussed at a dumpster. The night crew was gone. Only a pair of sleepers sat on the far fence line, chrome fenders catching light from the streetlights.
Leo got in his truck, paused before starting it and checked his messages. The last one to Mireya still sat above the gray word delivered. No read. No reply. He chewed the inside of his cheek, typed half a new line, erased it, typed again. When the passenger door popped, the sound cracked through him.
He looked up. Ramon slid in clean, shut the door soft, and leveled a pistol at Leo’s eye line. No shake in his hand. No hurry.
“Fuck,” Leo said, hands jumping up fast. “Hey. Hey. I got money in the glovebox.”
“Keys,” Ramon said.
Leo swallowed. He pinched the key from the ignition with two fingers, slow, and handed them to Ramon. Ramon threw them into the back seat. They landed in the gap between seats with a dull clack.
“You got a gun?” Ramon asked.
Leo hesitated. The muzzle didn’t move. The small click of the hammer sounded loud in the cab.
“No,” Leo said. “No gun. Cash in the box. Take it.”
“Wallet.”
Leo fished it out one-handed, arm straight. Ramon took it without looking away, flipped for the ID, and held the plastic up just enough to catch the dash glow.
“Leo Ardoin,” he read, voice even. “128 F Street, Belle Chasse. Is that where you live, Leo Ardoin?”
Leo nodded so hard his hat slid. Sweat ran under his collar. “I ain’t—listen, man—”
“Phone,” Ramon said. “Unlock it. Delete everything on your iCloud. Hold it where I can see.”
Leo fumbled his passcode. The wrong haptic thud hit his thumb. He tried again. The home screen opened to a grid of apps and heat rose to his ears. He tapped into settings, into his name, into iCloud. His breathing went shallow.
“Don’t fuck around, Leo Ardoin,” Ramon said. “Delete it all. And don’t try nothing stupid. The cops ain’t superheroes. You’ll still be dead either way.”
Leo nodded fast. He opened iCloud. Thumbnails crowded the screen in thin little squares. He dragged to select. A number climbed. Hundreds. Thousands. He hit delete. The phone asked if he was sure. He hit yes. Spinning wheels rolled, then dropped away. The screen felt empty and naked. He showed it to Ramon.
“Recently deleted,” Ramon said.
Leo opened it. The folder sat fat with trash he thought was gone. He pressed select. He hit delete all. The confirmation popped. He hit yes. Another wheel spun. Sweat slipped from the corner of his jaw to his collarbone.
“Passcode,” Ramon said, palm out.
Leo handed the phone over. He said the numbers, the day he and his wife got married. Ramon tapped and changed it. He slid the phone into his pocket. Then he popped the glovebox with his other hand and pulled the cash roll free. He counted it with his thumb. He didn’t smile.
“Listen,” Leo said, voice thin now. “I don’t know what you think—”
“Leo Ardoin,” Ramon said, calm enough to sound bored. “128 F Street, Belle Chasse. You’re not gonna tell anyone who was in your truck tonight. Is that right, Leo Ardoin?”
He tucked Leo’s license into his own pocket like a receipt. He kept the gun steady.
“I swear, man,” Leo said. His voice cracked. “I ain’t even—”
“Put your hand out,” Ramon said.
Leo blinked. Confused. The barrel nudged a whisper closer.
“Put your fucking hand out,” Ramon said again.
Leo raised it slow, palm out over the steering wheel.
“Remember this,” Ramon said. “I got proof you a chomo. You ain’t telling nobody nothing about tonight, Leo Ardoin, 128 F Street, Belle Chasse.”
Leo’s mouth moved, words breaking on each other. “Wa—wai—wait—”
Across the lot, a trucker jerked awake to a sound that didn’t fit the quiet. A flat crack rolled over gravel and steel. Birds burst up from the fence as the echo died. A scream tore out after it, high and panicked, whipping around the empty yard before it died against the warehouse wall.
-
redsox907
- Posts: 2199
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
-
djp73
- Posts: 9956
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
American Sun
How old is Mrs Haden?
-
djp73
- Posts: 9956
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
American Sun
Did I miss/forget tension between Mireya and Arelle?
Back seat dude seen Mireya stripping.
Leo got a hole through his hand or somewhere else?
Back seat dude seen Mireya stripping.
Leo got a hole through his hand or somewhere else?
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Mireya said she got shooters for your shooters!
Assuming you mean Mrs. Matthews. 27, good sir.
That was just the typical bitchy manager stuff. It was pointed out when Mireya took that job and through her conversations with Trina, the assistant manager.
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 12111
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47