Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 5
"I've been thinking about getting back in," Elijah said, watching Lorraine butter her toast at the kitchen table.

"Back in what?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer. He had been restless in his sleep, getting up before his usual wake up time and found Elijah in the kitchen, already dressed for the day.

Elijah poured himself another cup of coffee, buying time to arrange his thoughts. "The store. Not exactly like before, but something similar. The neighborhood still needs what we were providing."

Lorraine's butter knife paused mid-air. "Elijah, please tell me you're not serious."

"Why not? Ain’t nobody buy that building yet. It's just sitting there empty, probably can get it for the low too.”

"And have you forgotten why it's empty?" Lorraine set down her knife with deliberate care. "Those last two years before... everything... we were barely breaking even. That's why we took out that loan in the first place."

Elijah nodded, having anticipated this response. "I know, I know. But the landscape's changed. Those big box stores that were undercutting us? Half of them closed during the pandemic. People want local again."

"The landscape hasn't changed that much," Lorraine countered. "Walmart's still Walmart. And we're not exactly flush with capital for inventory."

Elijah leaned forward, the excitement he'd been containing since his pre-dawn epiphany finally breaking through. "What about a food truck? Lower overhead, mobile customer base, we could hit different neighborhoods. Same business model—strip everything down, pass the savings to the customer."

"A food truck?" Lorraine's eyebrows rose. "You always hated the restaurant business.”

"Not a restaurant. Groceries. Fresh produce, staples, maybe some of those rotisserie chickens we used to do." The idea was gaining momentum as he spoke. "Think about it—we bring affordable food directly to the food deserts. No need for people to take three buses just to get fresh vegetables."

Lorraine took a sip of her coffee, studying him over the rim of her mug. Her silence wasn't rejection, Elijah knew—it was calculation. The same measured consideration she'd given every major decision in their thirty years together.

"It would take money," she finally said. "Money we don't have."

"Maybe a small business loan."

"Another loan?" Lorraine shook her head. "That's what got us in trouble before."

"This would be different. Smaller scale, lower risk. An actual accountant that knows his shit."

Lorraine sighed, glancing at the clock. "You're going to be late for work." She stood, carrying her plate to the sink. "Look, we can talk more about this, but I need you to flesh it out. I need to see numbers, projections, a real business plan."

Elijah nodded, feeling a familiar spark—the challenge of convincing Lorraine, who had always been his toughest critic and most valuable advisor.

"I want you to use that same fine-tooth comb you used to run through other people's business ideas," she continued, turning to face him. "Remember how many half-baked schemes you shot down over the years? Be that ruthless with your own idea."

"I will," Elijah promised, standing to kiss her goodbye.

As he grabbed his lunch from the refrigerator and headed for the door, Lorraine called after him. "Elijah?"

He turned, one hand on the doorknob.

"I'm not saying this is a bad idea," she said softly. "I just need to know we won't lose everything again."

Elijah nodded, understanding the weight behind her words. "We won't. Not this time."

The door closed behind him as he stepped into the morning air, his mind already racing with possibilities. For the first time in years, he felt like himself again—not inmate #45873, not the quiet warehouse worker who kept his head down, but Elijah Chase, businessman, provider, creator.

…

"You heard?" Rommel demanded, his voice cracking as he swung open the door.

Dro nodded once. "Just now."

"Fucking Woods!" Rommel paced the office like a caged animal, hands clenching and unclenching. "We hitting back. Today."

"Hold up," Dro raised a hand. "We need to think this through."

"Think what through?" Rommel stopped pacing, his eyes wild. "They killed my little brother! In the yard like he was a punk ass little bitch, Blood!”

"I know, and we'll respond," Dro said, keeping his voice steady. "But something about this don't add up. Woods don't usually move on Blacks inside like that, not for no reason.”

"I don’t give a fuck about reason, nigga!" Rommel slammed his fist on the desk.

Dro shook his head slowly. "We already got beef with Stacks on the street. Pushing something like this inside? We don’t got the man power, not without Stacks’ people.”

"I don’t give a fuck about your fat ass, bitch ass nephew, nigga!" Rommel was shouting now, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. "My little brother is dead, Dro. Dead! And you're standing there talking whatever fuck ass shit y’all going through?”

"I'm trying to make sure we don't start a war we can't finish," Dro countered, his own temper rising. "You think I don't want payback? But we need to be smart about this."

"Fuck smart," Rommel spat. "I'm putting word on the yard today. Open season on all Woods. Any of them gets caught slipping, they get put down. Period."

…

"Girl, that color is everything on you," Gayle commented, capping the polish bottle with a twist.

Her client admired her fresh set of emerald green nail polish. "You always know exactly what I need."

Gayle's phone vibrated against her hip. She glanced down discreetly, seeing Lamont's name flash across the screen.

IT'S LIVE. APPLE MUSIC GOT IT FIRST. SPOTIFY DROPPING IN AN HOUR.

Her heart lurched into her throat. "Ms. Cheryl," she said, her voice suddenly tight, "Can you sit under the dryer for about five minutes? I need to—I gotta step out real quick."

Without waiting for a response, Gayle was already untying her apron, fingers trembling. She pushed through the glass door into the parking lot, her phone already open to Apple Music.

There it was. "Snatch Yo Chain (Remix) feat. Kandi." Her song—their song now—with the glossy new artwork showing silhouettes of two women back-to-back.

She tapped play, immediately dragging the progress bar forward, desperate to hear what Kandi had done with her track. The beat dropped, and Kandi's distinctive flow poured through her earbuds—confident, sharp, with that signature Bay Area bounce that had made her famous.

"These bitches think they running shit, I been the blueprint...”

Her fingers were already tapping over to Instagram, pulling up Kandi's profile. The most recent post showed the cover art with a simple caption: "Out now. @realgigi got next. Link in bio."

The comments were flooding in:

"This collab is FIRE "

"Who is this Gigi girl? She holding her own with Kandi!"

"Bay Area + LA linkup we needed!"

Gayle scrolled through dozens more, her smile growing wider with each enthusiastic response. This wasn't just a feature—it was a co-sign.

…

"Bronstein again?" Stefan asked, glancing at Keshawn's device vibrating across the table at Bruin Plate.

Keshawn flipped his phone over without checking. "Shit, probably.”

"I need to me one of those," Stefan shoveled another forkful of pasta into his mouth. "Two million on the table? That's life-changing bread, homie.”

"Yeah, it is," Keshawn mumbled. "But if I go top fifteen in the draft, that’s a whole different conversation.”

Stefan leaned back in his chair. "Or you could blow out your knee in the first game next season and get nothing."

"Appreciate the love," Keshawn shook his head.

“I’m just saying,” Stefan shrugged, "I almost blew out my fucking Achilles last summer, damn near wasted this entire season.”

"You still got buckets though,” Keshawn countered, "It wasn’t a wasted season, is all. With Kobe gone and…”

“And with you gone? Sound like you decided already,” Stefan teased.

"I don’t know,” Keshawn paused, "It’s the right move but feels like jumping off a ledge or something.”

"I don’t see the hold up, then. You’re going to kill it at the Combine and then you—" Stefan's eyes suddenly locked on something over Keshawn's shoulder. "Oh shit, it’s your favorite girl from the valley.”

Keshawn stiffened, not turning around. "Alexis?”

"Yeah,” Stefan laughed, "Tommy with her.”

They approached the table, Tommy leading with Alexis trailing slightly behind.

"Stefan," Tommy nodded, deliberately avoiding Keshawn's gaze. "You did the discussion post for Rivera already?”

"Getting there," Stefan replied, trying to stifle his laughter. "The bitch be on it with the word count.”

Tommy nodded again, still not acknowledging Keshawn. Alexis stood awkwardly beside him, her eyes darting between the three men.

"Hey, Keshawn," she finally said, her soft tone cutting through the tension.

Keshawn gave a curt nod, keeping the eye contact brief. "What's up."

Tommy shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "We're gonna grab some food. Y’all headed back after this?”

"Probably," Stefan said when Keshawn remained silent.

As they walked away, Tommy never once looked back. Alexis, however, glanced over her shoulder before looking away.

"Damn," Stefan whispered once they were out of earshot. "That was cold as ice. Man didn't even dap you up."

Keshawn shrugged, trying to appear unbothered. "Whatever."

"You know he knows, right?”

"Shit, I wasn’t exactly hiding it."

Stefan leaned across the table, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "That’s fucked up, Ke. It’s bad enough that you popped his shorty, he probably still ain’t even hit that.”

"It wasn't like that," Keshawn protested weakly.

"Hey, I respect it though," Stefan continued, holding up his hands. "Alexis not exactly my speed, I like a little ratchetness with mine.”

"I would hardly call Andrea ratchet,” Keshawn countered.

"That’s my bitch, that’s different,” Stefan explained, "Now a little hoe I’m fucking on the side? I need to feel like you ain’t gonna call the police on me and mine if she roll through and bust your shit for fucking with me. You feel me?”

"Nigga, shut up." Keshawn glanced over at Alexis, now standing in line with Tommy. She caught his eye and he quickly looked away. "It's over anyway."

"For real?”

"I don’t need to end up like my cousin, man,” Keshawn shook his head, "Less woman that can show up to my doorstep with a pregnancy test, the better.”

"It’s worse bitches to knock up than Jessica and Valley girl over there,” Stefan suggested, “Now for that, you do kind of need a proper bitch and not a ratchet one. Don’t need no niggas coming to your crib, smoking weed all in your baby face just because y’all two beefing.”

"These are madly specific examples.”

Stefan studied his friend. "I don’t blame you for dumping the bitch. I mean, Gloria and that weird motherfucker you be hanging around with.”

"Nadia’s not weird,” Keshawn pushed back.

"Any bitch that don’t talk to Stefan is weird," Stefan insisted.

"Nigga, I don’t want to talk to you half the time.”

"My point exactly,” Stefan grinned.

"You need help, professionally," Keshawn stood, grabbing his backpack. "Study hall?”

"On a Saturday?"

"Classes don’t stop, they keep going!” Keshawn joked.

"You on your own, playboy,” Stefan looked over towards where Alexis and Tommy were now seated, "I might tap in with your old work, help her get over her loss.”

"You’re a dumbass,” Keshawn shook his head, dapping Stefan up before walking towards the exit, making a concerted effort to not take a peek at Alexis. As he pushed through the doors, he felt his phone vibrate again. Coach Bronstein's name flashed on the screen. He swiped away the notification without responding and stepped into the California sunshine, the weight of his decision pressing down on him with each step. Two paths lay before him—the safe route with guaranteed millions or the riskier leap toward something potentially greater. Either way, he couldn't hide from the choice much longer.

As he crossed the campus quad, another text came through. This one from Nadia: I could use some pancakes tonight

For the first time that day, looking at his phone, Keshawn smiled.

[Caesar]

Keshawn stiffened, not turning around. "Alexis?”

"Yeah,” Stefan laughed, "Tommy with him.”

So Alexis trans? Progressive! 🤏🤏

also Nadia is weird.

Vic gonna get got because his brother orchestrated that hit

[Soapy]

Keshawn stiffened, not turning around. "Alexis?”

"Yeah,” Stefan laughed, "Tommy with him.”

So Alexis trans? Progressive! 🤏🤏

also Nadia is weird.

Vic gonna get got because his brother orchestrated that hit

We stan for a progressive king

A little inside baseball: that scene was originally supposed to be Stefan spotting Tommy and saying Alexis with him. I changed my mind last minute and wanted Keshawn to preemptively ask about Alexis instead to convey their fracturing 'relationship' and forgot to change the pronoun after I rewrote it

Lay off Nadia or her vengeance will reverberate for generations bruh

Re: Vic, brother for brother?

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 6
Angela stared at her reflection in the laptop screen, her face frozen in a smile that had begun to ache five minutes before the interview ended. She exhaled slowly, letting the professional mask slip away as she closed the computer with a soft click.

"Well, that's done," she muttered to the empty dorm room.

The interview had gone better than expected. The Westwood Solutions HR manager had seemed genuinely impressed by her answers, nodding approvingly when Angela described her leadership experience with Black Excellence and her passion for community engagement. She'd even laughed at Angela's carefully prepared joke about corporate culture—not too radical, just enough edge to seem authentic without scaring them off.

Angela stood, stretching muscles tight from an hour of perfect posture. Outside her window, Howard's campus had that end of semester energy with students rushing to and from the library and exam centers. She should feel relieved, accomplished. Instead, her mind raced with contradictions.

Los Angeles. Home, but not home anymore. The place where her mother's empty house waited, filled with ghosts and bad memories. The place where Vic expected her to return, to slip back into their relationship as if nothing had changed. As if she hadn't changed.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Paige: How did it go?

Angela's thumb hovered over the keyboard. What could she say? That she'd nailed the interview for a job she wasn't sure she wanted? That the thought of returning to L.A. made her stomach twist with dread and guilt?

Went well, she finally typed. Thanks again for setting it up.

She tossed the phone onto her bed before Paige could respond. She needed to move, to breathe, to stop thinking or at least think of something else.

As she stepped out into the energetic campus, Angela walked without direction, her mind circling the same questions it had been wrestling with for weeks. If she got this internship—and the interviewer's enthusiasm suggested she might—she'd have to go back. Face her mother's house, empty now except for the belongings Angela hadn't had the heart to sort through after the funeral. Face Vic, who had been more attentive in the days leading up and after her mother’s funeral, but had now returned to the short responses that they’d share back and forth throughout the day. Text exchanges that felt more like a necessity than out of true love.

And Paige. What about Paige? The nights spent talking until dawn, the casual touches that had evolved into something more, the way Paige's lips felt against hers—soft, uncertain, then hungry. Was that just experimentation? College exploration? Or something deeper? If it wasn’t bad enough that she felt guilt about cheating on Vic — even though Paige said it wasn’t cheating since they were both women — she also felt guilt about the shame she felt about being with a woman. While she was an ally and a supporter of the queer community, she was straight.

Was her confusion natural or did it carry an undercurrent of homophobia that she always denounced others for having? She had always been a strong component and advocate that the third wave of the Civil Rights movement not only should include queer Black people, it had to include queer Black people in order for it to succeed and accomplish its true goal of freedom and equality for all Black people, not just conventional one. Was she now part of that community or just another straight girl cosplaying queer, only to return to her straight presenting self once it no longer served her?

…

Alexis stood in front of her bedroom mirror, smoothing down the cream silk slip dress that hugged her curves. The lakefront property in the Santa Monica mountains buzzed with pre-party energy as caterers arranged elegant hors d'oeuvres on silver platters and bartenders set up their stations, a far cry from your typically college end-of-semester party.

"So when's your NBA boo arriving?" Madison called from the adjoining bathroom, where she was applying another coat of mascara.

Alexis rolled her eyes, though a small smile played at her lips. "He's not my 'NBA boo.' He’s not even in the NBA yet.”

"BFFR," Tiffany chimed in, sprawled across Alexis's king-sized bed scrolling through her phone. "Bitch, I looked that nigga up. He’s going first round.”

"They make an absurd amount of money," Brittany added, emerging from the walk-in closet with a borrowed pair of Alexis's Louboutins. "I know Jalen signed like a $100 million deal and he just got there. My homegirl used to fuck with him when he was at Napa.”

"Can you guys stop?" Alexis tried to sound annoyed, but couldn't hide the flush creeping up her neck. "We don’t even go together like that. We just hang out, you know.”

"Is that what we’re calling fucking, now?" Madison sing-songed, appearing in the doorway. “You know I can hear you guys, right? Those late night sessions about to cash you out.”

"I don’t care about his money, I’ve got my own." Alexis said dismissively, though the thought of sitting courtside at NBA games, being photographed on Keshawn's arm at events, sent a little thrill through her. Not that she needed the exposure—her father's real estate empire ensured the Pleasant name appeared regularly in business circles—but there was something about the glamour of professional sports that even her privileged upbringing couldn't provide.

"So when exactly is he coming?" Tiffany pressed, sitting up and reaching for her champagne flute. "I want to make sure I'm looking cute when I meet your future husband."

Alexis checked her phone for the fifth time in as many minutes. No messages from Keshawn. "He said he'd try to make it after his workout."

"Workout on a Saturday night?" Brittany raised an eyebrow. "That's dedication."

"He's getting ready for the NBA Combine," Alexis explained, feeling a strange sense of pride. "It's a big deal."

"Well, I can't wait to meet him," Madison said, raising her glass. "To Alexis's courtside seats and VIP access!"

The girls laughed, clinking their glasses together.

"You guys are ridiculous," Alexis protested, though she joined the toast. "Seriously, it's not like that."

…

Keshawn heaved himself up from the floor, sweat pouring down his face and soaking through his third shirt of the day. His lungs burned, muscles screaming in protest as he tried to catch his breath.

"Again," Bronstein barked, standing at the three-point line with a basketball tucked under his arm. His face showed no sympathy, only stern expectation.

"My legs gonna be done for tomorrow," Keshawn gasped, hands on his knees, “Ain’t we scrimmaging?”

The gym at Pacific University was empty now, the other NBA hopefuls having finished their workouts and left nearly two hours ago. Even the trainers had packed up, leaving only Bronstein, Keshawn, and the echoing sound of the ball against hardwood.

"You think Cooper Flagg is stopping right now? You think he's complaining?" Bronstein bounced the ball hard, the sound reverberating through the empty space. "That kid would have wiped the floor with those bums you were playing against today."

Keshawn straightened, wiping sweat from his eyes. "I don’t know, I felt like I held my own, Coach.”

"Holding your own isn't good enough!" Bronstein's voice rose, his Israeli accent thickening with emotion. "You were sloppy, you were rushing your offense and defensively, you were being fucking lazy, letting somebody else make the play.”

The criticism stung, but Keshawn knew there was truth in it. He'd been off today, his looming decision and the consecutive days of working out immediately after the season ended beginning to take a toll on him.

"One more drill," Bronstein said, his voice softening slightly. "Suicide sprints. Five of them. Then we're done."

Keshawn nodded, positioning himself at the baseline. His legs felt like lead, his body begging for rest, but he pushed the fatigue aside. This was the price of greatness—the work when no one was watching, when everyone else had gone home.

"You know why I'm so hard on you, boychick?" Bronstein asked as Keshawn completed the first sprint, touching the free-throw line before sprinting back.

"Because you hate me?" Keshawn gasped between breaths, starting his second sprint to half-court.

A rare smile cracked Bronstein's stern facade. "Because I see something in you that you don't see yet."

He watched as Keshawn touched the far baseline and began sprinting back.

"The two million UCLA is offering you? The couple million you’ll make as a first round pick? That’s nothing, boychick, fucking pocket change for you by the time you’re done. If you don’t touch a billion dollars by the time you’re done, I’ve failed you, boychick, and I don’t plan on doing that.”

“I don’t care about money like that, Coach,” Keshawn managed to get out between baited breath, using the conversation to sneak in some extra rest.

"Fuck the money, boychick, it’s not about the money. It’s about what it represents for you, your family, everyone around you. If you had the ability right now to make sure everyone in your family was good, I mean really good, no worries about money, no medical bills stressing them out, no credit card debt, no lawyer fees pilling up. The ability to do what they want, when they want. You’d do that, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

"That’s what’s on the other end of those sprints, son.”

Keshawn nodded before beginning his third sprint, his vision narrowing on the free throw line.

…

The music pulsed through the sprawling lakefront property, the party now in full swing. Alexis stood by the marble bar, nursing her third glass of champagne while pretending to listen to some USC finance major drone on about his travel plans for the summer. Her eyes kept drifting to the entrance, watching each new arrival with diminishing hope.

It was past midnight. The teasing from her friends had stopped hours ago, replaced by pitying glances and forced conversation about everything except Keshawn's absence. That was somehow worse.

"He's probably just running late," Madison had said around ten, squeezing Alexis's arm.

By eleven, Tiffany had offered a different approach: "Niggas ain't shit anyway."

Now, they'd all dispersed into the crowd, leaving Alexis to maintain her composure alone. She smiled and nodded at whatever the finance major was saying while scanning the room. The party had gone well yet all she could focus on was the one person who wasn't there.

Her phone remained stubbornly silent. No text, no call, not even a lame excuse. The realization settled in her stomach like a cold stone: he wasn't coming.

…

Nina ushered Keshawn into a bright, open kitchen that smelled of herbs and slow-cooked meat. "Sit, sit! You make me feel smaller than I already am standing around me," she insisted, guiding him to a stool at the island counter. Before he could protest, she placed a glass of water and a small plate of appetizers in front of him.

"Mrs. Bronstein, thank you for having me," Keshawn said, suddenly aware of his hunger as he eyed the spread.

"Nina, please," she corrected, waving away his formality. "We are well past Mrs. Bronstein, benno.”

Keshawn felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the workout. She radiated a maternal energy that reminded him of his own mother or Aunt Elly, though with a distinctly Israeli flair.

"You're too skinny," she declared, eyeing him critically. "All that running and jumping, and nobody feeds you properly? Eat, eat!"

Keshawn didn't need to be told twice as he sampled the hummus and warm pita.

The doorbell rang, and Nina's face lit up. "I think that might be Leila, she was supposed to be stopping by for dinner.”

But when she returned to the kitchen, it wasn't Bronstein's daughter trailing behind her—it was Nadia, looking equally surprised to see Keshawn sitting at her grandparents' kitchen island.

"Nadia!" Nina exclaimed. "Did you guys plan this?”

"Not really," Nadia said dryly, setting down her bag. She shot Keshawn a look that was part amusement, part accusation. "You didn't mention you were coming to my grandparents' house."

"I didn’t know I was coming either," Keshawn countered, a smile tugging at his lips, "Coach…your grandfather insisted.”

Nina looked between them, delight spreading across her face. "We need some young energy around here anyway, keep us young. It’s great to see you two getting along, she can use friends like you, Keshawn.”

"We've had pancakes," Nadia said cryptically, accepting a kiss on the cheek from her grandfather, who had just walked in from the living room.

The dinner that followed was surprisingly intimate and warm with none of the forced conversations that one would expect. Coach Bronstein dominated the earlier parts of the conversations, going back and forth with Keshawn on various basketball topics, ranting about the new style of play before turning his attention to his granddaughter who didn’t hold back in her criticism of Israeli politics. It was combative but never hostile, the affection obvious between them. And through it all, Nina kept piling more food onto Keshawn's plate, insisting he needed his strength.

"So, Keshawn," Nina said during a lull in conversation, "Alon tells me you're still deciding about the draft?"

Keshawn nodded, swallowing a mouthful of brisket. "Yes, ma'am—Nina. It's a big decision."

"Of course it is," she agreed. "But you know what my husband always says about decisions?"

"That most people make the wrong one?" Keshawn guessed, earning a laugh from everyone at the table.

"He does say that," Nina conceded with a fond glance at Bronstein. "But he also says that when your head and your heart are in conflict, listen to your gut."

"My gut's saying eat more of this brisket," Keshawn joked, earning another warm smile from Nina.

"A boy who appreciates food! This is what I like," she declared, serving him another portion. "You athletes, all protein shakes and bland chicken. Food should bring joy, no?"

As dinner progressed into dessert—a honey cake that Nina insisted was "nothing special" but had Keshawn contemplating a second piece—he caught Nadia watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. She'd been quieter than usual, observing the easy rapport he'd developed with her grandparents. She could tell he’d become a frequent visitor.

"I should help clean up," Keshawn offered as the meal wound down.

"Absolutely not," Nina protested. "You and Nadia, you guys talk. You young kids don’t do that enough, always on your phone and your tablets. When I was a kid, that’s all we did. We talked, we talked and we talked about talking.”

Before either of them could object, they found themselves ushered outside onto a patio overlooking the city lights below.

"So," Nadia said, leaning against the stone balustrade. "You and my grandmother, should my grandfather be worried?”

"She’s the best,” Keshawn laughed, "I don’t know, I guess I just have that effect on older women.”

"They've never liked any of my boyfriends," Nadia said suddenly, her voice so quiet Keshawn almost missed it. "Not that you're—I mean, we're not—"

"I get it," Keshawn assured her, feeling an unexpected flutter in his chest.

"They always wanted me to bring home a nice Jewish boy," she continued, staring out at the lights.

"And instead you brought home basketball players and hipsters?" Keshawn teased.

Nadia rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. "I don’t know about basketball players but on the second charge? I plead the fifth.”

"For what it's worth," Keshawn said carefully, "I think your family's pretty cool. Different from mine, but in a good way."

Nadia turned to face him fully, her expression serious. "You know what's weird? Watching you with them tonight... you like fit here better than I do.”

Keshawn wasn't sure how to respond to that. There was something in her voice, something in the way she was looking at him now, that made his heart beat a little faster.

The sliding door opened behind them, and Nina appeared with a small container. "Keshawn, I packed some leftovers for you. You need food, good food, not just pancakes.”

"Thank you, Nina," he said sincerely, accepting the container. "Dinner was amazing."

"You'll come back," she stated rather than asked. "Next time, I'll make my special chicken. Nadia's favorite."

As they said their goodbyes—Nina insisting on hugging him again, Bronstein clapping him on the shoulder with surprising warmth—Keshawn caught Nadia watching him with that same unreadable expression. But now, he thought he understood it a little better.

As Keshawn climbed into his car, he realized he'd completely forgotten about Alexis's party—and strangely, he didn't feel bad about it at all.

[Caesar]

"I get it," Keshawn assured her, feeling an unexpected flutter in his chest.

[Soapy]

"I get it," Keshawn assured her, feeling an unexpected flutter in his chest.

stall him out, brudda

[Soapy]

Call Me If You Get Lost - Episode 7
"You can just stack those boxes against that wall," Paige directed, pointing to the corner of her living room that wasn't already occupied by Angela's possessions. "My roommate's already moved out, so we've got the whole place."

Angela nodded, setting down a heavy box of textbooks with a thud that echoed her mood. The irony wasn't lost on her—storing her belongings in a room she wouldn't occupy while Paige spent the summer in D.C., the city Angela was desperately trying to remain in.

"You sure she won't mind? She might visit or something." Angela asked, wiping sweat from her forehead. May in D.C. was already oppressively humid, the air conditioning in the dorm building struggling against it.

"That girl is going to be in St. Tropez shaking ass all summer, she ain’t coming her, " Paige scoffed she approached Angela, tucking a loose braid behind her ear with gentle fingers, "Besides, gives you a reason to come back, make sure you haven’t forgotten me after this summer.”

The casual intimacy of the gesture sent a conflicting wave of comfort and guilt through Angela. She stepped back, busying herself with adjusting the box she'd just set down. "I wish I was in St. Tropez shaking ass.”

Her phone chimed with an email notification. Angela's stomach clenched reflexively, pulling out her phone, bracing herself for another professionally worded dismissal.

The rejection emails had begun to feel like condolences—polite, impersonal dispatches from futures that would never be hers. Angela had memorized their rhythm: the gratitude for her interest, the impressive pool of candidates, the unfortunate news that they had decided to "move forward with other applicants." She'd collected four already, each one diminishing her hopes for summer employment like candles blown out one by one.

"What is it?" Paige asked, noticing Angela's frozen posture.

"Westwood Solutions," Angela murmured, her eyes scanning the email once, twice, a third time to be sure she wasn't misreading. "They... they're offering me the position."

Paige's squeal of delight pierced the room as she launched herself at Angela, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "I knew it! I told you they'd love you!"

Angela stood stiffly in Paige's arms, the words on her screen blurring as her mind raced ahead to what this meant. Los Angeles. Home. The empty house filled with her mother's things. Vic waiting for her return, expecting everything to fall back into place.

"This is amazing!" Paige pulled back, her face alight with excitement. "Full-time paid internship, housing stipend—do you know how many people would kill for this opportunity?"

"Yeah," Angela managed, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's... great."

…

The Marriott Marquis buzzed with nervous energy as prospects lined the hallway outside the measurement room. Keshawn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, tugging at the hem of his shorts. The NBA Combine's first day always started with the mundane—height, weight, wingspan—yet somehow these basic measurements felt more consequential than any game he'd played.

Three people ahead of him in line, he caught sight of Cooper Flagg, the consensus number one pick, chatting easily with a group of prospects. Flagg's laugh carried down the hallway as he gestured animatedly, completely at ease in his own skin. The other players clustered around him like planets orbiting a sun.

Must be nice to know where you’re going already, Keshawn thought, watching Cooper casually dap up another prospect.

Something cold and uncomfortable settled in Keshawn's stomach. He'd spent the past month training relentlessly, pushing his body to its limits, sacrificing sleep and any semblance of a social life. Meanwhile, Cooper looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, confident that his position atop the draft boards was unassailable.

"Chase? Keshawn Chase?" A woman with a clipboard appeared at the doorway, scanning the line of players.

Keshawn snapped back to reality. "Yeah, that's me."

"You're up."

Inside the measurement room, a team of officials waited with digital calipers and measuring tapes. Keshawn stepped onto the platform, following instructions mechanically: arms out, stand straight, chin level.

"Six feet, eight and a half inches without shoes," called out the first official. "Six feet, nine and three-quarters with shoes."

Keshawn filed away the information. Taller than his listed height at UCLA.

"Wingspan, seven feet, one inch."

"Weight, 230 pounds."

"Hand length, nine and a half inches. Hand width, ten inches."

The numbers continued, each measurement documented with clinical precision. Through the open door, Keshawn could see Cooper still holding court in the hallway.

"Body fat percentage, 5.8%."

As Keshawn stepped down from the platform, clipboard woman handed him a printout of his measurements. "Your interview schedule is attached on the second page."

He nodded his thanks, scanning the numbers as he walked out.

"Yo, Chase!”

Keshawn looked up from his paper to find Cooper extending his hand.

"Good to finally meet you, man," Cooper continued, grabbing Keshawn's hand and pulling him in for a quick shoulder bump. "Congrats on winning that natty, man.”

"Appreciate it," Keshawn said, surprised by the genuine enthusiasm.

"I know that final possession was probably crazy,” Cooper smiled, "I thought you were about to Kobe it for a second. You went crazy for that whole tournament, bro, no doubt.”

As Cooper continued praising his tournament performance, something shifted in Keshawn's chest. Here was Cooper Flagg—the golden boy, the projected number one pick—talking about his accomplishments. His championship. While Cooper had been watching from home, Keshawn had been cutting down nets, had earned that Freshman All-American selection just like Flagg had.

"We should get some work in together," Cooper suggested, seemingly oblivious to Keshawn's internal revelation.

"Yeah, for sure," Keshawn nodded, standing taller now. "I'd be down for that."

…

"Fucking ridiculous," Vic muttered, pacing the living room of Jessica's apartment dorm. "You're acting like I'm off living some dream life while you're stuck here."

Jessica sat on the couch, one hand resting on her growing belly, the other clutching a tissue she'd been shredding for the past ten minutes. "That's not what I said."

"It's exactly what you said!" Vic's voice rose. "Like going to that job is some kind of luxury. You think I fucking want to fold some fucking sweaters? Like that’s what I wanted in life?”

"At least you get to leave," Jessica countered, her eyes welling with fresh tears. "You get to talk to people, have lunch breaks, come and go. I'm stuck here all day feeling like shit, throwing up, my feet swelling up like balloons."

Vic stopped pacing, running his hands over his face. "What do you want from me, Jess? I'm working two jobs now. Community college, coaching. I'm fucking trying."

"I want you to acknowledge that this is hard for me too!" Jessica stood up, wincing slightly. "I'm nineteen, Vic. My friends are out partying, traveling for the summer, and I'm here watching my body change and planning for a baby we didn't even plan for."

"You think I don't know that?" Vic's laugh was hollow. "You think I planned to be a father right now? With you?”

Jessica's face crumpled. "So I'm just a burden to you now?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Vic stared at her, the gulf between them seemingly wider than the few feet separating them physically. This wasn't the first argument they'd had since learning about the pregnancy, but something felt different this time.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, the fight draining out of him. "I'm just... I'm tired, alright? This whole shit is just…”

Jessica nodded, wiping at her eyes. "I'm tired too. But I feel like I'm going through this alone sometimes."

"You're not alone."

"But I feel like I am." She sat back down, suddenly looking exhausted. "You come over, but you're not really here. You're thinking about work or school or Angela—"

"Don't bring her into this," Vic cut in sharply.

"Why not? She's part of this too, whether you want to admit it or not." Jessica's voice hardened. "You still haven’t told her, you still haven’t broken up with her like you said.”

Vic shook his head, looking away. "It's complicated."

"It's really not," Jessica said quietly. "You're having a baby with me, not her.”

…

Keshawn wiped his face with a towel, trying to center himself as he waited his turn at the bench press station. The last two days of the combine had been a grind—endless medical tests followed by athletic testing that was beginning to wear on him. The alphabetical order had him sandwiched between projected top picks Ace Bailey and Cooper Flagg all day, a constant reminder of his competition.

"Bailey, Ace. Lane agility, 10.7 seconds," the announcer called out.

Keshawn's jaw tightened. His 11.1 from earlier kept replaying in his head—four-tenths of a second slower than Bailey, one-tenth behind Flagg's 11.0. Small numbers that felt massive in this environment where everything was measured, recorded, and scrutinized. The three-quarter sprint had been worse. His 3.23 seconds might as well have been an eternity behind Bailey's 3.12 and Flagg's 3.18.

When his turn came for the vertical leap, Keshawn channeled his frustration. He bent his knees, drew his arms back, and exploded upward. The measuring device clicked at 41 inches.

"Forty-one," called the official. "New high for the day."

A murmur rippled through the scouts. Flagg had only managed 39, though Bailey's freakish 44 still led the pack. But Keshawn outweighed Bailey by nearly thirty pounds—a fact not lost on the evaluators scribbling notes.

"Chase, Keshawn. Bench press," the announcer called.

Keshawn approached the bench, chalk dusting his hands. The standard 185 pounds waited on the bar—not heavy for someone his size, but the endurance test would separate the truly strong from the merely fit.

He positioned himself under the bar, gripped it at the perfect width, and began. Ten reps came easily. At fifteen, his triceps started to burn. By eighteen, his face contorted with effort.

"Nineteen... twenty!" counted the spotter.

Keshawn racked the weight and sat up, chest heaving. The room had gone surprisingly quiet. He'd just posted the highest rep count of any prospect at the combine.

"Holy shit," whispered one scout to another.

"I told you," replied the second scout. "He's going top five. Book it."

[Captain Canada]

Just caught back up with this. Vic messy as hell. That nuclear bomb is still ticking

[Caesar]

Angela eating more coochie than Vic and they both talking about its complicated.

Keshawn got KD practicing post moves in the club written all over him because he in love with Esther.

[Chillcavern]

Love to see Keshawn getting star-struck by Flagg

It’s really not sinking in for him yet, is it?

Also: poor Angela. Internalized homophobia is a hell of a drug. We root for our questioning queen though. Especially with Vic being a fuckboy