Highlight Game: February 20th, 2026 - Moda Center, Portland, Oregon
(27-31) Denver Nuggets at Portland Trail Blazers (25-32)DEN | 28 | 38 | 19 | 34 | 119 POR | 25 | 25 | 37 | 36 | 123
Starting Lineups
Jamal Murray - G - Scoot Henderson
Bruce Brown - G - Shaedon Sharpe
Peyton Watson - F - Michael Porter Jr.
Cameron Johnson - F - Keshawn Chase
Nikola Jokic - C - Donovan Clingan
C Nikola Jokic: 35 pts, 14 reb, 2 stl, 15-19 FG, 5-6 FT F Cameron Johnson: 23 pts, 10-21 FG, 3-12 3PT G Jamal Murray: 21 pts, 12 ast, 8-15 FG, 2-3 3PT, 3-3 FT
G Scoot Henderson: 5 pts, 14 ast, 2-7 FG, 1-1 FT G Shaedon Sharpe: 24 pts, 8 ast, 8-15 FG, 2-5 3PT, 6-6 FT F Michael Porter Jr: 45 pts, 7 reb, 2 ast, 17-24 FG, 11-16 3PT F Keshawn Chase: 27 pts, 8 reb, 4 ast, 9-14 FG, 9-12 FT C Donovan Clingan: 13 pts, 16 reb, 6-8 FG, 1-2 FT
Highlight Game: March 6th, 2026 - Toyota Center, Houston, Texas
(27-37) Portland Trail Blazers at Houston Rockets (40-22)POR | 22 | 29 | 27 | 31 | 109 HOU | 23 | 16 | 28 | 46 | 113
Starting Lineups
Scoot Henderson - G - Fred VanVleet
Shaedon Sharpe - G - Amen Thompson
Keshawn Chase - F - Kevin Durant
Michael Porter Jr. - F - Tari Eason
Donovan Clingan - C - Alperen Sengun
G Scoot Henderson: 14 pts, 5 reb, 8 ast, 5-8 FG, 4-6 FT G Shaedon Sharpe: 13 pts, 4 ast, 4-10 FG, 3-8 3PT, 2-4 FT F Michael Porter Jr: 15 pts, 6 reb, 4 ast, 5-17 FG, 2-9 3PT F Keshawn Chase: 33 pts, 8 reb, 5 ast, 14-19 FG, 5-6 FT C Donovan Clingan: 18 pts, 23 reb, 2 stl, 2 blk, 9-13 FG
A Cold Day in Hell - Episode 21
Candace moved through the bustling terminal as she kept her head high, ignoring the glances and whispers of recognition. The airport had that late-afternoon churn—lines snaking in loops, gate agents calling out boarding groups, families arguing over carry-ons. People moved in clusters or alone, but every few steps someone seemed to recognize her face. A lingering look. A half-smile of delayed realization. A whisper shared with a friend as she walked past.
She didn’t break stride.
The phone pressed to her ear felt heavier than usual, her manager’s voice crackling through the line with that familiar mixture of irritation and concern that came from too many years of trying to wrangle an artist who did things on her own timeline.
"I just didn’t think you were the type to put everything on hold for some dick,” her manager said, the sharpness cutting through the ambient noise of rolling suitcases and distant announcements. “You know they want to start filming next week, right?"
Candace exhaled sharply, weaving around a group of teenagers blocking half the walkway. “It’s only a few days,” she said, rolling her eyes even though her manager couldn’t see it. Her patience was thin—the kind of thin that came from early call times, late flights, and too many hours pretending to be “on” for people she’d never see again.
"You know better than anyone else that every day counts," her manager sighed, a familiar refrain that had once motivated her but now just felt like a weight.
“Look, I’ll be back in time for everything. Just trust me on this one,” she said. “A cranky me is just as good as me not showing up, you know that."
There was a pause—her manager weighing whether to keep pushing or let the stubborn girl she’d discovered win this one.
"Fine," her manager resigned, as if she had a choice. “Have a safe trip.”
…
"You trying to fuck up everything we've built?" Stacks slammed his palm against the metal table. "I told you I had something going on with them nigga!"
Trey leaned back in his metal chair, arms crossed over his jumpsuit. His expression remained impassive, unmoved by Stacks’ outburst, the roles reversed for once.
"Business is business," Trey's voice was low, controlled. "But in here? The politics is still the politics. Any nigga coming into an enemy dorm is gonna run the fade, Blood, ain’t no way around that. The only reason little homie got dealt how he got dealt was because he ain’t just take that ass whooping. He ain’t the first Crip to run a fade in a Blood module and it’s plenty Bloods running back-to-back fades right now in a Crip module. That’s just the fucking world, nigga. You don’t get no fucking pass because of no business shit."
"So what if they get a pass, nigga?" Stacks fired back. "This about money, not colors, nigga! You know how much we can move with them? I ain’t talking no nickel and dime shit, Blood, I’m talking about doubling, tripling our shit."
"Bloods stand with Bloods, Crips with Crips," Trey said flatly. “That's how it's always been. That's how it's supposed to be."
Stacks scoffed, shaking his head. “That's old thinking, man. Them niggas ain’t our real enemies. How many Insane Crips you know? How many Insane Crips done violated your homie? Exactly. They all the way in Long Beach, man. This about opportunity. Real fucking opportunity.”
Trey didn’t blink. Didn’t lean. Didn’t give him anything besides the steady look of a man who had survived enough years inside to know fantasy from reality.
"That shit don’t work on the streets," Trey's eyes narrowed. “You gonna have Bloods with Crips? What happens when one of they homies from Neighborhood roll through while y’all over there? Or a Damu see one of them picking up a package or something by the Jungle? Man, hell nah! Niggas gonna end up dying over this shit."
Stacks’ frustration boiled over in silence for a moment. He shook his head slowly, trying to rein himself in—trying to convince Trey, or maybe himself, that he wasn’t just chasing a doomed idea.
“Nigga, that's for me to worry about, alright? I just need you to not send every nigga that come in here to the infirmary. I’m telling you, Blood, once we get this shit moving and we start really pushing this product—”
Trey’s jaw clenched. He turned away, staring at the blank wall to his right. Everything Stacks was saying blurred into noise, still talking about profit margins and market expansion like some corporate suit instead of a Blood who came up from the same streets he did.
The guard called out, "Two minutes," and Stacks finally stopped talking.
“You hear me?” Stacks asked, his voice quieter now, almost hopeful.
Trey turned back, his expression hardening again. “Yeah, whatever, nigga.”
…
Candace emerged from the bathroom, the soft hum of the vent following her out as she ran her hands through her damp hair. Droplets clung to the ends, falling onto the oversized T-shirt she’d slipped into. Her hair, long and dark, cascaded over her shoulders as the faint scent of her conditioner—coconut and something floral—filled the living room.
She found Keshawn still sitting on the couch, his massive frame slouched just slightly, shoulders heavy, eyes trained on the TV without really watching it. The screen lit up his face in an alternating wash of blues and reds, some mindless highlight reel or late-night sports recap.
"You alright?" she asked for the third time since arriving a few hours earlier. She asked it casually, but her eyes never stopped searching him.
“Yeah, just tired,” he replied, rubbing at an ache in his left knee. His hand lingered there longer than usual. He hadn’t complained, but she could tell from the moment she walked in that he wasn’t fully himself—not hurt, not sick, just… worn.
"You still want to go to dinner?" she asked as she dried her hair with a towel. She tried to sound neutral, but the reservation she’d made hours earlier tugged at her.
"Actually," Keshawn paused, almost apologetically, "Can we just like chill at the crib? We’re off tomorrow so we can do something then."
Candace nodded slowly, disappointment flickering across her features before she smoothed it away. “Yeah, of course,” she said, voice light and easy, the kind of voice she used when she didn’t want him to feel guilty.
She’d flown in last minute, rearranged her schedule, made reservations at a spot he had once said he wanted to try. She didn’t mind the effort—she liked the effort—but she also understood the grind. Road games that stretched you thin. Practices that drained your body. The mental load of trying to keep your place in a league that swallowed people whole.
She moved toward the kitchen, determined to make her trip feel like more than a long, impulsive flight. She opened a drawer, then another, searching for a pan or a spatula or something she could transform into a meal. She knew the layout of his home—knew the couch, the guest room, the way the light hit the living room around sunset—but she’d never actually cooked here, never actually lived here.
She remembered the one time she’d made him breakfast, back when everything between them was new and light and uncomplicated. Pancakes that were slightly burnt on one side. Eggs that came out perfect despite her nerves. Him sitting on the counter, smiling at her like she was the whole sun.
Her fingers hesitated over the silverware drawer. She closed it gently, pulling out her phone instead.
“What do you want from UberEats?” she asked, accepting her fate with a small laugh. Not annoyed—just resigned. It wasn’t the night she imagined, but she’d come for him, not the plans.
And he was still here.
Still wanting her close.
Sometimes that was enough. Sometimes that was everything.
C Nikola Jokic: 35 pts, 14 reb, 2 stl, 15-19 FG, 5-6 FT
G Scoot Henderson: 5 pts, 14 ast, 2-7 FG, 1-1 FT
@ 
(24-34)
@ 
(33-27)
F Kevin Durant: 27 pts, 4 reb, 8 ast, 2 stl, 11-24 FG, 3-9 3PT
(22-39)
(40-22)
(26-36)
F Pascal Siakam: 31 pts, 8 reb, 9 ast, 2 stl, 13-22 FG, 2-5 3PT
@