Tommy stood outside the FDC tent, a few paces off the entrance flap, close enough to hear the net but not so close that he crowded his fire direction officer. The canvas wall moved in small pulses with the wind. Each time it shifted, voices inside leaked out in scraps.
“Observer Six, this is Steel, adjust fire, over.”
A second voice answered through the speaker with a hiss of static. “Steel, this is Observer Six, adjust fire, polar, over.”
“Send, over.”
The range replied before the next words landed. A deep boom rolled across the red clay and hit him in the sternum. It wasn’t a crack. It was a shove. The tent shivered. Dust lifted off the ground in a thin sheet and settled back onto his boots.
Down the line, about two hundred meters, the gun crews moved around the 155s in loops. A round came out of its container. Hands guided it, shoulders set. A rammer drove it home. Someone called a number. Someone else repeated it back. Metal rang once, then went quiet under the next correction.
Inside the tent, the net kept running.
“Direction two-eight-six-zero.”
Tommy shifted his stance, boots grinding dust, one hand over his brow to block out the glare from the sun bearing down on the range.
“Deflection, one-eight-three-zero.”
Paper rustled over a lower voice.
“Quadrant, three-six-seven.”
“Charge five.”
A pause, then: “Shot, over.”
Another voice answered, faint through the canvas. “Shot, out.”
The air tasted like burnt powder and diesel. It sat in his nose and on his tongue. Red clay dust mixed with it, fine enough that it found the damp line at the edge of his collar and stuck there. Sweat gathered under his sleeves and in the small of his back, trapped by gear and heat.
“Splash, over,” the radio said.
“Splash, out.”
Five seconds later, another boom rolled in from the howitzers. The shockwave came after it, slower, pushing through the heat. A spotter’s correction followed, clipped and certain.
“Add five-zero. Left two-zero. Over.”
Inside, someone repeated it in the same cadence. “Add five-zero. Left two-zero.”
Tommy’s jaw worked once as he listened, eyes tracking the gun line. The guns sat low and heavy, barrels angled up. A truck idled beyond them, diesel thumping steady. A crew chief’s arm lifted, chopped down. A loader stepped back. A lanyard got handled. The next cycle started.
He glanced at his watch.
Ten minutes until the next mission came down from battalion.
He rolled his wrist once, then let his arm fall. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, thumb already on the screen.
Claire’s last text sat there, bright against the washed-out display.
He shook his head once, small, and slid the phone back into his pocket. The fabric caught on the corner for a second, then gave, and the phone disappeared again.
From inside the tent, a voice broke in, more urgent. “Battalion’s pushing, stand by.”
Another voice answered immediately. “Copy, stand by.”
Tommy turned away from the flap and started down the gun line.
The ground under him was packed and rutted from tires. Each step kicked up dust that followed his calves. The sun hit steel on the howitzers hard enough that the edges flashed white. He walked the side of the line, not stepping into anyone’s lane, eyes moving over hands, faces, gear. He watched for the small tells. A glove pulled off and flexed fingers. A man wiped his lip with the back of his wrist.
“Traverse,” someone called.
“Hold.”
“Check it.”
Tommy adjusted his path, staying out of the crew’s rhythm. A correction came over a handheld near the breech, thin and distorted. “Drop two-five, over.”
“Drop two-five,” a man repeated, louder, making the words solid.
Tommy stopped near a stack of ammo crates and set his fingertips on the top one. Grit dragged under his skin. Another boom rolled across the range. Dust lifted again. He blinked against it and kept going.
…
Tommy dropped onto an overturned crate, knees wide, his MRE braced on his thigh. The wood creaked under his weight. He tore the pouch open and leaned over it, keeping the food close so it didn’t spill into the dust.
Ricks sat across from him, elbows on his knees, an energy drink sweating in his hand. Kelly was to Tommy’s right, pouch open, working the heater packet with calm fingers. Charles leaned back against another crate, boots stretched out, chewing slow, eyes half-lidded.
A boom rolled in from the line, distant but still heavy. The crates vibrated, then settled. Someone farther off laughed once and got swallowed by the range again.
Ricks ripped a packet open with his teeth and spit the corner to the side. He took a sip from the can and said, “Y’all heard?”
Charles tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. He shifted his boot and the crate scraped once under him. “Heard what?”
Tommy stabbed at his tray with the spork. The plastic flexed, then snapped back. He swallowed a mouthful that tasted mostly of salt and heat, then gestured at Kelly with the spork. “Alex is getting married.”
Charles turned his head toward Kelly and let out a laugh, quick and sharp. “No, shit? I thought you ain’t trust her like that.”
Kelly shrugged, shoulders rising and falling like it didn’t cost him anything. He shook his pouch once, mixing it, then said, “Can’t be scared all your life or some shit my pops told me.”
Ricks took a longer swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned forward with a grin. “Just gotta do like Matthews and put three or four kids in her. She ain’t going nowhere then, right, T?”
Tommy shook his head as the others laughed. He kept his eyes on his food and kept the spork moving, steady.
He swallowed, then lifted his eyes over the top of the pouch and said, “Really just gotta make sure that she doesn’t spend too much time around the brothers.”
He flicked the spork toward Ricks, then toward Charles, the gesture small but pointed.
Charles spread his hands, palms out, laughing again. “I ain’t know you were MAGA, T.”
Tommy snorted a laugh, short, and leaned forward a fraction. His forearms rested on his thighs. The spork stayed in his hand. “When it comes to my wife, I’m Nathan Bedford Forrest, motherfucker.”
The group laughed again as they continued eating.
~~~
Caine stood, pulling on a pair of basketball shorts. The room still held that warm, used heat from two bodies and a window unit that never caught up. A fan somewhere in the suite clicked on its wobble. Outside the thin glass, campus noise drifted in soft and regular, shoes on concrete, a door down the hall shutting too hard, somebody laughing and then moving away.He found his slides and shoved his feet into them one at a time. His shirt was on the floor by the desk chair, half under a notebook and a tangled charger. He bent, picked it up, shook it once, and the cotton fell back into shape.
Lizzie lay on her back with the sheet pulled up to her waist. Her hair was a mess on the pillow. She just watched him get dressed, eyes following his hands and the slow, practiced way he moved through it.
“Am I gonna see you again?” she asked.
Caine’s mouth lifted as he brought the shirt up and pulled it over his head. The collar caught on his ears for a second before it dropped into place. “Yeah, love. Of course. We go to the same school.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes and shifted onto her side, elbow digging into the mattress as she propped herself up. “You know what I mean.”
Caine crossed the small space between the bed and the door. His phone sat face down on the dresser beside a bottle of lotion and a little stack of hair ties. He leaned down over the bed, one hand braced on the mattress near her hip. He kissed her once, and when he pulled back he kept his voice low. “Tomorrow.”
She smiled and nodded once, small. Caine straightened, grabbed his keys from the desk, and slid them into his pocket.
He stepped into the hallway and let the door ease shut behind him. The dorm air hit different out there, cooler and stale, the kind of cold that came from overworked AC and too many bodies living on the same floor. Somewhere down the hall, a shower ran, water hissing against tile. A TV played through a wall, bass low and steady, a laugh track muffled into noise.
Caine walked with his shoulders loose, pace easy. He moved toward the elevator as a couple girls came out of the stairwell, arms full of laundry and plastic hangers.
The elevator took its time coming up and even longer going down. When he reached the lobby, he could smell the cheap cleaner that he’d grown to hate in the dorms. It reminded him of jail.
He pushed through the doors, heat met him right away, thick and flat. The campus around him moved with its own rhythm, students cutting across grass, the sound of sneakers scuffing along the sidewalk. A maintenance cart rolled by with a slow beep.
A car slowed behind him. Tires whispered over pavement. The sound came close for a few seconds, matching his pace, then a window motor whined and glass dropped.
“Hey!” a man called.
Caine turned his head and saw Derrick McCray’s silver Lexus riding the curb lane beside him, moving slow. McCray leaned over the center console with one arm draped casually on the door, face amused.
“I thought you got yourself a new car,” McCray said, eyebrows lifting. “Why are you walking, kid?”
Caine kept his stride even, eyes on McCray, then flicked a look ahead to make sure he wasn’t about to step into somebody’s path. “Ain’t no reason to burn gas to drive down the road.”
McCray laughed, the sound easy, and the Lexus crept along like it was built for this exact kind of conversation. “Frugal,” he said. He nodded toward the direction Caine was headed. “Where are you headed? Lifting today?”
Caine tipped his chin once. “Yeah, that time of year again.”
McCray made a little circle with his hand, a gesture toward the passenger door. “Hop in. I’ll take you.”
Caine shrugged, stepped off the sidewalk to the curb, and walked around the front of the Lexus. The hood reflected the sun in a hard sheet. He pulled the passenger handle, slid in, and shut the door with a solid thunk.
The inside smelled like leather and something clean that wasn’t a spray. The air was cool enough to raise goosebumps on his arms for a second. McCray eased back onto the road and let the car pick up a little speed.
McCray glanced over at him, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console. “How’s that money been treating you?”
Caine leaned back in the seat, knee angled out. He looked out through the windshield at the stretch of campus ahead, then back to McCray. “More money than I know what to do with.”
McCray laughed again, shaking his head. “I think a lot of people don’t realize how low the money to get there really is,” he said. The car rolled past a crosswalk, past a cluster of students waiting for the light. “Quarter of a million bucks? When everything’s paid for? Almost fuck you money.”
Caine shook his head slowly, lips pressing together for a beat before he let them part. “It’s a fuck ton of zeros from that.”
McCray’s eyes stayed on the road, but his smile twitched. The Lexus turned into a quieter drive, trees throwing broken shade across the dashboard. “You start thinking about what’s next?” he asked. “After this season?”
Caine rolled one shoulder, the movement small. His gaze dropped to his hands, then lifted back up. “With the way I came up, I’m always thinking about what’s next.”
McCray nodded. His fingers tapped once on the wheel, then stilled. “You need an agent, kid,” he said. “That’s step one. I got a frat bro, in the same space, sports dev. He’s out in Los Angeles. I can put you in touch.”
Caine turned his head toward the window, watching the campus slide by in pieces, brick, banners, a kid on a bike swerving around a pothole. He looked back at McCray, mouth pulling into a grin. “How you end up in fucking South Georgia if you got connections in LA?”
McCray laughed loud, shoulders lifting with it, then settling back down. “My wife’s a country girl and she wanted to live in the country. And if there’s any advice you take from me, kid, it’s don’t piss off the wife.”
The Lexus slowed as they came up on the athletics facility. McCray signaled and swung into a spot out front, nosing in clean between the lines.
The engine cut and the sudden quiet made the outside noise feel louder through the glass. Caine reached for the door handle, then paused, turning back to McCray. “Yeah,” he said. “Give your guy my info.”
McCray nodded. He grabbed his phone off the console and held it up between them in a quick, confirming flash. “I got you.”
Caine stepped out into the heat. McCray got out too, both of them closing their doors almost at the same time.
~~~
The heat sat in Trent’s backyard and stayed there. The grass thinned out toward the fence where the dirt showed through in dry patches. A cheap plastic lawn chair held Saul’s weight with a steady creak every time he shifted. Sweat gathered at the edge of his hairline and ran down the side of his face, leaving a damp track along his jaw.Trent worked the ball on a worn patch of concrete, bouncing it low so it snapped back up into his hand. The rhythm stayed steady. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound cut through the yard noise and came back with a faint echo off the back wall of the house. Javi sat on a stack of bricks near the corner, elbows on his knees, fingers laced, watching the ball more than Trent. The bricks pressed into the backs of his thighs. He adjusted once and settled again.
Saul leaned back until the chair flexed, his forearms resting on the arms, fingers tapping out a small impatient beat. He watched the ball hit the concrete again and again and felt his own annoyance rise with it.
“No matter how you try to put it, the NBA is fucking terrible to watch,” he said. “That’s why nobody go to Pelicans games.”
Trent let the ball bounce two more times, then caught it at his hip, palm spread across the rubber. He tilted his head, mouth tight. “People don’t go to them games because Zion ain’t never playing. That’s a whole different problem.”
Saul sat forward, chair legs scraping dirt. “That ain’t only a Pelicans thing, though.”
Javi’s mouth pulled into a grin. He rocked on the bricks once, the stack giving a soft click under his weight.
“They could get around that if they just put them pornstars he be fucking in the front row,” he said. He lifted his hands and made a row in the air, lining invisible women up. “Line them all up so the camera sees they fine asses.”
Trent’s face twisted. He rolled the ball in his hands, rubber squeaking under his palms. He sucked his teeth, long and loud, and cut his eyes at Javi. “All those women are like 50 years old.”
Javi shrugged, shoulders loose, palms up. “Older the berry, sweeter the juice.”
Saul let out a short sound and shook his head, the chair creaking with the motion. “That ain’t the saying.”
Footsteps scraped along the side of the house.
Kayjuan came around the corner first, Maine right behind him. Kayjuan walked with his shoulders open, chin up, arms swinging easy. Maine moved in his shadow with a heavier step and a flatter face, eyes forward, hands at his sides.
Saul’s stomach tightened. He stayed seated, spine straighter, hands gripping the chair arms.
Kayjuan smiled wide and opened his arms. “What’s good, lil’ nigga?” he said. “You move a few pounds and you out the game already?”
Saul’s jaw worked once. He gave Kayjuan a small shake of his head. “Nah, I just ain’t need any more money right now.”
Kayjuan’s smile held, but the air around it changed. He stepped closer, enough that Saul caught the clean bite of cologne cutting through sweat and dirt.
“That’s not how this work, motherfucker,” Kayjuan said. His tone stayed casual, almost bored. “You confusing this for when your ass be up on them roofs or something. This more like working at Target. You got a schedule.”
Saul’s eyes slid to Trent and Javi. Trent stood planted, both hands on the ball, elbows tight to his sides. Javi sat still on the bricks, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on Kayjuan’s chest instead of his face.
Trent tipped his chin toward the front yard. The gesture came quick and sharp. He kept his mouth closed.
Kayjuan waved a hand in the air. “Y’all wasting a nigga time,” he said. “I got twice as much in the truck for you to get off. But I ain’t gonna fuck you over and set you up to fail or nothing like that. You got two, three weeks this time.”
Saul’s fingers dug into the chair arms. He pulled a breath in through his nose and pushed it out slow. “Nah, I’m good.”
Maine’s head tilted a fraction. His voice came out low and steady. “Ain’t no ‘I’m good,’ no more, nigga.”
Saul’s mouth opened. His tongue hit the back of his teeth as he reached for the first word.
Kayjuan talked right over it, leaning in just enough to take up space. “If you want out, just give me my money back from the last run.”
Kayjuan turned his head toward Maine, eyebrows lifting. “How much was it? Like $2,500?”
Maine nodded. “Something like that.”
Saul’s face tightened. He sat up straighter, the chair legs grinding dirt again. “That’s how much the whole thing was,” he said. “Not how much you gave me.”
Kayjuan lifted both hands, palms out, a show of patience. “That’s the only number I know,” he said. “So, just give me back my $3,000 and we’ll call it square.”
Maine nodded with him, faster. “Square deal, nigga.”
Saul let out a long sigh that came out rough. He rubbed his thumb along the chair arm, grit catching under his nail. He looked from Kayjuan to Maine, then back again, trying to find where the conversation could turn. “How am I supposed to move twice as much?”
Kayjuan pointed with two fingers, straight across the yard. The gesture landed on Javi, then Trent, tagging them both. “You got two soldiers right there, player.”
Javi’s eyes widened for a beat. He swallowed and shifted on the bricks, the stack clicking again under him. Trent’s grip tightened on the ball until his knuckles stood out pale against his skin.
Kayjuan turned away from Saul and Maine followed, steps matching. They headed toward the front of the house with the same unbothered pace, carrying the assumption that Saul would get up and fall in behind them.
Saul stayed in the chair for a second, watching their backs disappear around the corner. The heat pressed harder in the pause.
He pushed up out of the chair, the plastic complaining loud, and stood there in the dirt. His gaze moved to Javi first. Javi stared back with his mouth tight, hands braced on his thighs.
Saul looked to Trent. Trent’s head shook once, short and hard. His voice came out flat, tired, and final.
“Now, you got us all in the shit.”
~~~
Mireya pulled a hoodie on, arms sliding through the sleeves fast. The fabric settled across her shoulders. She shook her hair free at the collar and pushed the hood back, so it sat flat between her shoulder blades. In the living room, a handful of older white men stood in a loose cluster with drinks in their hands. They laughed too loud, then talked over one another, then laughed again. Ice clicked in glasses.
Bianca sat on the counter with her back near the sink, phone in her hand, thumb moving. Her heels dangled off her wrist by their straps, replaced by a pair of slides. Her feet swung slow, toes flexing once, then relaxing. Her eyes stayed on the screen until the sound in the living room shifted in pitch, then her gaze lifted.
From down the hall, Jaslene’s voice carried in, soft and familiar. “¿Tienes todas tu mierda, mi amor?”
Mireya reached for a plastic bag on the counter. The thin plastic crackled loud when her fingers closed around it. Two tight rolls of money sat heavy at the bottom, stuffed down and cinched with rubber bands. She held the bag up at chest height. “Si, es aqui.”
Jaslene stepped into the kitchen and closed the last bit of space. Her arm wrapped around Mireya’s waist, hand settling at her hip. She leaned down close, cheek nearly brushing Mireya’s temple, voice aimed only for her. “I missed you last week, you know.”
Mireya snorted a laugh and tipped her head back enough to meet Jaslene’s eyes. “You mean because you had to have Diego keeping you company every night?”
Jaslene’s smile came quick. Her fingers tightened at Mireya’s waist, a small squeeze. “I like Diego, but when I wake up next to you, I know I don’t have to get the cologne smell out of my sheets.”
Mireya rolled her eyes. “Could be worse. Podría haber un gringo que no sepa cómo lavarse el trasero.”
Jaslene laughed, shoulders lifting with it. “No, no quiero gringos. Solo gente de color. Los gringos se olvidan de que nos colonizaron.”
A sound cut through the house from the side, footsteps coming fast around the corner. The living room laughter dropped out.
Alejandra stormed in dragging Sydney by the wrist, Sydney’s arm pulled straight, her body forced to keep pace. Sydney’s shoes scraped the floor as she stumbled, head down, hair falling forward. Alejandra’s grip stayed hard, knuckles pale, mouth already set.
Alejandra marched straight up to the men, finger up, eyes sharp. “Which one of you shorted her?”
One of the men lifted both hands, palms out, drink wobbling in his grip. He smiled anyway, lips wet from whatever he’d been drinking. “I spent all my time with Roulette. I only like the dark meat.”
The other men laughed, shoulders bouncing, cups sloshing. Bianca snorted a laugh.
Alejandra’s mouth pressed into a line. She took another step forward, chin lifted. “One of you motherfuckers owe her some money and you’re going to fucking give it to her.”
A second man waved his hand dismissively, wrist loose. “Get out of here before we call the cops on you.”
Alejandra snapped back, voice loud enough to fill the house. “Call the cops on some strippers you hired? We’ll be in there together, cabron.”
Sydney grabbed Alejandra’s arm with both hands, fingers digging in, tugging. “It’s okay. Really.”
Alejandra jerked her arm once, resetting her balance, eyes still on the men. “It’s not okay, because they short you then they think they can short all of us.”
The second man leaned forward a fraction, eyes flicking down Sydney’s body and back up to her face. He pointed toward the door with his cup. “Just run along now, girl. You’re no longer needed.”
Mireya stepped away from Jaslene. Her hand went into the front pocket of her hoodie. Bianca’s gaze snapped to Mireya. Jaslene’s eyes followed the movement at the same time. Bianca looked at Jaslene. Jaslene looked back. Both of them shook their heads and moved after Mireya.
Mireya walked into the living room, pace steady, shoulders loose. The men’s cluster tightened on instinct, then loosened as they edged back.
Mireya lifted the hand that wasn’t in her pocket and pointed at a man at the back of the group. “It was him. He was with her.”
The man held a hand up, palm out. His face shone with sweat and drink. “She wanted the coke. I’m not going to give her favors and money. Cocaine costs money.”
Alejandra looked back at Sydney. Sydney shrank back, shoulders curling in, eyes dropping to the floor.
Alejandra turned forward again, hands spreading as her voice rose. “No, it’s the principles of—”
A sharp metallic snap cut her off.
The switchblade sprang open.
Mireya stepped toward the men with the blade in her hand, metal catching the room light. “Give her her fucking money or I’m gonna start giving y’all more holes.”
The men stepped back as one. Shoes scraped on the floor. A knee bumped the coffee table and the bottle rattled.
The first man’s head whipped toward the one Mireya had pointed out. “I’m not trying to get stabbed by a fucking Mexican hooker tonight, John.”
John shook his head hard, throat working. He reached into his pocket with quick fingers, fumbling for folded bills. He pulled them out and held them at arm’s length, hand stiff.
Alejandra snatched the money out of his hand and turned. She shoved the bills into Sydney’s palm. Sydney’s fingers closed around it, knuckles tight, paper bending under her grip.
Alejandra looked at Mireya, eyes still hot, and spoke fast. “Vámonos antes de que llamen a la policía.”
The five women moved together toward the door. Alejandra kept one hand at Sydney’s back, steering her without slowing down.
Mireya stopped at the kitchen counter on the way out to grab her bag of money, The switchblade stayed open in her other hand, held low as she turned.
They walked down the block toward Bianca’s car parked off to the side. The AirBnB windows glowed behind them, bright squares against dark.
Mireya kept the knife in her hand until the house sat farther back. Her thumb pressed the blade. The metal folded into the handle with a dull click. She slipped it back into her hoodie pocket as they moved, the weight settling against her palm through the fabric for a second before she let it go.
Sydney drifted closer, breath catching at the top of her throat. She lifted her head toward Mireya, mouth opening as she reached for words. “Thanks for helping m—”
Mireya reached into her pocket and pulled the bills Alejandra had given Sydney right back out. She held them up in front of Sydney’s face, paper fluttering. “Tax for being a fucking junkie.”
Sydney froze, hands hovering near her stomach. Her eyes locked on the money. Her mouth stayed half open, then closed.
Mireya stepped past her and settled between Bianca and Jaslene. Jaslene’s arm slid around Mireya, light pressure at her waist as they kept walking.
Bianca turned her head, eyebrows high, grin wide. “Girl, I ain’t know you turned into a hood bitch overnight.”
Jaslene kept her chin lifted, eyes on Mireya, smile set. “She’s always been one.”
Mireya rolled her eyes as they kept walking.
