Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

Keshawn "Press Square" Chase

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 17
The apartment was nicer than anything Charlene had expected. Two bedrooms. Clean carpet. Windows that actually opened and closed properly. The kind of place where you didn’t have to check for roaches before putting your groceries away or worry about what sounds might wake you up at three in the morning.

“This is the last one,” Vic said, setting the box down in what would be Little Malc’s room.

Charlene stood in the middle of the living room with Malc on her hip, turning slowly to take it all in.

“You sure this the right one?” she looked around. "For thirteen hundred?"

“I don’t understand it either,” Vic shrugged. "But it’s just like that for mine too. I think these white folks are just taking a gamble on Keshawn, you know? They realize he could be a four hundred million dollar nigga and what’s a couple apartments here and there in exchange for having a nigga like that be cool with you?"

Charlene laughed, the sound breaking whatever tension had been building. “Man, I was fucking the wrong nigga in your family."

“You crazy,” Vic shook his head.

“I’m serious though,” Charlene’s expression shifted. “Thank you, Vic. For real. And tell Keshawn thank you too. This is... this is everything.”

“You can repay Keshawn by keeping this spot clean,” Vic said, his tone casual but pointed. “No complaints from the neighbors. And don’t bring any dope smoking gangbanging ass niggas around here either.”

The words landed exactly how he meant them to. Charlene’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing slightly before she looked away.

“I’m serious, Charlene,” Vic continued. “This is a good opportunity. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I’m not trying to fuck it up,” she said. “And that was... that was a mistake. A moment of weakness or whatever.”

“I’m not judging you,” Vic shrugged. “I’m just saying. This could be good for Lil Malc, really good. Like life changing good."

“You think I don’t know that?” Charlene set Malc down, watching as he immediately toddled toward the window. “Everything I do is for him. Everything.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” She turned to face him fully now. “Because it sounds like you’re trying to lecture me about making good choices when I’ve been doing that shit by myself for years.”

Vic held up his hands. “I’m not trying to come at you like that.”

“Then how are you trying to come at me?” Charlene crossed her arms.

The apartment felt smaller suddenly, the afternoon light not quite as forgiving.

“I’m not judging you,” Vic said again, quieter this time. “I’m just trying to look out for you. And for him.”

Charlene’s shoulders dropped slightly, some of the fight going out of her. She moved to the couch, sitting down heavily, her hands clasped between her knees.

Vic stayed standing, giving her space to talk.

“Trey’s always picked the streets over us,” Charlene continued, her eyes on Malc. “Always."

“He’s locked up,” Vic said, though he wasn’t sure if he was defending his brother or just stating facts.

“He was locked up before he got locked up,” Charlene looked at him now. “You know what I mean? He was always going to get locked up doing the shit that he was doing. The shit that he wants to do."

Vic didn’t have a response for that.

“And that thing with Stacks,” Charlene shook her head. “That wasn’t about wanting to be with him. That was about being so tired of being alone that even bad company felt better than no company.”

“I get it,” Vic said.

“Do you?” Charlene’s voice carried something between a challenge and genuine curiosity. “I know you and that girl ain’t exactly the Huxtables but it’s better than this shit."

Malc had moved away from the window now, finding one of the boxes Vic had brought in earlier. He was trying to climb on top of it, his little legs working hard.

“Don’t do what Trey did,” Charlene said, her voice quiet but firm. “Don’t pick anything over that little girl. Not your pride, not your ego, not some idea of what you think your life should look like. Just show up. Be there. That’s all we ever wanted from Trey. That’s all any woman wants from the father of her child.”

Vic moved to sit on the arm of the couch, his eyes on Malc, who had successfully climbed onto the box.

“Once a woman realizes she can’t rely on a man,” Charlene continued, “No amount of love can overcome that. You hear me? It doesn’t matter how much she loves you, how much history y’all got, how good things were before. Once that trust is gone, once she knows she’s on her own, that’s it. There’s no coming back from that.”

“I hear you,” Vic said.

…

DJ pulled into the gravel lot, the tires crunching over loose stones as he eased into a spot near the entrance. The pawn shop sat between a laundromat and a check-cashing place, its windows cluttered with guitars, power tools, and jewelry displayed on faded velvet. Nearly an hour outside the city, not taking any chances.

The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside. Behind the counter, Bernie looked up from his phone, his reading glasses sliding down his nose.

“There he is,” Bernie said, setting the phone down. “Been a minute.”

DJ moved to the counter, pulling out the velvet pouch, emptying its contents onto the glass counter. Two chains. A watch. Three rings. Bernie picked up the first chain, examining it.

“Nice pieces,” Bernie said, turning the chain over in his hands. “Real nice.”

DJ leaned against the counter as Bernie worked through each piece methodically, testing, weighing, calculating in his head. The silence between them was comfortable, broken only by the occasional comment about quality or condition.

“That’s the last of it?” Bernie finally asked, looking up from the pieces.

DJ just smirked, his eyes meeting Bernie’s for a beat before he looked away.

Bernie chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled out his cash box. “Alright then.”

The counting took a minute. He stacked them in neat piles, organizing them by denomination before sliding them across the counter. DJ counted it himself then folded the bills and tucked them into his front pocket.

“Appreciate you,” DJ said, already turning toward the door.

“I thought you was out the game, young’in?” Bernie’s voice carried across the shop, casual, almost amused.

DJ didn’t turn back, his hand already on the door handle. “Well, I ain’t, motherfucker.”

…

The Ritz-Carlton lobby buzzed with NBA players, executives, and people who wanted to be seen near both. Keshawn moved through the crowd, his credential hanging around his neck, nodding at faces he recognized but not stopping to talk. The corporate event had run long, some tech company trying to pitch an app he’d never use, and all he wanted now was to get back to his room and decompress before the next event.

He spotted her near the elevators before she saw him. He figured she would be in town for the weekend like every other artist but thought the craziness of it all would perhaps stop them from crossing paths. She stood with her phone in one hand, scrolling through something, wearing all black with a gold necklace that did the heavy lifting of helping her standout. Her hair was different from the last time he’d seen her, shorter, styled in a way that made her look older or maybe just tired.

Their eyes met before either of them could pretend they hadn’t seen the other.

“Hey,” Keshawn said, closing the distance because turning away felt worse.

“Hey,” Candace tucked her phone into her purse, her expression guarded. “Didn’t know you were staying here.”

“Yeah,” Keshawn shrugged. “Most of the events are around here."

“Right.”

The elevator dinged behind her but neither of them moved toward it. People flowed around them, conversations filling the space between words they weren’t saying.

“Look,” Candace started, her hands moving to her hips then dropping back to her sides. “About what I said. Calling you what I called you…"

"The whole bitch ass nigga thing?” Keshawn couldn’t help but laugh, the sound surprising both of them. She laughed too, hers a bit shorter.

“I’m being serious,” Candace said, but a smile was still fighting its way onto her face.

“I know you are,” Keshawn said, still smiling. “But maybe you got a point.”

“Maybe?”

“Alright, you definitely got a point.”

Candace’s smile broke through fully nown. “Well, I shouldn’t have said it like that. Regardless of... everything.”

“It’s cool,” Keshawn said. “We both said some shit we probably shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah.”

Another elevator arrived, doors opening to reveal an empty car. Candace glanced at it, then back at him.

“I should—“ she gestured toward the elevator.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

She moved past him, her perfume hitting him as she walked by, the same one he liked. Keshawn watched her step into the elevator, watched her turn around to face the doors.

“Take care of yourself, Keshawn,” she said.

“You too.”

…

Keshawn had sat through three panels, two meet-and-greets, and a dinner where he’d barely touched his food, nodding along while executives talked about brand synergy and market positioning like he gave a fuck.

Now, standing in the lobby in his black button-up and dark jeans, chain back around his neck, watch on his wrist, he felt like himself again. The Uber pulled up to a building that didn’t look like much from the outside. No line. No velvet ropes. Just a door with a small sign that read “Azure” in blue neon.

Inside, the music hit him first. Not the overwhelming bass of a club but something smoother, something you could actually talk over. The space was intimate, tables scattered around a small dance floor, a bar along one wall with bottles that probably cost more than most people’s rent.

He spotted Michael’s table in the back, elevated slightly, and started making his way through the crowd. That’s when he saw her.

Gloria sat next to Karim, both of them laughing about something, her hand on his arm in that casual way that probably meant nothing. He hadn’t seen her in a while, not since that nightclub a few months ago and before that, probably close to a year.

“There he is!” Michael stood up as Keshawn approached, that grin already on his face. “Told you I had a surprise.”

Keshawn’s eyes moved from Gloria to Michael, his brain trying to catch up.

“I thought you didn’t care if I smash?” Michael whispered to him with a smirk, noticing the look on his face.

Keshawn’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before he forced himself to laugh it off. “Do what you want, bro.”

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you,” Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “Besides, you need to be worried about Karim and that Brazilian accent. That’s your real competition.”

Gloria finally glanced over and met Keshawn’s eyes as she stood up, and before Keshawn could say anything, she was wrapping her arms around him, pulling him into a hug that lasted longer than he expected.

“Congratulations,” she said, pulling back but keeping her hands on his arms. "You were fucking awesome last night."

“Thanks,” Keshawn managed, trying to ignore how Michael was watching them with that knowing smirk.

“Yeah, man,” Karim stood up too, his accent thick and warm. “You really busted in my ass out there.”

The table went silent for half a second before everyone burst out laughing. Karim’s face showed confusion, then understanding, then embarrassment.

“That’s not right, is it?” Karim said, laughing too now.

“You kicked my ass,” Michael said between laughs. “Or busted my ass. Not busted in.”

“Ah, fuck,” Karim shook his head. “English is stupid.”

Keshawn settled into the booth, Gloria on one side, Karim on the other, and let himself sink into it. The music shifted to something with more energy, and people started moving toward the dance floor. Bottles appeared and disappeared. Conversations overlapped and split off into smaller ones. Karim talked about his first All-Star weekend, how different America was from Brazil and his two years in Europe.

Keshawn found his rhythm, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. He wasn’t thinking about Candace, that awkward interaction that was supposed to be closure but yet felt incomplete, inadequate.

The night stretched on. People came and went from their section. Michael disappeared for a while with someone Keshawn didn’t recognize. Karim got pulled away by some other players he had met over the weekend. And then it was just Keshawn and Gloria, sitting in a quieter corner of the lounge where the music wasn’t as loud.

“Did you ever imagine this?” Gloria asked. “Like, all of this?”

Keshawn looked around the lounge. “I guess. At some point."

“That’s a lie,” Gloria smiled. “You definitely knew."

“Maybe,” Keshawn admitted. “But imagining it and living it are different.”

“How so?”

Keshawn took a sip of his drink, buying time to figure out how to say what he was thinking. “I don’t know. It’s like, you think about making it to the league, you think about the money and the fame and all that. But you don’t think about the rest of it. The pressure. The expectations. The way people look at you different.”

“People always looked at you different,” Gloria said.

“Yeah, but that was different. That was basketball. This is... a lot more than that. Or it can be. Sometimes."

Gloria shifted closer, her shoulder touching his. “You’re handling it though. From what I can see.”

“I’m trying.”

“I think you’re doing more than trying."

The silence between them felt comfortable. He could feel the weight of her next to him, the warmth of her body, the way she wasn’t demanding anything from him except to be present.

“I’m happy for you,” Gloria said finally. “Really. All of this success, everything you’re doing. You deserve it.”

Keshawn didn’t respond, just let the words settle. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he didn’t check it.

Michael reappeared, moving toward their corner with that energy that meant he was about to suggest something. “Yo, we’re about to head to the afties. You coming?”

Keshawn shook his head. “Nah, I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Come on, man,” Michael said. “It’s All-Star weekend. You can’t be calling it quits already.”

“I’m done, for real.”

Michael studied him for a moment, then held up his hands. “Fair enough. Fair enough.”

He turned to Gloria, that grin back on his face. “What about you? You ready for the best night of your life to be over?”

Gloria’s smile was slow, deliberate. “Not yet.”

"That’s what I like to hear," Michael smirked, "Alright, we’re heading out in a few."

“Be careful,” Keshawn said as they stood up, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"That’s sweet," she smiled as she hugged him goodbye, "It was nice seeing you."

"I’m just saying," Keshawn shrugged, "All that glitters ain’t gold, you know?”

"Okay, Keshawn," she laughed as her watched her go, joining Michael’s group.

[Soapy]

2027 NBA All-Star Game - Footprints Center, Phoenix Arizona

---

WEST | 36 | 33 | 32 | 25 | 126
EAST | 17 | 34 | 25 | 30 | 106

Starting Lineups
Shai Gilgeous-Alexander - G - LaMelo Ball
Stephen Curry - G - Cade Cunningham
Anthony Edwards - F - Jaylen Brown
Victor Wembanyama - F - Giannis Antetokounmpo
Nikola Jokic - C - Evan Mobley



G Stephen Curry: 26 Pts, 4 Ast, 5 TO, 9-14 FG, 5-9 3PT
G Anthony Edwards: 18 Pts, 5 Ast, 7-12 FG, 1-4 3PT
F Keshawn Chase: 12 Pts, 2 Reb, 3 Ast, 5 TO, 5-9 FG, 0-1 3PT

C Evan Mobley: 28 Pts, 3 Reb, 2 Stl, 13-15 FG
F Giannis Antetokounmpo: 25 Pts, 16 Reb, 4 Ast, 4 Stl, 5 TO, 12-22 FG, 0-7 3PT
G Jalen Brunson: 16 Pts, 4 Ast, 6-13 FG, 3-5 3PT

[Captain Canada]

Five turnovers in the ASG

Now he wants to look after Gloria? Aight.

[Caesar]

Keshawn lucky he don’t play football with all these fumbles.

Gloria gonna be repeating what Karim said when 10 NBA negroes cracking.

[Soapy]

Five turnovers in the ASG

Now he wants to look after Gloria? Aight.

Keshawn lucky he don’t play football with all these fumbles.

Gloria gonna be repeating what Karim said when 10 NBA negroes cracking.

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 18
"I mean, what even is that?"

"It’s a dove."

"A dove?"

Keshawn laughed as he took another sip of his drink, it’s hefty price not helping it go down any smoother as it reached his empty stomach.

"A dove, boychik?" Bronstein leaned back in his chair, the ice in his glass clinking as he gestured at Keshawn's arm. "What's next? A butterfly? Maybe some flowers?"

"Come on, Coach."

"I'm serious," Bronstein took a sip of the Johnnie Walker Blue. "You got a whole safari going on there. Look at this: a compass, some fucking book probably about the secret of life, Africa. When did you become so philosophical?"

Keshawn rolled up his sleeve further as he inspected it himself. "They all mean something."

"I'm sure they do," Bronstein laughed, his eyes moving over the tattoos with what might have been approval. "I'll admit though, the work is clean. Really clean. Better than that garbage I've seen. You would think some of those guys spent some time in the joint."

I’ll take that as a compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head," Bronstein poured more whiskey into both their glasses, the bottle already half-empty. "You know what would look even better on you? Some defense. Maybe if you spent less time in the tattoo parlor and more time working on your footwork, Noa wouldn't have dropped thirty-five on your head."

Keshawn laughed, the sound genuine and loose. The whiskey was working. "I had forty-four that game."

"That’s a net of nine points. Nothing to brag about." Bronstein pointed at him with his glass. "And don't get me started on the All-Star game. Five turnovers? Five? What were you doing out there, playing hot potato?"

"That game doesn't even count. It’s an All-Star game!"

"Everything counts," Bronstein's tone shifted, a little more serious. "That's what separates the good ones from the great ones. The good ones turn it on when they feel like it. The great ones are great all the time."

Keshawn took another drink, letting the burn settle in his throat. The porch stretched out before them, overlooking the canyon, the Pacific visible in the distance where the sun was starting its descent. Inside, Nina moved through the kitchen, the sounds of cooking drifting through the open window with pots clanging, water running, the occasional hum of a song Keshawn couldn't quite make out but had heard her sing before.

This was the first time they'd shared a drink. Bronstein had waited until Keshawn turned twenty-one, made a point of it actually, texting him the day after his birthday to set this up during the All-Star break. The gesture meant something Keshawn couldn't quite articulate, but he felt it sitting there between them.

"You remember when you first showed up at Hamilton?" Bronstein asked, his eyes on the canyon. "Skinny as a rail. Soft as baby shit."

"I wasn't that soft."

"You absolutely were," Bronstein turned to look at him now, a smile playing at his lips. "I had to practically rebuild you from the ground up. You remember those sprints after practice? You were ready to quit."

"I never said I wanted to quit."

"You didn't have to say it. I could see it in your face," Bronstein's laugh was warm. "But you kept showing up. That's what I respected about you. Even when you were soft, even when you wanted to give up, you kept showing up."

"Had to," Keshawn said. "You would've killed me if I didn't."

"Damn right I would have."

They sat in silence for a moment, drinking, the easy quiet of people who'd known each other long enough that not every second needed to be filled. A bird called out from somewhere in the canyon, the sound echoing up to where they sat.

"You're still a bit tender though," Bronstein added, that teasing edge back in his voice. "All this success, all these tattoos, and you're still that same kid who cried when I yelled at him for taking a bad shot."

"I didn't cry."

"You absolutely cried."

"I had sweat in my eyes."

Bronstein's laugh exploded out of him. Keshawn couldn't help but join in, the two of them sitting there on the porch, laughing like idiots while Nina worked in the kitchen.

When the laughter finally subsided, Bronstein refilled their glasses again. The bottle was getting low now.

"I'm proud of you, boychik," Bronstein said quietly, not looking at him. "I always knew you could make it but holy shit, kid. You fucking did it."

The words made Keshawn uneasy. Bronstein wasn't a man who gave compliments easily.

"Thank you, Coach," Keshawn managed. "That means a lot."

"You're having a great year," Bronstein said. "Twenty-six points, eight assists, eleven rebounds. All-Star."

"But?"

"But your team is thirteen games under five hundred," Bronstein took another sip. "That's a problem."

Keshawn scoffed. "I lead the team in scoring, assists, and rebounds. What else do you want from me?"

"That's not leadership, boychik. That's stat padding. You need to be more than just the best player. You need to be the leader. There's a difference."

"I am the leader."

"No," Bronstein shook his head. "Dame is the leader. You're just the best player. I get that this is Lillard’s retirement tour and all the circus that comes with it but you can’t just sit around waiting for the old man to die off, farshteyn? You have to kill him. You have to take it. You can’t expect it to be handed to you."

Keshawn didn't respond, just took another drink, the whiskey burning less now.

"Those guys in that locker room, they're not going to respect you just because you can score," Bronstein continued. "They're going to respect you because you make them better. Because you hold them accountable. Because when shit gets hard, they look to you and they know you're going to have an answer."

"I try to do that."

"Trying isn't good enough," Bronstein fired back. "You need to actually do it. You need to be the one who calls out the bullshit when guys aren't working hard enough. That's what leadership looks like. I know you know that because I taught you that."

Keshawn stared out at the canyon, his excuses falling flat in his own thoughts. Dame was a Hall of Famer. He was just a second year player. They weren’t supposed to be good anyway.

"Once he's gone, those guys are going to test you," Bronstein said. "You think that kid, that point guard from the Wemby draft, isn’t going to want to step up and make it his team? Or that scorer y’all got, the kid from Kentucky? When the king dies, the princes fight for the throne. Even the bastard ones. You need to establish yourself now, while Dame's still there, so that when he leaves, there's no question about who's running that team."

Keshawn nodded slowly.

"So let me ask you something," Bronstein sat up in his seat. "How many of these guys you see sticking around?"

The question hung there. Keshawn thought about it, really thought about it, cycling through faces in the locker room.

"MPJ's solid," Keshawn said finally. "I like playing with him."

Bronstein scoffed. "Porter? That's who you're going with?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's not a serious basketball player," Bronstein said flatly. "And you need to surround yourself with serious people."

Keshawn took a sip of his drink. He thought about Atlanta, about the clubs, about missing flights and showing up to practice hungover. He thought about the bachelor pad Michael kept talking about getting, about the women, about the bottles, about everything that felt good in the moment but certainly didn’t help their cause when it came to winning games. Or feeling good about himself afterwards.

"You hearing me?" Bronstein's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Yeah," Keshawn said quietly. "I hear you."

The silence that followed felt heavier now, weighted with something neither of them was ready to name.

"You heard from Nadia?" Bronstein asked finally.

Keshawn set his glass down on the small table between them, buying himself a second to figure out how to answer.

"No," he said. "Not in a while."

"How long is a while?"

"I don't know. Six months? Maybe longer. Whenever was the last time we spoke about her."

Bronstein nodded slowly before taking another drink.

"Yeah," Bronstein said, the tenure of his voice doing the heavy lifting.

Keshawn didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. The sun continued its descent, the light shifting from gold to orange to something deeper. Nina's humming had stopped. The kitchen sounds had quieted. Just the two of them on the porch now, the canyon stretching out below.

The silence stretched. One minute. Two. Three. Keshawn counted them without meaning to, marked time by the ice melting in their glasses, by the way the shadows lengthened across the deck. Five minutes passed. Maybe more.

When Bronstein finally spoke again, his voice was thick, rough in a way Keshawn had never heard before.

"That's my biggest failure," Bronstein said, still staring out at the canyon. "Not the games I lost. Not the championships that got away. Not even my sons and God knows I failed them plenty."

Keshawn glanced over and saw it, the way Bronstein's eyes had gone glassy, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, fighting something back.

"She hates when I say it but it’s true, Zamir was lost from the moment he was born. We always knew it, always felt like whatever the worst case scenario was, he was going to be it. And Stewie," Bronstein continued, his words careful, measured, like he was trying to keep control. "He was just a dumb kid, you know? Just wanted to have fun. So that wasn’t a surprise either. That fucking DUI could've ruined his whole life. But he got it together. Turned himself around. Sure, he's coaching at fucking Hamilton, no disrespect, but he's coaching. He's working. He's sober. He's alive. That's not a failure. That's a success story, even if it's not the one I wanted."

Bronstein's hands gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white.

"But Nadia," his voice cracked slightly on her name. "I lost her. Completely. And I don't know how to get her back. I don't even know if I can get her back."

Keshawn felt himself shrinking into the chair, becoming smaller, quieter.

"You know what the worst part is?" Bronstein asked, though it wasn't really a question. "Even if I got another chance, even if I could somehow go back in time, I think I would still fuck it up."

Bronstein finally turned to look at Keshawn, his eyes red-rimmed but not crying, not yet.

"Zamir was a bad egg. He had something wrong with him. Up here." He tapped his temple. "Even when he was a kid, a baby, I could tell. He just never did anything, right, you know?"

Keshawn's throat felt tight. He picked up his glass but didn't drink.

"I don’t know, maybe if we took him to see somebody," Bronstein continued. "But I didn’t want that, we didn’t want. You don’t want that label on him. On your kid. On your family. I just thought I could fix it myself. Thought if I just pushed him hard enough, if I made him successful enough, if I gave him enough money, enough opportunities, it would all just go away. It would un-fuck his fucking brain."

The canyon stretched out below them, indifferent to the words being spoken.

"I was winning state titles at Mater Dei," Bronstein said. "Building a legacy. And I told myself I was doing it for my family. For my boys. But really I was just doing it for me. And when Zamir started showing more signs, when he'd call me in the middle of the night talking about things that didn't make sense, I'd just tell him to get some sleep. To pull himself together. I'd send him money and think that was enough."

Keshawn could feel his pulse in his ears. He knew where this was going. Had heard pieces of it over the years from Nadia back when they used to talk.

"An episode," Bronstein said, and now his voice was barely above a whisper. "That's what they called it, you know? An episode. Like it was a fucking TV show. Like it was something that would just end and everything would go back to normal."

Bronstein's hand shook as he lifted his glass, the ice rattling.

"He thought she was someone else. Something else. I don't even know what he thought. But he—" Bronstein's voice caught, his jaw working. "In their own house. Can you believe that?"

Keshawn wanted to look away, wanted to be anywhere else, but he couldn't move.

"If I had just—" Bronstein started, then stopped. "If I had just gotten him help. If I had just paid attention. If I had been a father instead of a fucking coach. But I was too busy. Too important. Too consumed with winning games that don't matter."

Bronstein's face crumpled for just a second before he caught himself, for the first time appearing to be the frail old man that he was.

"So when I tell you that Nadia is my biggest failure," Bronstein said, his eyes meeting Keshawn's, "I'm not just talking about losing touch with her. I'm talking about failing her when she needed me most. About failing her father. About failing her mother. About being so goddamn focused on the wrong things that I let my family fall apart."

Bronstein picked up his glass and drained what was left in one swallow. Then he reached for the bottle, pouring more, his hand steadier now, like the act of confession had cost him something but also freed something.

Keshawn opened his mouth but nothing came out. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that.

"That's the thing," he said. "The decisions you make, they don't just affect you in the moment. They ripple out. They compound. You surround yourself with the wrong people, make the wrong choices, prioritize the wrong things, and before you know it, you've built a life you don't recognize. A life where the people you love most won't even return your phone calls."

Keshawn nodded, his own glass forgotten now, his attention completely on Bronstein.

"You’re at that point now," Bronstein continued, his voice steadier. "You're young. Successful. Got money, fame, opportunities most people never dream of. And you're going to be faced with choices. Every single day. Who to trust. Who to cut off. What to prioritize. What to let go."

The canyon was almost completely in shadow now, the sun just a sliver on the horizon.

"Some of those choices are going to feel good in the moment," Bronstein said. "They're going to be easy. Fun. Exactly what you want to do. But you need to think beyond the moment. You need to think about who you want to be when all of this is over. When the basketball stops, when the money's been made, when the fame fades. You need to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and be proud of the path you took. Not the outcomes—you can't always control those. But the decisions. The effort. The integrity."

Keshawn's hands gripped his own glass now, his eyes on Bronstein's face.

"I can't look in the mirror without seeing Nadia's face," Bronstein said quietly. "Without seeing Zamir, his wife. All of it. Just fucking awful. I failed her. I failed him, in life and in death. That's going to haunt me for the rest of my life. Don't let that be you, boychik."

[Soapy]

Highlight Game: February 20th, 2027 - Moda Center, Portland, Oregon
(22-36) San Antonio Spurs at Portland Trail Blazers (23-32)

---

SAS | 25 | 14 | 28 | 27 | 94
POR | 34 | 36 | 19 | 22 | 111

Starting Lineups
De'Aaron Fox - G - Damian Lillard
Stephon Castle - G - Shaedon Sharpe
Devin Vassell - F - Deni Avdija
Tobias Harris - F - Michael Porter Jr.
Victor Wembanyama - C - Keshawn Chase



C Victor Wembanyama: 27 Pts, 17 Reb, 5 Ast, 3 Blk, 11-15 FG, 3-5 3PT
G De'Aaron Fox: 16 Pts, 4 Reb, 11 Ast, 3 Stl, 6-16 FG, 3-10 3PT
F Tobias Harris: 14 Pts, 6 Reb, 2 Stl, 6-16 FG, 0-3 3PT

G Damian Lillard: 20 Pts, 4 Ast, 7-14 FG, 5-11 3PT
G Shaedon Sharpe: 15 Pts, 9 Ast, 5-12 FG, 1-6 3PT
F Deni Avdija: 15 Pts, 12 Reb, 6-11 FG, 3-7 3PT
F Michael Porter Jr: 22 Pts, 4 Reb, 8-9 FG, 5-6 3PT
F Keshawn Chase: 30 Pts, 15 Reb, 11 Ast, 11-26 FG, 4-12 3PT, 4-5 FT

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(22-32) @ (26-29)

POR | 34 | 18 | 33 | 29 | 114
MIA | 18 | 24 | 22 | 28 | 92

POR F Keshawn Chase: 24 Pts, 13 Reb, 9 Ast, 2 Stl, 3 Blk, 6-11 FG, 12-13 FT
MIA G Dash Daniels: 27 Pts, 4 Reb, 4 Ast, 12-23 FG, 2-8 3PT

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(30-28) @ (23-33)

WAS | 22 | 23 | 46 | 34 | 14 | 139
POR | 34 | 34 | 26 | 31 | 12 | 137

WAS G Mikal Brown: 30 Pts, 4 Reb, 6 Ast, 13-28 FG, 4-10 3PT
POR F Keshawn Chase: 23 Pts, 12 Reb, 12 Ast, 5 Stl, 2 Blk, 10-23 FG, 0-2 3PT

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(23-34) @ (20-40)

POR | 20 | 14 | 40 | 20 | 94
NO | 23 | 21 | 37 | 49 | 130

POR F Keshawn Chase: 19 Pts, 10 Reb, 5 Ast, 3 Blk, 9-20 FG
NO G Dejounte Murray: 34 Pts, 9 Reb, 12-18 FG, 2-4 3PT, 8-9 FT

Upcoming Schedule vs. Atlanta Hawks (31-29)
Season Stats 25.2 PPG, 11.1 RPG, 8.3 APG, 1.4 SPG, 1.5 BPG, 2.7 TOPG, 49 FG%, 29 3PT%, 82 FT%

[Captain Canada]

All of a sudden, he's Mr. Triple Double huh. Dejounte put in on you tho, won't lie.

[Caesar]

Man talking about Esther like she gone to the upper room.

Best player on a terrible team. We don't respect that.