Caine had his overhead light on, the small circle of it falling across the tray table, the open journal and the backs of his hands where they rested on either side of the page. The cabin was dim around him, most of the team asleep or folded into their seats with headphones on, a few screens glowing blue down the aisle in both directions.
He uncapped the pen and set it against the paper.
Mija, one thing they never tell you about when you start getting any level of fame, start getting talked about by this person or that person that’s never met you, is how fucking weird it is to hear your name everywhere you go. But for me, it’s different than these other dudes playing football. I went from a name of a kid who was looking to survive, doing whatever I needed to, drugs, carjackings, stealing, whatever to a number. Two of them actually. Case number 2024-JV-4121 and inmate number 71182341.
His thumb moved along the edge of the page where the paper met the spine, the grit of the fibers catching against his skin. The hum of the engines shifted register for a beat as the plane adjusted, a slight tilt in the cabin that pressed his shoulder into the wall before it leveled. Across the aisle, Cam had his head back against the headrest, his mouth open, a blanket pulled up to his chest. Behind him, Kona and Zaire played something on a tablet propped between them, the sound off, their fingers tapping the screen in turns.
Caine looked back at the page.
Now, when people say my name. Your name, mija. It’s potential Heisman. Potential number one pick. Best this, best that. It’s got dollars and cents attached to it. But I ain’t never changed. I’m still inmate number 71182341. Still case number 2024-JV-4121. Even now, when I ain’t on probation anymore. My name has weight to it. A weight I can’t ever escape because I put a gun in people’s faces and told them to get their ass out of those cars. Weight from standing in a court room and hearing defendant Caine Guerra facing over 100 years behind bars.
He set the pen down, flexed his hand once and picked it back up.
I ask myself when I’m sitting in these fucking charter jets, flying all over the country, playing football in front of tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of people, living in a penthouse, does this USC quarterback Caine Guerra erase defendant Caine Guerra, erase inmate Caine Guerra otherwise known as inmate 71182341. Or if come December, when they hand me a trophy and I become Heisman winner Caine Guerra, am I still that kid sitting in adseg because I couldn’t let no one put pussy on my name and had to bat the piss out of them?
He lifted his eyes from the page. The window beside him held nothing but dark and the faint reflection of his overhead light against the outer pane, the shape of his hand and the pen blurred in it. Somewhere below them, the terrain had changed from the flat sprawl of the valley into what sat between Los Angeles and Oregon, but at altitude it was all the same black.
For some people, the answer always gonna be yeah, I’m that same motherfucker and I ain’t gonna be nothing else, nothing more.
He tapped the pen once against the margin and let the ink dot the paper.
But for you, mija, when you start doing great things and you introduce yourself as Camila Rosas Guerra, one thing they ain’t never going to be able to take from that name is that we’re survivors. Me and tu mama. We got it out the mud so you don’t have to. I put baggage on your last name and I’m sorry for that, but you will be the greatest of the best of us. I know that in my soul. As long as you never let anyone tell you what your name means. Never let anyone else define you.
He capped the pen and closed the journal, the cover pressing the pages flat, the pen rolling into the spine’s groove through the cover. He slid it off the tray table, folded the table back up and put the journal into the seat pocket in front of him, the spine catching once on the edge of the pocket before it settled. He reached up and turned the overhead light off.
He leaned his head against the window. The cold from the outer pane pressed into his temple through the plastic. Below, a scatter of lights sat in a cluster where a town held its shape against the ground, the glow of it small and isolated, the dark pressing in from every direction around it.
~~~
Camila had her fork in her fist and was working through the eggs on her plate in quick stabs, her feet swinging free under the chair. She talked between bites, the words running over each other, her fork pausing in the air each time she got to a part she needed both hands for, which was most of it. A boy in her class had brought a lizard to school in his backpack and it got out during circle time. The teacher screamed and Camila had to help catch it because nobody else would.
Mireya sat across from her with her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, smiling. She nodded when Camila looked at her for confirmation that this was as serious as it sounded. Camila took it as permission to keep going and did. The baby monitor sat between them on the table, the speaker playing its low hiss of static underneath Camila’s voice. Every few seconds a small sound came through it, Micaela shifting in her crib, a soft noise that could have been a breath or the beginning of a cry that never arrived.
Sena came down the stairs wrapping her hair up into a ponytail, her fingers pulling the length of it through the elastic in two passes. She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand as she crossed into the kitchen.
Mireya looked over at her, her smile pulling wider. Sena smiled back and walked past the table toward the counter.
Mireya nodded toward the stove. "There are more eggs there. Bacon, too."
Sena yawned with her hand covering her mouth, her eyes squeezing shut. "I’ll just make some coffee."
Camila’s nose scrunched. "Coffee’s nasty, Sena."
Sena’s smile came up at the corners. "You just got to get used to it."
Mireya leaned over to Camila. "She puts so much milk and creamer in it, that she’s not drinking coffee anymore."
Camila looked from Mireya to Sena and back, her fork still in the air, a piece of egg balanced on the tines. "Why not just drink milk? Milk’s good."
"So you’re not sleepy. You’ll find out when you get older and have to go to work."
Camila shook her head, the curls swinging across her forehead. "I’m not gonna be sleepy. I never get sleepy."
"I ain’t know I was raising Kevina Gates."
Sena snorted a laugh from the counter, her back to them, the coffee maker already pulled forward by its cord.
"Who’s that?" Camila asked.
Mireya smiled and ran her hand over Camila’s hair, her palm smoothing the curls back from her forehead. "Just a singer, baby." She nodded toward Camila’s plate. "¿Ya terminaste, mi amor?"
Camila nodded.
"Go upstairs and brush your teeth then."
Camila slid out of the chair, her feet hitting the floor, and walked out of the kitchen toward the staircase. Mireya called after her without turning her head. "Todos tus dientes, Camila."
Camila’s voice carried back from halfway up the stairs. "Okay, mami."
Her footsteps moved overhead, each one landing heavier than the last as she got closer to the top. A door opened then the faucet ran, the sounds filtering down through the ceiling in small muffled pieces.
Mireya looked over at Sena where she stood at the counter watching her mug fill, the coffee streaming thin and dark from the basket into the pot, her fingers resting on the edge of the mug she’d set on the counter beside it.
"You were talking in your sleep."
Sena looked over her shoulder. "Was I?"
Mireya nodded, her chin still in her hand, her elbow still on the table. "Talking about some dude named Ray."
Sena closed her eyes, her shoulders dropping with the exhale.
"You told your parents my name was Rey."
"How’d you figure that out?"
Mireya’s mouth pulled at one corner. "I know a thing or two about fake names, baby. I never would use that, though. Too close to my real name."
"Right." Sena turned back to the counter and pulled the carafe out, the coffee swirling dark against the glass as she poured. "I keep forgetting."
"Why were you talking to your parents about me?"
"To get my mom off my back about dating. But my fucking brothers brought it up in front of my dad."
"And what happened then?"
"My dad wants to meet Rey."
Mireya let her hand come down from her chin. She sat back in the chair, her arm resting along the table. "But you can’t do that because Rey is me and I’m a woman and you won’t come out to them."
Sena took a sip from her coffee. She set the mug down on the counter, her hand staying on it, her fingers wrapped around the ceramic.
Mireya pushed her chair back and stood, crossing the kitchen to where Sena stood, took the mug from Sena’s hand and set it down on the counter beside them. She put her hand on Sena’s cheek and kissed her. She pulled back and leaned her forehead against Sena’s, her hand still on her face, her thumb against Sena’s cheekbone.
"You sleep in my bed. You know my daughters. You know my darkest secrets. Yet you’re still ashamed of me."
"No, I’m not as—"
"I’m not going to force you to, but you have to decide eventually, Sena."
Mireya kissed her on the forehead. Her lips pressed flat against the skin above Sena’s brow before she pulled back. She dropped her hand from Sena’s face and walked out of the kitchen, her footsteps crossing the hardwood toward the staircase.
"Camila, voy a revisarte los dientes."
Sena stood at the counter and her hand found the mug again, lifting it to her mouth.
~~~
Ramon pulled up to the block and let the car idle for a beat before he killed the engine. He scanned the street through the windshield, his hand resting on the top of the steering wheel.
Shauntoine stood at the telephone pole with his shoulder against the wood, his arms crossed, his chin tipped up at a car rolling past on the cross street. Tee Phil had the fence, his weight leaning into the chain link, his phone out, his thumb moving across the screen in short pulls. A few of the other BGs were spread down the block in their usual positions, bodies loose, eyes working the traffic.
Ramon got out and shut the door behind him. He lifted his chin at both of them and motioned with two fingers, calling them over.
They jogged across the street toward him, Tee Phil pocketing his phone on the way, Shauntoine’s arms uncrossing as his stride opened up. They stopped in front of Ramon near the hood of his car, their sneakers scuffing the asphalt as they settled.
Shauntoine reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills and held it out to Ramon. "Business been good today, big brudda."
Ramon took it from him, his thumb running across the top bill once before he folded the roll into his back pocket and pressed it flat against the denim. "Good. We gonna need some money."
He looked between the two of them, his eyes moving from Shauntoine to Tee Phil and back. "I need y’all to do something for me, but I ain’t gonna lie to y’all. Shit ain’t gonna be easy and I need to know y’all ain’t gonna talk if you get your lil’ asses arrested."
Tee Phil’s hands went to the front pocket of his hoodie. "You paying or this an internship type thing?"
Shauntoine laughed, his head turning toward Tee Phil. "The fuck is an internship, nigga?"
Ramon’s mouth pulled flat. "Like a jo—" He stopped. "Nigga, ain’t y’all in fucking school?"
"Nah, I ain’t been to school in a lil’ minute," Shauntoine said.
"I can tell, nigga." Ramon shook his head, his hand coming up to rub the bridge of his nose before it dropped back to his side. "I need y’all to find a nigga named Jerron. Tall, lanky nigga. Lives out in LaPlace. Find him, get him to tell y’all who shot at Tyree then tell me what that nigga say."
Tee Phil shifted his weight, his shoulder pulling back a fraction. "Why would he know who shot at Tyree?"
"He an informant. I figure if anyone know it’s gonna be him. Nigga been singing to the people for years but he in too deep with the jakes so he think he untouchable. He used to be Melph but got run out that bitch. Got a little operation out there in the boonies, now."
Shauntoine’s chin came up. "I’m ’bout it if you paying."
"Two racks for both of y’all if y’all find him and get the information."
Tee Phil looked at Shauntoine. Shauntoine looked back at him. Tee Phil’s chin lifting a fraction, Shauntoine’s mouth pulling flat at one corner before it released.
"Shit, you ain’t saying nothing but a word, big brudda," Tee Phil said.
Ramon’s hand came out of his pocket and he pointed between them, his finger moving from one to the other. "Just make sure y’all asses don’t get fucking caught by the people. I’ll put money on your books if you do, but I’d rather not have to worry about y’all talking."
"You know we solid, man," Shauntoine said.
Ramon shook his head. "Y’all ain’t never been arrested. I don’t know shit." He looked between them. "Call me when y’all decide if y’all gonna do it or if I need to find someone else."
He turned and walked back to the driver’s side, his keys already in his hand by the time he reached the door. He opened it, dropped into the seat, and pulled it shut. He reached across and opened the glovebox, tossed the roll of bills inside on top of the registration and a box of ammunition that sat against the back of the compartment, and pushed it closed with the heel of his hand. He started the engine and pulled off from the curb, the tires rolling over the asphalt, the two of them still standing near where his car had been, their bodies turning to watch him go.
~~~
Mireya pulled her shirt over her head, her hair catching in the collar before she tugged it free and let it fall against her shoulders. She smoothed the fabric down over her stomach with both hands, her fingers pulling the hem where it had bunched at her hip. Across the room, Nathan had his back to her, pulling his jeans up from his ankles, his belt already threaded through the loops. He zipped them and turned around, reaching for his shirt where it hung off the back of the chair.
"I thought you were a lesbian because you’re always hugged up with Sena."
Mireya snorted a laugh. She stood up from the bed and grabbed her shorts from where they’d landed on the carpet near the foot of it, stepping into them and pulling them up over her hips in one motion. She gathered her hair off her neck with one hand and let it fall back. "You’d think that you were smart enough to know what the fuck a bi bitch was."
Nathan pulled the shirt over his head and worked his arms through the sleeves. "I didn’t get this far by making assumptions that I don’t have the information for."
Mireya crossed to the door and opened it a few inches, leaning her head through the gap into the hallway. The house was still around her. The air conditioner cycled its low hum through the walls. Down the hall, past the closed doors, the baby monitor in the master bedroom picked up Micaela’s breathing in its faint static rhythm.
"Worried about someone coming home unexpectedly?"
Mireya pulled her head back in and shook it. "Just trying to make sure that my kids are still sleeping so you can get the fuck out."
Nathan laughed, his hands smoothing down the front of his shirt. "So, you just called me over here, used me and now you’re kicking me out."
Mireya stepped out into the hall. "Exactly."
He shook his head, the corners of his mouth pulling up as he followed her out of the guest room and down the hall toward the staircase. Mireya pulled the guest room door shut behind them, her hand pressing flat against the wood for a second to ease it closed.
She took the stairs first, her hand trailing the banister, her feet bare on the wood, each step landing soft. Nathan came behind her, his sneakers in his hand, his socked feet finding the treads.
She crossed the foyer to the front door, turned the deadbolt, and pulled it open. She stepped to the side and held the door, the other arm gesturing toward the dark outside with a sweep that covered the porch and the walkway.
Nathan stopped in the doorway. He leaned his shoulder into the frame, his sneakers hanging from two fingers at his side. "We going to do this again?"
Mireya rested her hip against the edge of the open door, her arms crossing over her chest. "It wasn’t that good."
"That sounds like a bit of a lie to me."
Mireya tipped her chin up. "Believe me. I know what good dick feels like and what it doesn’t. You were a good five out of ten."
Nathan whistled. "That’s some cold ass shit."
Mireya shrugged. "I might call you to eat me out, though. We’ll see. Now, come on. I don’t have all night."
Nathan pushed off the doorframe and stepped onto the porch, dropping his sneakers on the concrete and working his feet into them. He turned back toward her. "You sure you—"
Mireya pushed the door shut. The frame caught the air and the slam carried through the foyer. She held still for a second, her hand flat against the wood, listening for any stirring from the rooms above then turned the deadbolt under her thumb.
She turned and walked back to the stairs, taking them up two at a time, her feet finding the same path she’d come down. She crossed the hall to the guest room and picked her phone up from the nightstand where she’d left it. She turned the screen over and thumbed it awake. Sena’s name sat at the top of the thread, the message timestamped five minutes ago.
Stopping to get food before I come back to the house. You want anything?
Mireya smiled, the corners of her mouth pulling up slow. Her thumb moved across the screen.
I’m good. Hurry back, baby.
~~~
Caine stood in the middle of his teammates on the sideline with his helmet in one hand =. The crowd at Autzen pressed its noise down from every side of the stadium, the sound thick enough to feel against his chest.
The lights overhead threw the field in a white wash that erased the shadows and made the green of the turf look synthetic. Across the field, the Oregon sideline moved in its own current of bodies and coaches pointing at clipboards.
Caine raised his voice over the noise. "These motherfuckers still doubting us! Still don’t think USC back! Still think that shit sweet! Motherfuckers saying we ain’t play nobody yet. This somebody across that field, huh?!"
Some of the players shouted yeah, the word coming from different points around him. Others nodded, mouthpieces clamped between teeth.
"But they gonna have to show me something! They gonna have to show me they ain’t no bitches! They gonna have to fucking show me ’cause I ain’t scared of no motherfucking Ducks!"
Another round of yeahs, louder this time, hands coming down on shoulder pads and the crowns of helmets, the sounds flat and sharp under the noise of the stadium.
"Tonight, we gonna show everyone in this motherfucking stadium, everyone in this motherfucking conference and everyone in this motherfucking country that the national championship runs, through motherfucking Los Angeles! Trojans on three! One, two, three!"
"TROJANS!"
The huddle broke. Bodies scattered toward the field, cleats tearing at the turf, helmets going on, chinstraps buckling. Caine pulled his helmet over his dreads and worked the chinstrap under his jaw with two fingers. He walked toward the field with his mouthpiece hanging from the cage.
but we know Caine gonna cape for her in the end 