Don't Look A Gifted Horse In The Mouth
(SZN 1 , EPI 19)
By four in the morning, Los Angeles was starting to show signs of life. From high up in Trousdale Estates, specks of headlights moved through the lower parts of the city while the sky slowly changed color behind the hills. Beverly Hills itself was another story. Most of the houses around them were dark, the streets empty enough that a car passing every once in a while felt noticeable. Everybody inside the house was asleep, or they were supposed to be. Thanksgiving had gone better than Cortez expected. Beverly, followed by the cooks, had filled the long dining table with enough food for fourteen people and still somehow had leftovers. Neighbors stopped through with pies and containers, and Recks refused to let anybody leave without taking a plate or sitting down long enough to eat one.
Beverly, Evelyn and Robert spent most of the night still talking about way back when, future holiday trips and new ventures Robert was seeking out. Recks and Khyri handled the children between conversations. Taurie, Zarya and Zhuri were only on their second Thanksgiving and had spent enough of it being passed between relatives that they eventually gave up fighting sleep. Kairos stayed awake longer than everybody expected, but the food had eventually claimed him as the first victim knocked out.
Even Cortez and Lauri managed the night without another argument.
Lauri wasn’t openly angry anymore, but she kept her distance. At the table she spoke when somebody addressed her, laughed with Beverly, bothered Recks, helped with the younger kids and participated in everything except Cortez. The most conversation they had came when she needed him to pass something. A bowl, a serving spoon or napkins. It wasn’t hostility, but it was evident she was hurt. Cortez knew enough not to chase her around house demanding forgiveness after making her prove her innocence.
So he left her alone...
For the first time in months, Cortez slept without waking every hour, stressing over something mentally. Yet, his body still had other plans. By four, he was wide awake. He lay there for several minutes trying to convince himself that Thanksgiving break meant exactly that—a break. Coach Lloyd had told them to relax, recover and come back ready for Erasmus. Cortez’s body didn’t care what Coach Lloyd said. He had packed running shoes and workout clothes anyway. He dressed quietly, carrying his sneakers instead of wearing them so he wouldn’t stomp through the house before sunrise. He made it to the front door, eased it shut behind him and turned toward the driveway.
Somebody was already out there. Recks stood near the guardrail stretching. He had one leg extended, feet spread wide as he reached toward his toes, then switched sides without breaking rhythm.
Recks straightened when he heard the front door close, rolling his shoulders and looking over. "You're up early."
Cortez walked toward him carrying his shoes. "What? You think you're the only 'superstar' in the family that has to put in the work?"
He sat against the rail long enough to pull on both shoes, then stood and started loosening his legs.
"I couldn't sleep anymore, plus I don't want to be caught lacking with all that food we had yesterday inside me."
He caught one foot behind himself and stretched his quad, then switched. "You going for a morning run?"
"Correctamundo. Ain't no days off until the end of the season." Recks moved into a light jog in place.
"Figure I get a little sweat in before I head off to practice for morning shoot arounds."
Of course he had practice after this. Cortez had only been around Recks for a day and a half, but he was already noticing the difference between watching professional athletes and living around one.
On television, work existed in edited clips, weight room footage, warmups, practice shots with music underneath and two hours of 48 stretched minutes. At home, it meant 'rise & grind', even before the work it-self.
Recks looked him over. "You tryna keep pace? I'm kinda' intense with just warm-ups."
Cortez scoffed and bounced several times on the balls of his feet. "Intense is all I know. My football coach wouldn't accept anything less than intense."
He shook his arms loose. "I'll follow your lead."
Recks gave him a look that Cortez should’ve paid more attention to.
Then he started running with Cortez falling in beside him. The first stretch was easy enough with the cool air and empty roads. No pedestrians getting in the way, no intersections every block forcing them to stop. Cortez settled into a comfortable rhythm and figured Recks had exaggerated the whole intense-warmup thing because some professional athletes or body builders enjoyed making regular people feel lazy. The neighborhood rolled past in walls, gates and expensive homes mostly hidden from the street. Cortez barely looked at them after the first mile.
He focused on Recks, his pace, his breathing and his stride. The man ran the same way he seemed to do everything else: relaxed enough to make the work look lighter than it was.
Cortez kept up. Two miles went by, then three. The road started changing under him. Trousdale Estates didn’t care that Cortez could run twenty Bronx blocks without much trouble. New York gave him crowded sidewalks and crosswalks, traffic lights, delivery handlers that were unexplainably in the way. Even during a longer run, there was usually some forced pause where he had a few seconds to reset, but the hills gave him nothing. Somewhere along the way, the incline started collecting payment.
Cortez’s breathing got louder and his calves tightened. The easy conversation he had imagined having during the run never happened because oxygen had become too valuable to waste.
Recks started pulling ahead as if he had instant transmission. One moment he was a few feet away, you blink and he was then several feet further. Cortez looked up and saw the distance growing. That irritated him enough to straighten his posture and push through. His breathing had lost rhythm. Each inhale felt shorter than the last, and his footsteps had started landing harder than he wanted to acknowledge.
Recks heard it though. He eased his pace until Cortez caught him without making it obvious that he had done so.
"Welcome to the hills, G. Those New York blocks don't prepare you for these inclines." That grin made Cortez want to push him into somebody’s hedge.
Cortez tried to laugh. It came out closer to a cough.
"Yo man..." He dragged in air through his nose and immediately gave up on that strategy. "What madman drilled this kind of running into you? How far have we gone?"
Sweat had already soaked the front of his shirt as his chest rose and fell hard enough that speaking had become part of the workout.
Recks looked insultingly comfortable. "Man, you're the one who said intense is all you know. This is just a easy Friday in the hills." He matched Cortez’s struggling pace.
"You gotta learn how to breathe through. All that New York smog got you clogged up."
Cortez stared ahead before glancing at Recks. Recks returned the look.
"We're only about Five and a half miles in. We still got another half of mile and the sprint back to the driveway... And that's just phase one of the warm-up"
Cortez looked at him with words only his eyes could speak. For a second, he genuinely considered whether coming outside had been one of the gravest decisions he’d made since arriving in California.
"Phase one." Cortez murmured in disbelief while trying to remember whether the house had an elevator because stairs might become a problem later.
He rolled his shoulders back. "...Fuck it, let's get after it."
There wasn’t anything else useful to say.
Recks grinned. "That's what I'm talking about! Dig in!"
Recks accelerated. Not enough to leave Cortez behind immediately, but also to make him work.
Cortez followed. His feet started feeling heavier against the pavement. He shortened his stride for several steps, found a better rhythm and focused on Recks’ back instead of the incline.
"Keep those shoulders down, G! Don't let your feet tell your brain when to stop!"
Cortez dropped his shoulders, breathed and kept moving. Football had conditioned him differently. He needed enough wind to survive a drive, scramble out of the pocket, reset and do it again. His training revolved around bursts, footwork, explosiveness, strength and recovery between plays. Nobody needed a quarterback running thirteen miles on spaghetti noodles, but that wasn’t the point anymore. Recks wasn’t training him to become a distance runner, just to see if he had something in him. Meanwhile, Cortez was finding a limit, and that bothered him much more than the soreness. He had spent senior year becoming accustomed to being the best athlete in most rooms he entered. Even when somebody was faster or stronger in one category, Cortez could usually hang close enough that the gap didn’t feel insulting.
This was different.
Recks was doing this casually. A professional athlete had another floor entirely. Cortez pushed harder nonetheless. The promised half mile somehow became a full one. By the time Recks finally slowed to a stop, Cortez’s body wanted to negotiate its surrender separately from his pride. He bent over immediately, his hands on his knees, sweat dropped from his face onto the pavement. His calves felt loose and useless.
Recks reached over, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him upright. "Look at you, sweating harder than a Mike Cakez skit"
Cortez didn’t have enough oxygen to insult him properly.
Recks moved behind him and pressed both hands against his shoulder blades, forcing his posture open.
"Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Expand the ribs. That's how you keep the oxygen flowing."
Cortez followed the instruction. The first breath felt terrible, following the next few. He kept going until his chest felt slightly better and stopped fighting him.
Recks stepped back, looking at Cortez. The man was sweating, but only enough to prove he had been exercising. Cortez looked like somebody had sprayed him with a hose.
"See? The mental part is what kills most people."
Cortez shook his head. "This isn't even a full day, and I can already see your work ethic is a sickness!"
His breathing was finally starting to settle. "And you got practice?"
Recks nodded as though there were no problem with that information.
"I don't know how you do it."
"This is just the rent you pay to stay at the top."
Recks wiped his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. "The moment you think you've done enough is the moment someone younger and hungrier takes your spot. That's the game... Be glad you're running with me and not Khyri."
Cortez slowly turned his head. He looked at Recks as though the last part had personally offended him.
"Khyri was worse?"
The woman had been wrapped in a blanket beside the pool the night before looking half asleep while discussing family issues wrapped in a pretty red bow tagged as 'long-distance relationships'.
And she was worse than his own cousin.
Cortez lifted both hands. "Yeah, y'all different out here. I'm kinda not regretting cancelling my campus visit at USC."
Recks’ expression changed immediately. "Wait, hold up. USC?"
Cortez should’ve known the comment wouldn’t slide past him.
Recks studied him. "You're telling me you had a visit lined up for the Trojans and you just... scrapped it? What happened there, man? That's one of the best programs in the country."
Cortez wiped sweat from his forehead with his wrist. "I was gonna go, but they got an away game tomorrow against UCLA."
His heartbeat was still heavy but no longer trying to escape his chest. "I knew it was a road game, but I guess I got caught up in the excitement that it didn't translate in my mind."
He had spent so much time thinking about California as one giant trip that the logistics had blurred together.
Thanksgiving, meeting and spending time with new family, the USC campus tour and the PSAL championship game among others. The visit sounded good until he actually looked at the schedule again and realized the part he wanted most wouldn’t really be there.
"I'm sure the visit would still be cool, but I was looking forward to getting a feel of the coaches there."
Recks shook his head. "Man, you gotta lock in. Can't be letting a away game cloud your judgment and derail you when you're dealing with business."
The joking disappeared from his voice. Recks had spent the morning run being his cousin, now the professional athlete with guidance had showed up.
"Look, don't just throw that opportunity in the trash." Recks checked his watch. It was barely after five.
"Call 'em back when school opens up. Tell them you had a family emergency—which technically ain't a lie since you're here with us—and schedule an unofficial visit."
Recks patted his shoulder. "I'll take you there myself."
Cortez cut his eyes toward him. "Really?" The offer caught him more off guard than it probably should have.
"Nah man, it's cool fam. You got your practice and business to handle, I'm not trying to intervene."
"Intervene? Man, stop trippin'. My whole life is business, but family always comes first."
Recks shifted his weight and looked directly at him. "Don't stress on it, kid, I got you. I wouldn't mind paying my old stomping grounds a visit."
Recks was already calculating the rest of his day.
"I'm done with shoot-arounds by noon. Lock in and we'll ride out."
Cortez nodded, then he stepped forward and pulled Recks into a quick bro-hug. "Aight, bet. Say less. I'll lock in."
The USC visit had been something Cortez was prepared to let disappear. Not because he didn’t respect the school, but because the timing wasn’t perfect. The coaches wouldn’t be there the way he wanted. USC had business to handle with UCLA, so canceling had felt easier. Recks had just made easy sound stupid. USC had seen the tapes and were looking forward to having Cortez among the visiting prospects. He was in Los Angeles and had nearly thrown the invitation away because the circumstances didn’t match the version he imagined.
Coach Lloyd’s three jerseys came back to him: Purdue. North Carolina. Maryland. Three opened doors. No door closed unless Cortez closed it himself. Funny how quickly a lesson could become inconvenient once it required effort.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Recks had allowed Cortez more rest than he originally intended. Cortez knew it too. His breathing had settled. His legs still felt heavy, but not heavy enough to continue.
Recks checked his watch again. The sky had changed while they rested. Blue had started bleeding into the darkness above Los Angeles, enough light creeping across the hills to expose details that had been hidden on the way out.
"Break's over, G. We're burning daylight."
He leaned forward and started moving before Cortez had fully processed that the punishment was continuing. "Remember what I said about that breathing—keep it in rhythm. Don't let your legs get from under you on the way back. Let's pick up the pace!"
Cortez stared after him. Realizing six and a half miles back was more than he wanted to chew off.
"Phase one." Cortez murmured again.
He dragged a hand down his face and started jogging. Recks kept the pace uncomfortable without making it impossible. Every time Cortez settled into something that felt manageable, the gap ahead threatened to stretch.
So he adjusted.
The championship game still waiting in New York. Erasmus was undefeated and likely to be the proving grounds for the star quarterback. Ohio State, Oregon and Notre Dame were still sitting at the top of his list, waiting to him to close two doors and walk through one. But USC had wedged itself between doors. A door he had almost closed was open again, all because he happened to walk outside at four in the morning as opportunity met preparation.
Recks looked over his shoulder once, checking where Cortez was. Satisfied knowing he was keeping up, he faced forward again.
"My cousin, next in line to be Trojan? That'll be something to see..."
