Sara stood at the counter with one hand on the edge of the stove and the other wrapped around the coffee pot handle. The old machine hissed and clicked through its last drip. Steam lifted off the black surface in the glass carafe and slid into the heavy kitchen air.
The house moved around her. A drawer banged in the back bedroom. A toilet flushed. One of the little girls fussed when someone tried to drag a brush through her hair. A cartoon theme drifted from the front room. Morning had that crowded feel it always had in her mother’s house, too many bodies stacked on top of each other, not enough space to breathe.
She reached for the cabinet, pulled down two chipped mugs, and set them on the table. poured slow so it wouldn’t slosh on the tablecloth already stamped with old stains. The smell pushed past the bleach still hiding in the grout from last night’s mopping.
Footsteps came down the hall. Ximena stepped into the doorway, gray hair pulled back, apron already tied even though breakfast hadn’t started. She paused when she saw the full pot.
“Mmm,” she said. “Gracias, mija.”
Sara nodded, filling the older mug high. “Sit down before they drink it all,” she said.
Ximena moved to the table and lowered herself into the chair with a soft exhale. Sara poured her own and set the pot back on the warmer, metal ring clacking under the glass. She carried both mugs over and took the seat across from her.
They drank in silence. The only sounds in the kitchen came from the hum of the fridge, the tired sweep of the fan, the soft clink when Ximena stirred in sugar. Out in the rest of the house, life kept going. Hector’s voice rumbled once from down the hall, too low to catch. A door closed. Water ran somewhere. The kids’ voices rose and dipped, arguing over a toy, then dissolving into giggles when someone gave in.
Ximena wrapped both hands around her mug. “It’s good,” she said.
Sara tipped her own mug back and let the heat burn on the way down. It woke something sharper in her chest than sleep had managed. She pressed her heel against the floor to ease a calf cramp and listened to the house.
She was halfway through the cup when the tone in the hallway changed. Hector’s voice went up first, sharper, words in Spanish snapped hard enough that even without catching them all she heard the anger. Saul answered, lower but rising. The sound pushed at the walls.
Before Ximena could look up, something slammed. Wood against wall. The crash shook the doorway. A second later came the scuffle of feet, bodies hitting each other, something small skittering across tile.
Sara shoved back from the table, chair legs scraping loud. Coffee sloshed and burned the back of her hand when she set the mug down. She moved fast into the hall.
The narrow hallway was full. Hector had Saul shoved against the wall near the bedroom door, one hand in the front of his T-shirt. Saul’s arms were up over his head, forearms curled toward his face. His shoulders hunched as Hector swung. A picture frame lay face down on the floor, glass spidered. A toy truck sat on its side by Hector’s foot where someone had kicked it away.
Ada was further down the hall with two of the little girls pulled behind her hips, one arm spread to block them from the sight. One of the girls began to cry, thin and shaky, clinging to Ada’s shirt. Rosario was on the other side, voice low but firm as she guided the smallest boy back toward the front room. Their eyes were wide. None of them tried to speak.
Saul curled tighter, knees bending, body folding toward the tile as he tried to shield his ribs. Hector’s fist came down again in a short punch to his son’s side. The sound was dull and close.
“¿Mami?” the crying girl whimpered toward Ada.
“Go,” Rosario ordered, still herding the children. “Vayan a la sala. Ahora.”
“¡Basta ya!” Sara’s voice cut through everything.
Hector’s arm froze mid-swing. He turned his head toward her, chest heaving, sweat bright across his forehead. His grip on Saul’s shirt stayed tight. Saul’s breath rasped loud in the brief pause.
Hector jabbed a finger at Sara, knuckles red. “This is all your fault,” he said. “Tú y tu negrito.”
Heat crawled up her throat. Her hands balled without her telling them to. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
Ximena’s footsteps came quick on the tile. She slipped past Sara, her hand brushing her daughter’s arm, and planted herself between them and the violence.
“What’s the problem?” she asked.
Hector didn’t answer her. His eyes stayed on Sara as his fist dropped again, catching Saul in the shoulder. Saul flinched, arms folding tighter.
“Tell them,” Hector spat. “Diles lo estúpido que eres.”
Saul’s voice came out from behind his forearms, rough and low. “My girlfriend’s pregnant.”
Hector’s fist snapped down once more, knuckles thudding into Saul’s side. “¡Jodido idiota!”
Sara pressed her hand over her mouth.
Ximena’s eyes slipped shut. Her lips began to move, soft and steady, a prayer rolling into the charged hallway air.
~~~
Mireya pushed the door open with her hip, her bag slipping a little off her shoulder as she stepped into the suite, suitcase trailing behind her. Cold air rushed over her skin. For a second she just stood there, blinking at the space in front of her. The room opened wide, bigger than any place she’d ever slept in, with white walls, pale floors, and a wall of glass that pulled her eyes straight toward the light.
Everything looked soft or expensive or both. A long couch faced a huge TV mounted clean into the wall. A low marble table sat in front of it with a sculpted bowl placed just so in the center. Floor-to-ceiling curtains framed the sliding doors to the balcony, half pulled back to show the blue beyond it. Even the rug under her feet felt too nice to step on with shoes.
She walked deeper in, slow, her bag hitting her hip with each step. She didn’t touch anything at first. Her hands hung close to her sides while her eyes moved over the lines of the room. She’d only ever seen places like this through her phone: girls posing in robes with champagne, big windows behind them turning the whole room gold. Now she was in one of those rooms, and part of her ached to reach out and put her fingers on everything just to prove it was real. The other part was scared she’d break something by breathing too hard.
The bedroom sat open to the right, the bed enormous under a white duvet that looked thick enough to swallow her whole. A strip of sunlight cut across it through the glass. Another window in there looked out toward the water, everything bright and sharp in the distance.
She made her way past the bed, drawn toward the balcony. The air changed as soon as she slid the door open. Warm wind rolled in, carrying sunscreen and salt and something tropical from the beachside bars. She stepped barefoot onto the balcony. The railing was glass and steel, and beyond it the Atlantic spread out farther than she could take in at once.
She’d never seen water that blue. It hit her chest in a way she didn’t have words for. Boats moved across the surface in clean white lines. Umbrellas scattered the sand below. Music drifted up from the pool. A gull cut across the sky.
She closed her eyes. The wind lifted her hair off her neck and cooled her sweat. For the first time since the plane landed, she let herself breathe all the way in.
Behind her, the suite door opened again. Voices came in with it. Trell’s first. Low, easy, casual in a way that didn’t match the tension she still carried from the trip. A woman answered him. Mireya didn’t turn. Their conversation didn’t matter as much as the water in front of her, the wind pushing at her clothes, the sun catching on the glass tower across the street.
“Mireya.”
Trell’s voice reached her, muffled by the wind. She kept looking out at the ocean.
“Mireya.”
She still didn’t move.
“Mireya.”
The third time pulled her back. She turned her head, then her whole body, stepping inside and letting the door slide shut behind her.
Trell stood near the center of the room with a woman next to him. The woman’s eyes were already on Mireya, sharp and assessing. She stood with her weight on one hip, one hand hooked through a small purse strap. Her hair was slicked back tight.
“Mireya, this Cass,” Trell said. “Cass, Mireya.”
Mireya nodded once. “Hey.”
Her attention drifted again, tugged by the room itself—the soft throw across the couch, the minibar stocked with bottles she didn’t know the names of, the private pool down below that she’d seen in W South posts. Every corner of the suite looked unreal.
Cass didn’t miss that. “First time in a suite?” she asked.
Mireya lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
Cass’s mouth twitched but didn’t warm. “It’s something.”
Trell chuckled under his breath, watching both of them like he knew exactly what he’d just set in motion and didn’t mind it at all. Then he turned to Mireya, his tone shifting back to business.
“I’m gonna tell you what I need help with tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight we just chill.”
Mireya shrugged. “I’m just here. You tell me what you need me to do.”
Cass didn’t hide her reaction. She turned her head toward Trell, voice sharp. “Where you found this bitch? She green as fuck.”
Mireya snapped her eyes back to her. “Who are you calling a bitch?”
She took a step forward at the same time Cass tilted her chin, ready to meet her halfway. Trell moved slowly. He slid his arm across Mireya’s chest and nudged her back, holding her in place with the flat of his forearm.
“Ain’t neither one of y’all any good to me all beat up,” he said. “Calm the fuck down.”
Mireya stared past his arm at Cass, who looked right back at her with a half-smirk that dared her to try again. The air in the suite tightened.
Mireya huffed and rolled her eyes. “Y’all can sort this out,” she said. “I’m gonna go down to the beach.”
Cass didn’t move. “You do that.”
Mireya snorted, a small laugh pushed through her nose and turned toward the bedroom. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt as she walked, pulling it up over her ribs before she’d even reached the doorway. She didn’t look back. The carpet softened under her feet as she stepped into the bedroom and let the shirt fall from her hand.
Behind her, the argument picked up right away. Trell’s voice rose first, sharp and irritated, and Cass fired back, the words overlapping. Their voices carried down the hall as Mireya kept walking, disappearing into the room with the ocean still bright through the window.
~~~
Caine sat in one of the low lobby chairs near the windows. The Omni’s lobby hummed around him, a mix of rolling suitcases and the steady grind of the espresso machine behind the café counter. A few of his teammates crossed through the space in small groups, some heading toward the elevators, others drifting toward the bar.
He scrolled his phone without really looking at it, thumb moving on muscle memory more than anything. When the glass doors at the entrance slid open again, the shift of air and the change in noise pulled his eyes up.
Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. stepped into the lobby together.
They were easy to spot in their hoodies and fitteds, a block of New Orleans in the middle of a hotel full of businessmen. Tyree took in the space fast, head turning as he looked around at the chandelier, the polished floor, the people moving in and out of the bar. E.J. walked with his hands in his pockets, chin tucked. Ramon’s eyes found Caine first. He nodded once.
Caine slid his phone into his pocket and stood. They closed the distance in a few strides.
Tyree let out a low whistle as he took in the lobby again. “Damn, my nigga,” he said. “I ain’t know they had y’all niggas at them little trash schools rolling like this.”
Caine laughed and pulled him in to dap them up, shoulders bumping. “Motherfucker, we about to go to the playoffs,” he said. “Not too much on us.”
E.J. grinned as he hugged Caine quick. “That nigga just mad because he slumming it at UNO,” he said.
Caine spread his hands like he didn’t want any part of that. “I ain’t gonna talk shit on UNO,” he said. “Y’all know Mireya go there.”
Tyree snorted. Ramon’s gaze cut to Caine at the mention of her name, then smoothed away like nothing caught.
Caine jerked his chin toward the seating area tucked off to the side, a cluster of couches and small tables half-hidden behind big plants.
They followed him over. The hotel lighting threw a warm glow across the furniture, and the hum of voices softened once they stepped into the space. Caine took the chair with his back to the wall, eyes on the entrance. Ramon sat across from him, elbows on the chair arms. Tyree and E.J. grabbed the side seats, spreading out.
For a moment they all settled in, letting the noise of the lobby wrap around them. Caine rolled his shoulders once, the fabric of his windbreaker rustling.
Ramon didn’t waste time. “When was the last time you talked to your baby mama?” he asked.
Caine’s head tilted a little. “I talk to her every day,” he said. “What you mean? Why?”
Ramon shrugged like it wasn’t anything. “Just wondering,” he said. “I know you said she was struggling with some shit a few months ago.”
Caine leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. The air around the table tightened. “Why you fucking asking about Mireya randomly and shit?” he asked.
E.J.’s eyes flicked between them. Tyree looked off toward the lobby again, jaw shifting.
Ramon lifted both hands, palms open. “I’m just making sure y’all good, lil’ brudda,” he said.
Caine stared at him a long beat, shoulders squared, then leaned back in his chair again, breath sliding out steady.
E.J. cleared his throat and redirected. “We don’t know when we gonna get the work,” he said. “But we still gonna wanna stay at your spot for a night or two before heading back to the city.”
Caine nodded once. “That’s cool,” he said. “Y’all know it’s whatever with me.”
Ramon picked it up smoothly. “We hoping to head down that way tomorrow or Sunday.”
Caine ran the timing through in his head. “The game at three thirty,” he said. “We ain’t gonna be back in Statesboro until eleven, eleven thirty.”
Ramon nodded. “We’ll wait until the game over then to leave if we got the birds.”
Tyree waved a hand through the air. “Fuck all that,” he said. “Where the hoes be down there?”
Caine laughed and looked at Ramon and E.J. “Y’all told him about that?”
E.J. shook his head. “You know that nigga don’t get no pussy.”
“Man, shut you goofy ass up. Fucking on the same two or three bitches don’t mean you got bitches,” Tyree said.
Caine kept laughing, then turned back to Tyree. “You just gotta go out to the bars,” he said. “It’s country freaknik out there.”
Tyree shook his head fast. “Nah. I ain’t fucking with no bitches who gonna get me hung,” he said. “I’ll find them up here in the A where it’s safe.”
Ramon barked a short laugh. “And they gonna get you shot or have you burning,” he said. “It’s all risks.”
Tyree looked back at Caine like he wanted backup.
Caine just lifted both hands and kept laughing.
Hector stay trying to blame errybody but himself. 
Cass would get left in the swamp like that. Ant would hit her with that blucka blucka.
Ramon was. E.J. and Tyree looked away because they were making it awkward by going at each other for a second not because they knew what Ramon was getting at.