American Sun

[Caesar]

Dez gonna end up floating somewhere if he keeps playing with Trell behind his back. Mireya ain't to be trusted when it comes to him.

Someone needs to help Rylee fr. She's going to end up in a bad way soon.

Dez might be plotting to take Trell business and his bitch

It's probably by the grace of God, she hasn't shown up to Caine's when 3NG there and he's not. Might be a choo-choo moment.

[Caesar]

Sin Without Ceasing

Mireya stood under the shower with her palms braced on the tile, letting the water hit her shoulders hard enough to make her skin pink. It wasn’t a rushed rinse before work. It wasn’t five minutes stolen with one ear tilted toward a crying toddler. It was the middle of the day, the semester over, Camila at daycare, and nobody knocking on the bathroom door asking where her shoes were or if she’d seen a missing cup.

The bathroom felt like a hotel suite. Smooth stone under her feet. Chrome that never spotted. Towels folded perfectly. Even the air felt expensive, cooler under the steam, the vents pulling the heat up and away so the room didn’t turn into a swamp.

Old-school R&B played from speakers she couldn’t see. Hidden in the tiles that made the room feel like it was humming. A slow voice sang about wanting somebody back, about begging, about time. Mireya let it wash through her with the water.

The song switched and the drumline under it changed, that soft old groove that made her shoulders loosen. She let her fingertips skim the tile seams, tracing the clean lines.

Trell had called her over. Come through. Then, once she was here, he’d kissed her quick, said he had “business,” and walked out with his keys already in his hand. He didn’t say how long. The whole house stayed open behind him, quiet and bright.

She’d wandered for a few minutes, then decided the shower was hers.

She ran her hands over her face and pushed her wet hair back. Soap slid down her arms, down her ribs. She turned to rinse, rotating under the stream—

—and saw Cass.

When Cass first appeared, Mireya clocked the way Cass planted herself, the way she didn’t hover at the doorway. Cass stood in the threshold like she had claim.

Cass stood inside the bathroom, just past the doorway, her body half framed by steam. She wasn’t startled. Her eyes were fixed on Mireya like she’d been waiting for the moment Mireya noticed.

Mireya reached for the knob and turned the water off. The sudden quiet made the music sound louder, the singer’s voice clearer.

She slid the glass door open and stepped out onto the mat, water dripping off her thighs. She grabbed the towel and started drying her hair first, slow. “How’d you get in here?” she asked, voice even.

Cass’s gaze tracked her hands, not shy about it. “This was Peanut house before it was Trell’s,” Cass said. “I got a key. Trell ain’t tell you that?”

Mireya finished with her hair, then pressed the towel to her shoulders and chest, drying without urgency. The steam made her skin shine. She shrugged. “I didn’t ask,” she said. “Not any of my business.”

She hung the towel to dry on the rack. Then she walked to the vanity where her overnight bag sat open beside the sink. The counter held a neat line of bottles. Clean labels. Heavy glass.

She dug in her bag for lotion, fingers sliding past the little things she carried everywhere. Cass’s voice cut through the music.

“Are you gonna get dressed?”

Mireya didn’t look up. She kept searching, calm, like she was alone. “Are you uncomfortable?” she asked. “Because you walked in here seeing me in the shower.”

Cass snorted a laugh and crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the tub then crossing her legs, arms over her knee like she was settling in. “Uncomfortable?” she said. “Nah.”

Mireya’s fingers found the lotion bottle. She set it on the counter and looked at herself in the mirror, checking her face for anything the steam might’ve smeared. A tiny red spot near her cheek. Nothing else. She pressed at it once, let it go.

Cass watched her reflection. “What is it that you tryin’ to play here?” Cass asked. “Wannabe trap queen?”

Mireya smoothed her wet hair back again, then picked up the lotion and squeezed a line into her palm, rubbing it into her hands. “I’m not trying’ to play shit,” she said. “I make my own money.”

Cass’s mouth curled. “By shakin’ your ass in niggas’ faces.”

Mireya turned from the mirror and faced her, leaning her hands back on the vanity. “That’s right,” she said.

Cass didn’t blink. “And fuckin’ them.”

Mireya held her gaze. “If they got the money and they’re clean.” Then she added, quieter but sharper, “You’re not going to intimidate me by telling me what I do to pay my bills.”

Cass’s smile thinned until it was almost nothing. She stood up, slow, and took a step closer, as if proximity was supposed to change the math. The steam had dampened her hair around the edges. She looked Mireya up and down like she was assessing merchandise.

“You got that little tight body now,” Cass said. “But wait until you fuck around and one of these niggas put a baby in you. We’ll see how useful you is then.”

Mireya’s smile came back tight, matching Cass’s. “I guess we’ll never know,” she said. Her tone stayed level. “You need anything else? You’re fucking bringing down my mood.”

Cass stared at her a beat, like she was deciding whether to push again. Then she turned toward the bedroom. “Tell Trell I came here,” she said, already walking out.

“Yeah,” Mireya said, voice flat. “Whatever.”

Cass sucked her teeth, a wet, irritated sound, and disappeared down the hall.

The bathroom didn’t change when she left. The music kept playing. The vent kept pulling steam up. The house stayed clean and expensive and indifferent, like it had seen worse conversations than that.

Mireya picked up her lotion and carried it to the tub. She sat on the edge, the porcelain cool under her thighs, and lifted one leg. She worked the lotion into her calf, then her shin, slow and thorough, palms sliding over skin until it stopped being slick from the shower and started being soft again. She didn’t rush. She just kept moving her hands, steady, until her legs shone with it.

~~~

Caine stood on the second-floor landing outside his apartment. Midday light flooded the parking lot below, bleaching the colors until everything looked sharp and overexposed. There was no hiding what Statesboro had turned into this week. It was all out in the open, loud and unapologetic.

College Football Playoff fever had settled over the town like a second climate. RVs lined the roads in long, uneven rows, some parked neatly, others shoved wherever space would allow. Coolers sat open beside folding chairs. People moved in clusters that broke apart and reformed constantly, jerseys bright and newly bought, hats already sweat-darkened. Miami fans stood out, clean and confident, phones in their hands like they were documenting a destination instead of a college town. Georgia Southern fans were everywhere else, louder, thicker, already acting like the game had been played and won.

Errands collided with tailgates. Grocery runs threaded between chants. Traffic crawled for no reason other than too many people wanting to be seen in the same places at once. Music drifted from multiple directions, none of it loud enough to claim the air outright, all of it stacking into a constant thrum.

Caine leaned forward slightly, fingers curling around the rail. He watched the flow the way he always did. Who moved with purpose. Who wandered. Who was already irritated by the heat and the wait. The town felt full.

Footsteps crossed the lot below.

He looked down and saw Laney cutting through the parked cars. She moved straight through the middle of it all, laughing at something someone called out from an RV, tossing a grin back over her shoulder without breaking stride. She climbed the stairs, sunlight catching her hair, her pace easy and sure.

“You walked from the church?” Caine asked when she reached the landing.

Laney shook her head, breath steady. “From the grocery store couple streets over.” She hitched her thumb back toward the road. “It’s a fuckin’ zoo over there.”

Caine laughed. “But a good cover when you wanna meet your side piece.”

She rolled her eyes, mouth twisting. “Boy, hush. You ain’t no side piece.”

He opened the door and stepped aside. The apartment swallowed them, but the noise followed anyway. Music pulsed faint through the walls. Voices carried from outside. Even with the door closed, the town refused to stay out.

Laney dropped her purse by the wall and went straight for the couch, plopping down like she’d been holding herself upright all day just to earn the right to sit. “My daddy said you apparently brought Mardi Gras over here to South Georgia,” she said, staring up at the ceiling.

Caine shut the door and crossed the room. He sat beside her and shifted her, guiding her until she lay across his lap. She adjusted once, settling in easily, legs stretched along the cushions, head angled toward the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I ain’t seen no titties yet walking around out there.”

She laughed, loud and unrestrained. “You got beads?”

“I can get ’em if you showing titties.”

She scoffed. “Like you don’t see them all the time.”

“I see money all the time too,” Caine said. “Still wanna keep seeing’ it.”

Laney swatted his arm, a smile on her face all the same.

They let the noise sit with them for a moment. The hum of the apartment. The distant bass outside. Someone shouting a name wrong and proud.

Laney tipped her head toward him. “How you feelin’ ’bout Saturday?”

Caine leaned his head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling for a beat before looking down at her again. His face stayed calm. “It’s just another game,” he said. “We playing’ with house money. Ain’t nobody expect us to win.”

She nodded slowly, lips pressing together like she liked the sound of that. “I used to love that feelin’,” she said. “Knowin’ everybody against me. Just so I could see their face when I still won.”

Caine nodded with her. That space between expectation and outcome felt clean.

His thumb traced a slow, idle line against her thigh. “How ’bout you?” he asked. “You been in and out of moods these last couple weeks.”

Laney exhaled, eyes closing for a second. “Just feel like I’m losin’ my damn mind every day,” she said. “Just a busy time of year.”

“You tell me if you need me to back off this,” Caine said. The offer came steady, not dramatic.

She shook her head, one corner of her mouth lifting. “I’m good.” Then, lighter, “You can tell me too, though. Go find some sorority girls to fuck.”

Caine snorted. “Fuck no. Pussy like wine. Older the vintage, better it taste.”

She slapped his chest, half laughing, half offended. “That make me sound like I’m fuckin’ ancient.”

“You ain’t ancient,” he said. “You seasoned.”

She groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Dickhead.”

He reached for his phone on the windowsill and checked the time. “How much time you got before you gotta head back?”

Laney smiled, slow and certain. “It takes like two hours to get across town right now.” She shifted slightly, denim whispering. “I got all the time in the world.”

Her hands moved then, fingers dropping to the button of her jeans, starting to unfasten them.

~~~

Trell and Ant sat at a kitchen table that dind’t belong to either of them, the kind of table that had seen too many elbows and too many arguments and still held steady. The house sat somewhere on the West Bank, tucked off a street that went quiet fast when you turned onto it, and the air inside carried the slow, comforting weight of food that had been cooking long enough to soak into the walls. A pot bubbled somewhere out of sight. A spoon scraped the bottom of something thick. Oil popped in short bursts, steady enough to make the room feel smaller, warmer.

The kitchen was warm even with the window cracked. It smelled of smoked meat and beans and seasoning that stuck to the back of the throat. The sound of it made the room feel lived in, like there was a normal life happening a room over, even while Trell sat with a pen in his hand and the hard part of his attention fixed on a napkin.

The napkin was already creased and damp at one corner where his palm had pressed it down. He wrote anyway, pen moving in short strokes, stopping to dot, stopping to underline, the ink bleeding a little where the paper was too thin for it. He spoke without looking up, voice level, the words landing casual even with what they held.

“Someone had to tell them 110 niggas that we had shit there.”

Ant sat across from him. He kept his forearms on the table, hands loose. His eyes flicked once toward the doorway where the smell of cooking came from, then back to Trell’s pen.

“They could’ve followed one of them lil’ niggas from the corner. You know they always doing too much when they out there.”

Trell’s pen paused. He drew a line under what he had written, then waved off the comment with the hand still holding the pen, wrist lazy, like he was brushing smoke away from his face.

“Those motherfuckers not slick enough for that. Either someone told them to hit us or they caught a motherfucker and beat it out of them. And ain’t no one fucked up or missing.”

He set the pen down for half a second, pressed the napkin flatter, then picked it back up. The kitchen noise filled the space between his words. Water ran somewhere in the back of the house, a quick on and off, then silence again. Ant’s jaw worked once.

“You know who you got on the stashes now.”

The pen scratched again. Trell wrote one more thing on the napkin, a number. He leaned back just a little in his chair, the legs scraping a quiet complaint across the floor, and finally looked up at Ant.

“You think Boogie really pissed off about that nigga Junebug?”

Ant’s mouth pulled, not quite a smile. He shifted his weight, the movement measured.

“He might not be, but his baby mama might be and you know how powerful pussy is for some of these niggas.”

Trell let the words sit there. His eyes stayed on Ant’s face, reading for anything. The house kept cooking around them. The smell got richer as something finished and got moved off heat. A cabinet closed with a soft thud.

“We got a couple of ‘em in the clique that if you said that about, I’d agree with you but Boogie? I don’t know. He knows we’d kill him. What they got off with? A few packs and a few thousand bucks?”

Ant nodded once. His fingers tapped the table, two quick taps, then stopped.

“Sounds about right.”

Trell’s pen clicked against the napkin as he capped it. He slid the napkin a little closer to himself, eyes dropping to it again. The ink marks looked small against the spread of white paper, a thin record of a problem that had already cost them time.

“I’m gonna find out if we can trust that nigga, but in the meantime, get Yola and the two of you move everything. Tell Boogie to bring all the money to you and then you stash it. No one else.”

Ant just nodded, slow.

The sound of footsteps came from down the hall, soft but sure, and an older woman appeared in the doorway with two plates balanced in her hands. She moved like she had been doing it her whole life, hips steady, wrists strong, not rushing even though the food was hot enough to throw steam into the air.

She crossed to the table and set the plates down in front of them, one, then the other, the porcelain clicking once against the wood. Red beans spread thick across the rice, glossy and dark, steam climbing up and carrying the smell straight into the room. A piece of sausage sat half-buried, the skin split from cooking.

“Y’all stop talking about business at my table.”

Trell’s hands lifted, palms out, pen still caught between his fingers.

“My bad, Ms. Pearl.”

Ms. Pearl’s eyes stayed on him, then on Ant, taking them both in the same hard sweep, as if she could see straight through the clothes and the talk and the money and find whatever was underneath. She tipped her chin toward the plates.

“Y’all eat up before that get cold.”

Ant picked up a fork. The metal made a small scrape as it dragged against the plate, and he hovered over the beans a beat, eyes down. The kitchen noise behind Ms. Pearl kept going, quieter now, like whoever was cooking had stepped away from the stove.

Before he dug in, Ant spoke again, voice even, the words dropped into the room like another piece of information that didn’t care about the food sitting there.

“The Mexicans gonna be back in town next week.”

Trell’s eyes lifted from the plate.

“I know. Nigga can’t ever get a day off.”

He picked up his fork and started eating.

~~~

The smell of fried food filled the car, grease bleeding through the paper bag Tyree had wedged between his knees. The bag crinkled every time he shifted, fries settling lower as he reached in without looking. The heater hummed low, barely cutting the December chill pressing against the glass. Breath fogged the windows in uneven patches.

E.J. drove one-handed, eyes forward, posture loose in a way that was deliberate. Ramon rode in the passenger seat, elbow braced against the door, gaze sliding between mirrors and corners. Tyree leaned forward from the back, talking around a mouthful of fries.

“We really should be in Statesboro right now,” Tyree said. “Miami coming to town. CFP game. That shit gonna be stupid.”

E.J. shook his head, eyes never leaving the road. “Ain’t nobody want your ass out there.”

“Shit, I’m the whole fuckin’ party, nigga,” Tyree said. “Y’all holdin’ out on the hoes out there but it’s gonna be Miami bitches out there too.”

Ramon reached into the bag and pulled a fry free. “You wanna go stand outside some bar all night and get told no?”

Tyree laughed. “Nigga, every bitch want me.”

E.J. smirked. “Want you to get the fuck up out they face.”

They slowed at a red light, the music dipping as E.J. eased off the gas. Streetlights buzzed overhead. The cross street stayed empty, wet pavement reflecting the signal red.

Headlights filled the rearview.

A cruiser slid in behind them, close enough to feel intentional. Red and blue flashed on, washing the inside of the car in color, cutting across hands and faces and the dashboard.

The loudspeaker crackled. “Driver, pull over.”

Tyree muttered, “This some fuck shit.”

E.J. exhaled through his nose and flipped on his blinker. He rolled through the intersection slow, turned into the gas station lot, and eased into an empty space near the edge of the canopy light. The cruiser followed and pulled in behind them, blocking the exit.

E.J. put the car in park. “Man,” he said quietly. Then he glanced in the mirror. “Fuck. It’s Brent.”

The cruiser door opened. Brent stepped out, posture squared, hand resting near his belt like habit. Boots hit concrete. He crossed the lot without hurrying and tapped on the driver’s window.

“Can y’all step out for me?” Brent said.

E.J. rolled the window down halfway. “For what?”

“I’m giving you a lawful order to exit the vehicle.”

E.J. ripped off his seatbelt. “Man—”

“Slow,” Brent cut in. “Hands where I can see them.”

Tyree shook his head. “This some fuck shit.”

Ramon opened his door and stepped out first, movements smooth, practiced. He walked toward the back of the car without being told. Tyree followed, sucking his teeth when Brent snapped at him, the bag thudding on the ground.

E.J. stepped out last, shutting the door harder than necessary.

“Sit on the curb,” Brent said. “Hands under your ass.”

They sat. Concrete pressed cold through denim. The gas station lights buzzed overhead, too bright. A car at the far pump idled, the driver keeping their head down.

E.J. looked up. “What you even stopped us for?”

“Shut the fuck up and do what I said,” Brent snapped. He turned away and keyed his radio. “Need backup.”

Ramon stared straight ahead, jaw tight. Tyree’s knee bounced once before he forced it still. E.J. fixed his eyes on the pumps, not giving Brent anything.

Minutes dragged. Cars came and went. Nobody stopped.

Two more cruisers pulled in, tires crunching. Four officers stepped out and spread around the car, hands resting on belts.

Brent turned back to E.J. “Got any drugs in the car?”

E.J. answered immediately. “You know I don’t.”

Brent gestured. “Search it.”

Doors opened. The interior light snapped on. Floor mats were ripped up. Trash got tossed onto the seats. Papers slid off the dash and fluttered onto the pavement. Ramon watched E.J.’s registration and insurance land near the curb.

The officers moved fast and careless, dumping the glove box, checking under seats, popping the trunk. Plastic rattled. A loose cup rolled and clacked against the console.

When they finished, one officer shook his head at Brent.

Brent stepped closer to E.J. “Get up.”

E.J. stood.

“License. Registration. Insurance.”

E.J. pulled his wallet out and handed over his license. Then he bent, picked the registration and insurance off the ground, and held them out.

Brent snatched them. “Sit back down.”

E.J. did.

Brent walked back to his cruiser. The other officers stayed put, watching.

Ramon leaned toward E.J., voice low. “Still think you ain’t gotta do nothing about his ass?”

Tyree added quietly, “I’ll do it if you want.”

E.J. shook his head once. No words.

Brent returned holding a ticket. He dropped E.J.’s license, registration, and insurance on the ground, then held the ticket out.

“For failure to yield.”

E.J. reached for it.

Brent let it fall. “You ain’t gotta sign it.”

Then he turned away. The officers followed him back to their cars. Doors shut. Engines started. One by one, the cruisers pulled out of the lot, lights gone.

They stayed seated another beat, letting the space empty.

Ramon stood first and brushed off his jeans. Tyree followed, kicking the abandoned food bag aside. E.J. stood last, gathered his paperwork and the ticket, edges damp and gritty, and shoved it all back into the car, not bothering to straighten a thing.

[Soapy]

these dumb fucks about to pop a cop

[redsox907]

Cass measuring up Mireya and finding she just as calculated as she is

Laney gonna get caught up being seen by all those people

My money on Dez with Cass pulling the strings, he that dumb.

They ain't gonna off the cop, gonna set him up to take a fall more like

[Captain Canada]

Everybody got some conflict coming for them (except Caine, which seems oddly refreshing).

[Caesar]

these dumb fucks about to pop a cop

Whoa whoa whoa. Who said anything about killing a cop?

Cass measuring up Mireya and finding she just as calculated as she is

Laney gonna get caught up being seen by all those people

My money on Dez with Cass pulling the strings, he that dumb.

They ain't gonna off the cop, gonna set him up to take a fall more like

Cass thought she was messing with someone green.

Whole town invaded by Miami folks. She'll be aite.



We'll have to see. Ramon does know someone who knows how to set folks up.

Everybody got some conflict coming for them (except Caine, which seems oddly refreshing).

I don't know if I would say Caine doesn't have conflict coming for him, but we'll take it. A win's a win.

[Caesar]

I Owe Him Nothing

Mireya knelt on the living room carpet with Camila’s foot in her hands, the sock already twisted from her kicking and wiggling, her little ankle warm against Mireya’s palm.

Outside, the air pressed against the window glass in a way that reminded her this wasn’t home. Georgia had its own kind of winter. It still felt damp, still smelled like wet leaves and exhaust when the door cracked. Even in the quiet between traffic, you could hear the distant pulse of a town gearing up for something big.

“Okay,” Mireya said, voice soft but firm. She guided Camila’s foot forward and slid the shoe on, thumb pressing the heel until it caught. “You ready to go watch daddy play football?”

Camila nodded so hard her curls bounced. She sat on the couch like it was a throne, legs swinging, already turned toward the door. Her gaze darted down to herself and she lifted her chin, proud, pointing at the jersey drowning her tiny shoulders.

“We got the same number, huh?”

Mireya’s mouth lifted. She smoothed the front of the jersey, tugged it down so it sat right over Camila’s stomach. The fabric was too big and still, Camila wore it like it was made for her.

“Si, mi amor,” Mireya said. “You and daddy got the same number.”

Camila looked down again as if she could see the number through her own excitement. She pushed both hands against her chest, patting the jersey.

Footsteps came up the steps. Then the click of the door opening with Sara’s key.

Sara stepped in and took in the little scene in one sweep. Her hair was pulled back. She had a bag on her shoulder and that look on her face that said she’d already mapped the rest of the morning.

“We’re going to have to walk, mija,” she said. “There’s no parking for miles.”

Mireya glanced back over her shoulder. “Yeah, I know.” Her hands stayed on Camila, finishing what she started. “Caine said his car is over there so he can drive us back after.”

Sara nodded once. “Y’all ready?”

“Yeah,” Mireya said, and reached up for Camila’s hands. “Come on.”

Camila scooted forward, little palms meeting Mireya’s, and Mireya lowered her careful from the couch. The kid landed light, knees bending, then immediately tried to twist.

Mireya caught her at the waist and turned her, setting her straight. Sara was already by the door, adjusting the strap of her bag. The air near the entry smelled faintly like outside, the draft creeping in around the frame.

They started toward it together.

Mireya’s phone rang.

The sound cut clean through the small room, too loud in the quiet. Mireya’s hand went automatically to her pocket. Screen lit her palm. A name she didn’t want to see sat there anyway.

Mami.

She froze for half a beat, then exhaled through her nose. Sara had already turned at the sound, watching her.

Mireya swallowed whatever she wanted to say, pushed it back down, and held the phone up a little.

“I’ll catch up,” she said.

Sara didn’t ask questions. She just nodded and reached for Camila’s hand.

“Come on, nena,” Sara said, already moving. “Let’s go take a walk.”

Camila went with her easy, bright, her fingers slipping into Sara’s. Mireya watched them step through the doorway, watched the way Camila leaned into the motion of leaving, already imagining the stadium and the noise and finding Caine in all of it.

The door pulled mostly shut behind them. Their footsteps hit the stairwell, thumping down in that hollow echo that carried through cheap walls.

Mireya waited.

She waited until the rhythm got farther away, until she could place them halfway down, until the building swallowed the sound enough that it felt like privacy instead of a pause.

Then she answered.

“¿Qué quieres?” she said, and her voice came out sharp, already tired. “Estoy en Georgia.”

On the other end, Maria didn’t waste time softening anything. Her breath came through first, that slow inhale that always sounded like judgment.

“Of course you are,” Maria said. “How many flights there is that in the last couple of months? Six? Seven? Expensive.”

Mireya leaned her shoulder into the wall by the door, phone tight against her ear. The apartment felt smaller with Maria’s voice in it.

“Caine pays for it,” Mireya said, the lie coming out easily.

Maria snorted a laugh, short and ugly. “Claro. Con la feria de la droga.”

Mireya’s jaw tightened. She stared at the deadbolt, at the little scratch marks around it, and forced herself not to look at the couch where Camila had been sitting seconds ago.

“I don’t have time for this,” Mireya said. “What did you call for?”

Maria’s tone shifted into something practical. “You need to bring your tax documents to my preparer so I can get started on my taxes.”

Mireya blinked once. “For what? I don’t live with you.”

“You did for part of the year, mija,” Maria said. “And I still claim Camila.”

Mireya’s grip tightened on the phone. Her nails pressed into the case. She kept her voice level.

“No,” Mireya said. “Just tell me what extra you have to pay and I’ll give it to you.”

There was a pause, brief, then Maria’s suspicion slid in. “Do you have something to hide, Mireya? Maybe how you afford all those expensive clothes you wear that Elena tells me about?”

Mireya’s eyes flicked toward the small mirror by the door, catching her own face. Her expression stayed still.

“I have a job,” Mireya said. “I have nothing to hide. I’m just not helping you after how you’ve been treating me.”

Maria’s voice sharpened. “Pareces culpable. I don’t understand what’s so difficult about this.”

Mireya pushed off the wall and took a step toward the door, then stopped. The phone pressed warm against her ear. Her heartbeat sat steady, but her patience felt thin.

“This can wait until I’m back in New Orleans,” Mireya said. “Tengo que irme. Voy a llevar a Camila al partido de Caine.”

Maria snorted again, louder this time. “Bending over backwards for the man who made you a single mother. Pathetic, mija. You haven’t learned yet.”

Mireya stared at the knob. Her fingers rested on it without turning. For a second she let the words hang in the air, let them land and sit without giving them anything back.

She didn’t respond, just hung up the phone and walked out of the apartment.

~~~

Caine stood on the sideline, the noise in Paulson Stadium swelling into something almost physical, a low roar pressing against his chest as Miami fans tried to make themselves heard in a place that wasn’t theirs. Red and orange bled into the stands, pockets of movement and sound rising and falling as the Hurricanes lined up to receive the opening kickoff.

Coach Aplin’s voice cut sharp through it, barking final instructions at the defense, reminding them to stay within themselves, to trust what they’d drilled all season. Caine could hear the strain underneath it. The awareness of what they were up against. Across the field, Miami’s sideline bounced and shouted, helmets clacking, arms raised, feeding off the noise like it belonged to them.

Donal took his steps and drove his foot through the ball, and for a split second everything narrowed. The kick climbed into the Georgia night, lights glaring off the leather as it arced high and clean. Caine tracked it the way he always did, instinctive, familiar, like breathing.

The returner caught it at the five, crowd surging to its feet as one.

And just like that, the biggest game in Georgia Southern history was underway.

…

“Miami getting us started here in the first round of College Football Playoff, live from Statesboro, Georgia. Keyone Jenkins settles into the pistol, Mark Fletcher, Jr. behind him with Joshua Moore and Adam Booker split out to the left and right.”

“The Hurricanes came into this game as huge favorites despite being on the road, but this is the same Georgia Southern team that almost upset the then-top-ranked Clemson Tigers in South Carolina earlier this season.”

“Here’s the snap and Jenkins hands it off to Fletcher up the middle. That’ll be a gain of six on first down. Brought down by Brandon Tyson on the play.”

…

“Fletcher takes it outside and he’s got some daylight! Tripped up by Ayden Jackson after a gain of 12.”

“That had six written all over it if it wasn’t for the senior making that last ditch tackle!”

…

“Jerrick Gibson in for Fletcher, Jr. Jenkins gets the snap and tosses it out to him on the outside run. Gibson plants and cuts up the field, that’ll be good for a gain of five.”

…

“Jenkins drops back for the first time tonight. The pass rush is almost non-existent as he sits in the pocket. He’s got all the time in the world and he finally throws it out to Moore coming back to the ball. Moore spins and turns up field before being brought down by Gamble. Big gain of 21 yards on the play.”

…

“Jenkins gets it out quick to Booker on the screen and that’s going to be an easy first down! Another last ditch tackle keeps this drive going, but Miami is having it all their own way on this opening possession.”

…

“Fletcher gashes Georgia Southern right up the middle for a gain of seven!”

…

“Jenkins hits Moore in the endzone and Miami is going to draw first blood here!”

“The Canes only had one play on that drive that didn’t result in positive yardage. The Eagles are going to have to find some way to stop them or slow them down because it’s not going to be a pretty game if Miami keeps this up.”

…

Georgia Southern broke the huddle and jogged to the line of scrimmage. Caine passed his hand over the towel at his waist as he settled into his stance, watching as the Hurricanes’ linebackers crept toward the line.

Caine took a step forward, shouting adjustments to the pass protection, pointing out potential blitzers.

“Green 80! Green 80! Seeet... Go!”

Chandler snapped the ball to him. Miami dropped into a man look, the safeties bracketing Josh and Trey’Dez. Caine had only gone to his second read when he watched as Dwight was all but thrown out of the way by an edge rusher.

Caine brought the ball down and ran back as the line crumbled in front of him. He pointed to David and then flipped the ball out to him in the flats just as he was crushed under Miami jerseys.

“It’s gonna be all night nigga,” one of the Miami lineman spat as he shoved Caine’s head into the turf as he got up. Dwight, Chandler and Collin ran over to defend their quarterback, the referees getting to the ensuing scrum just as quickly.

Caine rolled into a sitting position and looked down the field, giving a little fist pump to see David had picked up good yardage.

…

“David Mbadinga with his first carry of the night and he’s going nowhere. Stopped in the backfield for a loss of one on the play.”

…

“Guerra drops back and throws it to Gray for a first down but he took another big shot on that play.”

“Miami is clearly going with the game plan of trying to rattle the true freshman quarterback by putting a beating on him because that’s already twice they’ve blasted him after he’s thrown the ball.”

…

“Jeremiah Ware has his hands on it, but takes a huge hit from Frederique, Jr. and that’s going to be incomplete!”

…

“Guerra finds Dallas for a gain of seven on that quick hitter. Third down coming up here.”

…

Caine caught the snap, spinning the ball to get the laces and took a step back. Then another.

Then two more as a linebacker tore straight through the A gap. Caine brought the ball down and tried to slip to his right but the defender had a bead on him. He caught a glimpse of Jeremiah coming open on the drag and side-armed the pass.

He didn’t see if it reached its intended target as the linebacker lowered his shoulder into his chest, the hit lifting Caine up off his feet, and dumped Caine onto the turf. The impact forced the air from Caine’s lungs, filling them with a rush of cold, night air.

He rolled onto his hands and knees as Miami players celebrated over him. Dwight pulled him up to his feet just in time to see the punt team jogging onto the field.

…

“Gibson makes the catch and he’s going to waltz into the endzone for six. Miami’s up two scores here in the first quarter and it’s not looking good for Cinderella!”

“Mario Cristobal said all week that he had been telling his team to take this Georgia Southern team seriously and they’re doing just that. There isn’t any lollygagging going on down on that Miami sideline!”

…

“Hayden Lowe crushes Caine Guerra on that third down attempt and the ball falls well short of Trey’Dez Green. Guerra is slow to get up after that one and the fans here in Paulson Stadium are holding their breath.”

“The New Orleans-native has been the story of the season in 2026 and has gained a lot of fans as the heart and soul of this Eagles team, but the Hurricanes have been putting a beating on him early in this contest. I’ll be surprised if he makes it through this one at this rate.”

…

“Georgia Southern forces Miami to punt for the first time tonight and there is a ray of hope for the Eagles.”

…

“Dylan Joyce booms it down the field and… this one looks like it’s perfect… Ware waves everyone off and it bounces at the 10 and down at the six yard line! Even when Miami has to put it, things are going their way right now.”

…

“Ringo! Ringo! Ringo!” Caine shouted, tapping the sides of his helmet and gesturing to Josh and Jeremiah and then Dylan and Femi.

Miami’s linebackers dropped back from the line of scrimmage, a corresponding change coming from their side.

Caine stepped back into his stance, pointing to the edge rusher on the right for David to pick up. David nodded.

“Seeet, go… go!”

The snap was a little high, but Caine managed to corral it before it sailed over his head. When he leveled his eyes back down, panic set in as the edge rusher he’d pointed out blew through Johnnie’s block attempt and shoved David’s chop block attempt aside.

Caine drifted back, pump faking, but not wanting to get an intentional grounding call in the endzone. He ran to his right, to try to get outside of the tackle box and get the ball away.

The edge rusher closed the distance faster than he expected, though.

Just as he was bringing the ball up to flick it over him and toward Trey’Dez’s feet, the defender’s hand grabbed Caine’s shoulder.

Caine instinctively tucked the ball again, not wanting to fumble it as he was brought down in the endzone. A collective groan rippled through the stadium before a roar of cheers from the traveling Miami fans.

“Yeah, nigga, yeah!” the edge rusher shouted as he shoved off Caine and celebrated with his teammates, running over to the nearest camera and flashing U’s in it.

Chandler came over to help Caine up, but he shoved him away and got up under his own power.

He looked at his teammates and shouted, “Y’all gotta fucking block! Do something! What the fuck are y’all even trying to do?!”

He didn’t wait for an answer as he snapped off his chin strap and stalked toward the sideline.

…

“Luis Pugh’s first attempt of the game is up and it’s good. Miami increases their lead to 19-0 with about six minutes remaining in the second quarter.”

…

“Guerra gets that to Ware for a gain of four, but that’s not going to be enough to convert. And Caine Guerra is having to peel himself off the turf again after another vicious hit by this Miami defense.”

“We’re gonna need to check the quarterback pressures and hit stats at halftime, but it has to be getting crazy because the Hurricanes are punishing Guerra every chance they get. We haven’t seen this Georgia Southern offense look this disjointed all season.”

…

“Hyatt brings it in and that’s another touchdown for Miami and the route is on! 25-0 Hurricanes with a little over a minute remaining in the half!”

…

Caine dropped back on the final play of the quarter, just looking to get a completion to get the team going coming out of the halftime break.

The Canes dropped six into coverage, blanketing all of the downfield options. Trey’Dez chipped a linebacker and then released out into a route.

Caine shook his head and flicked the ball to him.

Then white exploded in his vision.

And pain in his back.

He didn’t remember hitting the turf, just the dark green grass pressed up against his visor as his vision cleared.

He rolled onto his back and tried to sit up, but his body protested and he just laid back down. The trainers surrounded him moments later.

“What hurts?”

Caine groaned. “Every fucking thing.”

…

“Caine Guerra is up on his feet after that hit, helped off the field by the training staff. And your halftime score here from Statesboro, Georgia, Miami 26, Georgia Southern 0.”

…

The locker room was loud in the wrong ways.

Not yelling. Not hype. Just metal and breathe and things hitting the floor harder than they need to. Helmets clanged into lockers. Shoulder pads were ripped off and tossed aside. Someone kicked a bench. David sat with his head buried in a towel, elbows locked like if we moved, something would spill out.

Caine threw his helmet at his locker, dropped onto the bench in front of it and leaned forward immediately, forearms braced on his thighs, legs bouncing. The room tilted slightly when he bent. He closed his eyes for a second and rode it out.

His back throbbed. His ribs ached. Deeper breathes were accompanied by pain.

A trainer hovered near him, hand half-raised. “You dizzy?”

Caine shook his head without looking up. “I’m good.”

The trainer hesitated then moved on.

Across the room, Coach Aplin, Bailey and Fatu were huddled, voices sharp, clipped.

“We got to slow down the fucking pass rush,” he said. “We’ll put Nate in there if David can’t chip someone.”

“They’re pinning their ears back and coming at you every down!” Coach Lankford shouted to the linemen.

Chandler snapped, “The fuck we’re supposed do, coach?”

“Y’all gotta be more disciplined!” Coach Douglas shouted to the defensive linemen. “They’re running it straight up the fucking middle!”

Caine lifted his head. He looked around at his teammates around him. Face tight, eyes either dead or hot. Nobody meeting anyone else’s gaze for long.

Coach Aplin and Coach Fatu walked over to Caine.

“What you seeing out there, kid?” Coach Fatu asked.

Caine dropped his head back against the locker. “Ain’t seeing no fucking blocking and ain’t nobody catching the fucking ball.”

Brad heard him and turned away from whatever adjustment Coach Lankford was making. “You’re holding on to the shit too fucking long. Get it out of your fucking hands.”

“I know you ain’t talking. Motherfuckers pushing you around like they used to stuff you in lockers,” Caine shot back. “I’m the one getting hit on every fucking play because y’all letting them do what they want! Help. Me.”

“Man, fuck that. Get it out faster.”

“Help. Me.” Caine repeated.

Coach Aplin put his hand on Caine’s shoulder. “Gotta calm down, son. I know it’s tough, but we can’t have you losing your head.”

Caine forgot himself and took a deep breath, grimacing when his ribs protested. He leaned forward and clutched at stomach.

“You good?” Fatu asked.

Caine nodded. “Just need a minute.”

The two coaches exchanged a look but let it ride. Coach Aplin grabbed the play sheet from his pocket and knelt in front of Caine. He pointed at a series of plays.

“Alright, this is what we’re changing in the second half.”

…

“Guerra has Dallas wide open and– it’s dropped! The Eagles are going to have to punt it here. And Caine Guerra is beside himself down there!”

…

“It hit you in the fucking hands! In the fucking hands!” Caine shouted at Josh, grabbing his jersey and shoving him back toward the sideline.

Josh held his hands up. “You put it too far out in front of me!”

“Too far out in front of you?! Catch the fucking ball, bitch!” Caine pushed Josh again.

Jeremiah wrapped his arm around Caine’s shoulders and steered him toward the sideline as Trey’Dez did the same for Josh. The Miami players jogging off the field laughing at their opponents beginning to unravel.

…

“Pugh adds a field goal and Miami increases their lead!”

…

“Guerra bounces off a tackle and takes off. Jukes between two cornerbacks. Lowers his shoulder on the safety! A big gain of 21 on the play!”

“That’s some heart from the young freshman on that play! Giving it back to them after getting hit all game. His stat line isn’t gonna be pretty after this one, but you gotta like what you’re setting from him anyway!”

…

Caine held the ball out toward David, eyes on the end. He crashed down. Caine pulled the ball and took off.

He planted his foot, cutting up the field along the hashes, following Trey’Dez who got down field and blocked the safety.

Caine looked back over his shoulder as he sprinted toward the endzone, the crowd awakening for a brief moment, a smattering of cheers coming from the blue and white clad Georgia Southern fans.

He crossed the 20, the 15, the 10, the 5. Then he felt arms around his waist.

He yelled as he stretched the ball out, trying to break the plane, but it fell just short as the back judge sprinted down the field to mark the ball at the one.

Caine got up and shoved Trey’Dez back when the tight end tried to celebrate the big play, turning his arms over one another and shouting “On the ball!”

…

“Guerra is hustling the team back to the line after that big run. Snaps it quickly, Mbadinga gets it up the middle and plows into the endzone. Georgia Southern is finally on the board in this one.”
“I think the youngsters would call that a “F It, I’ll Do It Myself” drive by Caine Guerra.”

…

“Gibson takes it in from three yards out after Fletcher’s big run and the Hurricanes restore their 26-point lead.”

…

“Guerra is hit while throwing and–it’s picked off by Damari Brown! Another mistake forced by this Hurricanes defense due to their pressure on the quarterback. This game has been over for a long time but it’s lasting forever for this Georgia Southern team.”

…

“Fletcher bounces it outside and he can scoot! The 20! The 15! The 10! The 5! Touchdown Miami! And get your plans in order, the Miami Hurricanes are going to be playing their rivals, the Florida Gators in the Orange Bowl!”

…

The stadium was almost silent as Caine dropped back. Georgia Southern fans already heading for the exits and Miami fans waiting for the final whistle to properly celebrate with their team.

Even the Hurricanes were ready to get the game over with, giving Caine the opportunity to throw the ball without pressure for the first time all game.

He rifled the ball into triple coverage, throwing it at Josh, not caring whether it was picked off or not. Somehow, it squeezed through everyone and got to the senior at the back of the endzone. The line judge raised his arms.

Touchdown.

Caine shook his head, cursing under his breath as he walked off the field, not even a glimmer of happiness from being able to say he threw a touchdown pass in a College Football Playoff game.

He looked up at the scoreboard: 43-13.

A blowout.

A demolition.

Embarrassment.

~~~

The locker room doors swung open and spilled Caine back into the night.

The noise was mostly gone now. Not silent but thinned out, stretched. A few clusters of Miami fans still lingered, loud in pockets, green and orange drifting toward the far lots. Most of the Georgia Southern crowd had already cleared out, the exits swallowing them in quiet waves. Paper cups skittered across the concrete. Someone’s radio played too loud from a truck idling nearby.

Caine stepped out in sweats and slides, duffel slung over one shoulder. His body felt heavy in that dull, post-impact way, every bruise settling into itself now that the adrenaline had nowhere left to go. He kept his head down, eyes fixed ahead, just trying to go home.

“Hey. Excuse me?”

He slowed.

A woman stood off to the side near the wall, one hand resting on her son’s shoulder. The kid couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, Georgia Southern cap pulled too low over his ears, clutching a football to his chest like it might disappear if he loosened his grip.

“You don’t have to,” the woman said quickly. “I just… he waited.”

The boy didn’t say anything. Just held the ball out, eyes wide, hopeful in a way that didn’t care about scoreboards or pressure rates or how bad a night could go.

Caine stopped fully. Took the ball. Took the marker the woman fumbled out of her pocket.

“Who you want it made out to?” he asked.

The kid swallowed. “Eli.”

Caine nodded and signed it, careful, slower than he usually wrote, making sure the letters came out clean. He handed it back.

“Thanks,” Eli said, voice cracking just a little.

Caine gave him a small smile. “You’re welcome, lil’ brudda.”

The kid beamed like he’d just been handed something sacred. His mom mouthed thank you as they stepped back.

Caine watched them go for a second, then turned toward the lot again.

That’s when he saw them.

Sara stood near the edge of the walkway, keys already in her hand, shoulders squared like she was bracing against the night air. Mireya was beside her, Camila perched on her hip, one small sneaker dangling loose against Mireya’s thigh. Camila spotted him first.

“Dada!”

Mireya barely had time to tighten her grip before Camila wriggled free, sliding down and bolting across the concrete with her arms already out.

Caine dropped his bag and crouched just in time to catch her. He scooped her up, her little body slamming into his chest with full trust, full speed.

“I saw you!” she said immediately, breathless. “You was running! And everybody was loud! And you had your helmet and—” she made a vague circling motion with her hands, searching for the right word “—you was fast!”

He laughed softly and adjusted her on his hip. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. You went like this,” she said, jerking her arm sideways, nearly smacking him in the chin. “And the people went ahhh!”

“I know. I heard them, too,” he said, nodding, smiling like every word was the best thing he’d heard all night.

She kept talking, stacking details out of order. Lights, noise, colors, a man yelling somewhere nearby. Completely untouched by the weight sitting in his chest. Caine let her talk. Let her fill the space. He pressed his cheek briefly to the side of her head, breathing her in.

Sara stepped closer and wrapped him in a quick, firm hug when he straightened. She kissed his cheek, solid and familiar.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said quietly. “I know that wasn’t how you wanted it to go.”

He shrugged, the motion small. “It is what it is.”

Mireya waited until Camila leaned back enough to give her room. Caine bent and kissed her, soft, grateful. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied, smiling up at him.

They didn’t linger. Didn’t need to.

Caine shifted Camila to his other arm, picked up his bag, and fell into step with them as they headed toward the parking lot. Their footsteps echoed across the concrete, four shadows stretching ahead of them under the stadium lights.

[redsox907]

I mean that was how we expected that to go. Soap ain't gonna let that one go easy lmao

So let me get this straight. Mireya doesn't live with Maria anymore, because she *checks notes* kicked her out. But the bitch as the audacity to say she's claiming her granddaughter?! FOH. I don't remember the timing, when did she kick her out. Cause it has to be more than 50% of the year to claim the kid legally on taxes.

But even if it was, fuck outta here. I'm claiming her and if you want to bitch about it, fuck around and get audited cunt.

I know it ain't gonna happen. but if anyone ever needs to be sacrificed I nominate Maria

[Captain Canada]

Soap gonna ether you for those results, but what can you do.

Solid season all in all. Interested that the storyline has you running it back with GA Southern.

[Soapy]