The popcorn machine hissed like it was mad at something. Caine stood behind the concession stand, scooping with one hand, tapping the edge of the bin with the other to shake off the grease. The smell clung to him—burnt salt, canned chili, syrupy red punch. It was the kind of funk that stuck to your clothes and followed you home.
"Another nacho tray, baby," called one of the moms at the register—Ms. Patrice, maybe, or Ms. Tanya, he couldn’t remember. She was wearing a Saints hoodie and side-eyeing him like she thought he might pocket a pack of Skittles.
Caine nodded and slid the tray her way. No words. Just movements. Clean, quiet, invisible. He’d been at Karr for three weeks now and still felt like furniture.
The gym was packed tonight. District game. Somebody said Landry was ranked. Caine hadn’t paid much attention—he wasn’t even sure who Karr was playing. But the bleachers were loud and full, the kind of full that made old wood groan and rims rattle extra hard when someone dunked. He could hear every cheer, every boo, every “OHHHH!” like he was still part of it. But he wasn’t. Not here.
He was folding paper boats when he felt them—eyes on his back.
“Aye, check son out,” came a voice from the side of the snack line, half-laughing, half-curious. “Boy tall as a light pole back there makin’ popcorn.”
Caine didn’t turn.
Another boy chimed in, “Real talk, you tryna hoop or what? You tall for no reason?”
Caine glanced over. Four of them. Freshmen, probably. Baggy polos, too many chains, fake Cartiers sliding down their noses.
“Nah,” he said. “Basketball ain’t my thing.”
One of them squinted. “You play anything then? Can’t be built like that and just vibin’ behind a nacho tray.”
Caine shrugged. “Football. Back in the day.”
That got a reaction.
“Wait—hold up. You that nigga from Carver?” The boy stepped closer, squinting like he was trying to confirm a rumor. “You the one they say got locked up or something?”
The others nudged each other, murmurs flying: That’s him? Nahhh. What he doin’ here then?
Caine’s jaw tightened. He didn’t confirm or deny.
Another boy grinned. “Man, you better be out there come fall. Swear to God. Wastin’ a whole athlete if you just in here servin’ nachos.”
“For real, for real,” another laughed. “You look like you could run over a DB and his mama.”
They laughed, high off their own jokes, then one of them clapped the counter and said, “Aight, lemme get a pickle and a Powerade.”
Caine passed it over wordlessly. Took the crumpled dollar and dropped it in the jar like he’d been taught—no touching the till. Not even once.
The group shuffled off, still glancing back. One of them said under his breath, “Nigga look like he tryna disappear.”
Caine heard it. But he didn’t flinch.
He turned back to the machine and wiped it down. Kept his head low. Hands moving, face blank.
Inside the gym, the crowd roared again—somebody must’ve hit a deep three.
He didn’t even look up.
~~~
The park smelled like fried dough and sunscreen. Kids screamed over each other near the splash pad, throwing water like they were rich in it. Camila climbed the steps of the little plastic slide on her hands and knees, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, proud of herself just for balancing.
Mireya watched her from the blanket, one hand shading her eyes, the other scrolling job listings. Angela and Paz lounged beside her—Paz leaning back on her elbows, Angela flat on her stomach, kicking her feet behind her like a teenager who didn’t owe the world anything yet.
“I need more money,” Mireya said. Her voice barely rose over the noise.
Angela popped her gum. “You still at the concrete yard?”
“Yeah.”
“That why you sound like that.”
Mireya gave a short laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s just… long days. Not a lot of pay. Lotta paperwork.”
Angela rolled onto her back. “Still driving around that dude? What’s his name? Leo?”
Mireya didn’t look up. “Not really. They moved stuff around.”
“What, he stop giving out them cash tips or whatever?”
“It’s… different now.”
Angela sat up. “Girl, what that mean?”
Mireya shrugged. “I don’t know. He just… sometimes he be doing too much.”
Paz squinted. “He asking you to do more?”
Mireya turned her face toward Camila, watching her daughter dig in the mulch with a stick.
“I don’t know what he’s asking,” she said finally. “I just don’t trust none of them.”
Neither of them pushed after that.
The wind picked up a little. Somewhere behind them, a baby started crying. Camila squealed with laughter, then threw her juice pouch at the slide.
“I been thinking,” Mireya said after a pause. “Things were easier before Caine got locked up.”
Angela tilted her head.
“I knew what he was doing,” Mireya continued, her voice low. “Not everything. But enough. And I knew it was risky. Still… the money was there. Diapers got bought. Gas tank stayed full. Daycare was paid.”
Paz rubbed her knees. “I can see if they hiring where I work. It’s not great, but it’s retail. Better than some places.”
Mireya nodded. “Yeah. Let me know.”
Angela stretched and smirked. “Or you could wait ‘til your birthday and start an OnlyFans.”
Mireya gave her a sharp look. “No.”
“Hell, if I had a body like yours, I’d be tax bracket different by now. Keep your face out the frame, get a little ring light, boom—money.”
“I said no.”
Angela raised her hands. “Okay. Damn. You ain’t gotta bite my head off.”
“She’s not playing,” Paz said. “She’s got Camila.”
Angela muttered, “Babies gotta eat.”
Mireya didn’t answer. The screen on her phone had gone black. She tapped it. Still no new listings. Still no callbacks. Still no safety net.
Camila looked up from her mulch pile and grinned, arms wide like she’d made something magnificent. Mireya waved and smiled, softening her face just enough to not show the panic underneath.
Then she looked down again.
Hit refresh.
And whispered, “I’m so tired of being tired.”
~~~
The bar was quiet, a break from the usual noise of weekday traffic or weekend Saints fans. One muted TV played highlights from the Sugar Bowl, like the game hadn’t ended a week ago. A couple guys down the way argued about NIL money and whether high schoolers were ruining the portal.
Quentin Landry sat near the back with a lime swimming in what had been a seltzer. The condensation ring had soaked through the napkin. He wasn’t sure why he always came here—maybe because it hadn’t changed, even when everything else had.
Markus Shaw slid into the booth across from him without a word, tugging his coat open just enough to sit, not enough to relax.
“You’re late,” Quentin said.
“You’re early.”
“Same as always.”
Markus flagged the bartender. “Jameson, neat. And put whatever he’s drinking on mine.”
Quentin raised an eyebrow. “Still trying to pay your way through penance?”
“You already gave me the bourbon and the guilt trip. This is cheaper.”
They smirked at the same time.
“You know my mom asked about y’all again,” Quentin said, leaning back.
Markus groaned. “What’d she say this time?”
“She said tell your wife she better bring that potato salad next time, or don’t bother showing up.”
Markus chuckled. “You know Delia don’t even like your mama’s house.”
“That’s ‘cause your mama and mine started that kitchen beef twenty years ago and never let it go.”
“That’s ‘cause your mama cheated in that gumbo cook-off.”
Quentin held up a hand. “See, now you talkin’ reckless.”
Their drinks arrived. They raised them without toasts. Didn’t need to.
After a quiet sip, Quentin said, “I meant to say this before—but thank you. For sticking with Caine. I know that case wasn’t easy. And I know it don’t pay.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, I’m saying it again.”
“You already got me a bottle of bourbon and a phone call from your mama. What more you want?”
“She said tell Delia y’all need to come by for Sunday dinner.”
Markus shook his head. “She just wanna see if my boy got my jumper.”
“He got your jumper, alright. And your silence.”
Markus laughed low. “Kid barely says a word to me unless it’s about basketball or girls. I take it as a win.”
Quentin leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Caine reminds me of him sometimes. That quiet. That look like the world already asked too much.”
Markus nodded slowly. “Difference is your kid’s going to have options. Caine’s already been through fire.”
“You think he’s gonna make it?”
Markus didn’t answer right away. He rolled the glass between his hands. “He’s got a better shot now than he did last year. But a better shot don’t mean a clean one. The world’s still gonna look at him like a threat before a son.”
Quentin exhaled through his nose. “He told me he wants to own a business one day.”
Markus looked up. “Really?”
“Said he’s good at reading people. I told him that might be the first step to becoming one.”
Markus leaned back. “You always been sentimental.”
“And you always pretend not to be.”
They drank again. Markus tapped his knuckle on the table, rhythm of a man thinking hard.
“You ever think we joined the wrong frat?” Quentin asked, smirking.
“No,” Markus said. “We joined the one that teaches you how to stay at the damn table, even when the food’s cold and the stories are ugly.”
Quentin raised his glass. “To staying at the table.”
Markus clinked his glass against it.
“Nupe,” he said with a tilt of his head, “you ever say that in court, you might make a believer outta somebody.”
~~~
The football hit the inside of the milk crate with a hollow thump and dropped straight through.
Caine jogged across the yard and scooped it up without looking. The grass was soft from rain earlier in the week, still holding onto the wet like it didn’t want to dry. He wiped his palms on his hoodie and walked back to the sidewalk.
Lined up. No stance. Just instinct.
He snapped his wrist and fired again—off-balance, feet flat, no step into it. The ball hit clean. Another one.
He’d been out here almost an hour. No cones, no drills, no coach yelling corrections. Just him and a crate that hung from a sagging oak limb like some relic nobody had taken down yet.
From the porch behind him, someone called his name once, then gave up. The door clicked shut. He stayed outside.
The ball bounced once off the street and rolled into the gutter.
He didn’t chase it right away. Just stared at it. The silence out here was a different kind of noise. One he hadn’t learned how to live with yet.
A car turned onto the block, headlights flooding the curb.
Caine stiffened.
The sedan slowed.
He didn’t move. Watched it glide past the neighbor’s fence, crawl toward the driveway.
It stopped. Windows tinted dark.
Caine held still.
Then the passenger side window rolled down.
“Damn,” came Tyree’s voice, smooth and familiar. “That nigga got that Drew Brees arm, huh?”
Caine blinked, heart kicking.
“Tyree?” he said.
“Yeah, motherfucker. Who it sound like?”
He stepped closer. Ramon was in the driver’s seat, arm draped out the window like he was home. EJ leaned forward from the back, nodding once. They looked the same and not at all. Free men now, but heavier somehow. Like the jail didn’t leave their shoulders even after the doors opened.
Caine stayed by the curb. “How long y’all been out?”
Ramon shrugged. “Few days.”
“They ain’t call nobody. Just opened the gate.”
“Said that bitch was full full,” EJ said quietly, like the words didn’t mean anything anymore.
Tyree grinned. “When I was told I was getting out, they found all the room they needed. But these niggas? Just skipped on out there.”
Caine glanced between them. It felt like a test. Everything did now.
“You good?” Ramon asked him.
Caine nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Tyree pushed the door open. “Then hop in. Ride with us.”
Caine hesitated.
Porch light still on behind him. Football still in the grass. The night holding its breath.
He opened the door and slid in.
They didn’t say anything for a moment. Just drove. Ramon’s hand tapped the wheel. EJ leaned back into the shadows. Tyree stretched out like he’d never been locked up, talking easy about a party this weekend, a girl who kept calling him when he was inside.
Caine sat still, watching streetlights strobe past. He didn’t ask where they were going.
But he had a feeling it wouldn’t be free.
@ Mireya drawing a hard line on OF, but taking dick for money. Usually goes the other way around home girl