Nan Silans Sal
The bell had rung, but the halls still swelled with bodies and noise. Sneakers squeaked sharp on tile, lockers slammed too hard, somebody’s voice carried over the crush, calling for a ride. The air hung heavy, sour with sweat that had soaked into polyester, fried food grease clinging from lunch, bleach cutting faint but not enough.
His backpack hung low on one shoulder, jersey stretched across his chest. He walked easy, unhurried, the heat rolling off the blacktop not shifting his pace.
He shoved open the glass doors and the heat outside grabbed hold. September sun bounced off blacktop, baking up through his shoes, gluing his jersey to his back. Cicadas whined in the trees by the street, loud enough to drown the honks and bass lines from cars pulling out of the lot. He adjusted his backpack strap, eyes set on the field house.
“Look who they didn’t give a JV number to,” Janae’s voice came from his right, quick and teasing. She slipped in beside him like she belonged there, braids swinging over her shoulder.
On his other side, Tasha sipped at a Styrofoam cup, rattling the ice. She tilted her head his way. “Who you pay for that?”
Caine’s mouth pulled at the corner. He didn’t turn. “I ain’t never had to pay for nothing I wanted.”
The line sat between them, heavy as the heat. Both of them caught it. Janae’s grin curved sharper, her eyes dragging over him with a quick flicker. Tasha laughed low, shaking her head.
“So you not a Soulja Slim type of nigga?” she said, her tone sly.
Caine laughed once, rough. “Fuck no.”
They walked like that, the three of them cutting across the lot as the noise behind them thinned — buses growling in the distance, cars honking, voices fading into corners. Janae leaned closer, her arm brushing his.
“After the game, I know a spot,” she said. “House party. Gonna be live.”
Caine shook his head, eyes still forward. “Going home.”
She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “That’s weak.”
“Kid don’t sleep if I ain’t there.” His voice came flat, final.
Tasha sucked air through her teeth, smirk sliding across her face. “Aw, look at you. Good daddy and all that.”
“You don’t see that every day,” Janae added, softer now, like she hadn’t meant for it to slip out that way.
Caine chuckled, low in his throat, enough to make it seem like he was in on the joke.
The lot spread out in front of them, heat rising in waves, the smell of exhaust mixing with the sweetness from a snowball stand across the street. Somebody hollered at a girl walking by, a car stereo rattled windows. Janae tossed her braids back, eyes flicking at him like she wanted to say more, but she bit it back. She and Tasha split away toward the cars, their laughter trailing behind them.
Caine hitched his backpack higher, jaw set. His skin was sticky with sweat, the sun pressing down, but his steps stayed steady.
Up ahead, Jay cut into the field house doorway. His jersey was half untucked, headphones loose around his neck. He looked back, eyes locking on Caine’s.
No words. Didn’t need them. Everything was already in that glance — who the coaches trusted, who the players leaned toward, who had the weight to carry the season.
Jay broke it first, pushing through the door without a change in his face.
Caine stood there for a beat longer, heat rolling down his back, then followed.
~~~
The bleachers were already hot when Mireya climbed them, Camila tugging her hand hard enough to pull her off balance. Angela and Paz followed close, weaving through knees and paper plates and Styrofoam cups, until they found a row halfway up. Mireya settled first, pulling Camila into the space beside her. The metal burned through her jeans the second she sat. She shifted, but there was no escape from the heat.
The stadium smelled like grease and syrup — fried fish sizzling in vats down by the fence, smoke from a grill curling into the stands, and melted sugar dripping off snowballs clutched in sweaty hands. The band blared brass notes that bent sharp in the air, drums rolling so loud they rattled through the metal beneath their feet. All of it pressed against her, thick and close, every sound stacking on the next until it was one heavy noise.
Camila wriggled forward, nearly pitching over the row in front until Mireya caught the back of her shirt. Her curls stuck damp to her forehead, face shining.
“Mami, look!” she clapped her hands, voice cutting high over the crowd. “That’s daddy!”
Mireya followed her point. Caine stood on the field, jersey stretched across his shoulders. He flicked his wrist loose, dropped into his stance, shoulders squared. Even from here, he looked like the game was already his. Camila bounced against her arm, her pride loud enough to turn a few heads nearby. Mireya gave her daughter an animated smile and nod.
Angela leaned back on her elbows, sweat gleaming along her collarbone. “They really got all these people watching them? Shit, he might really end up in the league.”
Paz grinned around her straw. “Rich as hell. Y’all front row at the Dome, nails done every week.”
Mireya shook her head, flat. “Even if that happened, that’s years away. We’d still be broke right now.”
Angela huffed a laugh but didn’t push it. Paz clicked her tongue, eyes drifting back to the field.
Mireya shifted on the burning seat again, stretching her legs out in front of her. The crowd buzzed around her — whistles from the field, vendors calling out prices, kids cutting between rows with snowballs dripping down their arms. She let her eyes sweep across the section, faces blurred together in the sun, until one caught and stuck.
A few rows down, Janae leaned in close to her friends, laughing big. Her braids swung, lip gloss flashing when her head tipped back. She touched the girl beside her on the arm like the joke couldn’t sit still, her laugh ringing louder than the horns.
Heat crawled up Mireya’s neck. Her mouth pulled sharp without her meaning it.
Angela followed her gaze. “Isn’t that the girl from back a few months ago?”
Mireya’s jaw tightened. “She’s trying to fuck Caine. All over his fucking IG, leaving hearts and eyes like she ain’t got no shame.”
Paz rolled her eyes, long and slow. “Definitely not a girl’s girl.”
Mireya shook her head, eyes forward again. Her thigh pressed hard against the burning metal, nails digging through denim just to keep her hand still. Caine was hers, but girls like Janae didn’t care about that. Out here, with the jersey and the eyes on him, he looked too easy to want.
“Mami, Mami, look how far he throw it!” Camila yanked at her arm, voice lit up.
Mireya blinked, snapping back to the field. Caine set his feet, arm cutting through, the ball sailing high and long down the sideline. The receiver pulled it in and the crowd burst up, brass crashing over the noise. Camila clapped so hard her palms smacked pink, her laugh bubbling up, bouncing on the seat though it burned her legs the same as Mireya’s.
Mireya turned toward her, her own smile breaking wide and bright, the kind that reached her whole face. For Camila, it always did.
But when she looked back to the field, the tightness in her chest hadn’t moved. The sound of her daughter’s joy wrapped tight around her, but her eyes stayed locked on the field. Caine stood easy on the field, shoulders loose like none of the weight around them ever touched him.
The smell of grease and sugar thickened in the air. Janae’s laughter carried up from the row below, sharp against the roar of the crowd. Mireya swallowed, her chest tight, jaw locked. She didn’t look down again.
~~~
The lights hit him first. Too bright, humming overhead, hot enough that sweat crawled down his spine before he even strapped in. Helmet dangled in his hand, chinstrap swinging against his thigh.
Eighteen months. A year and a half since he’d felt this — the turf under his cleats, the band rattling through his chest, the hum of a crowd that wanted blood or glory or both.
His foot bounced against the grass like it had in the cell, back when movement was the only way to burn the noise out of his head. He squeezed the facemask, knuckles tight, breath pushing through his teeth.
All around him, his teammates shouted, slapped helmets, shoulder pads knocking like drums. Jay strutted down the sideline, jaw set like it was his stage. Caine kept his eyes on the field. Shaw’s defense stretched, helmets low, watching. Waiting.
The noise swelled—horns, drums, voices stacked in the bleachers, the faint tang of fry grease and spilled beer drifting down. Police ringed the fence line, flashlights slung on their belts. Caine felt them even when he didn’t look.
He shut his eyes for a second, mouthguard grinding his teeth. His chest buzzed with something he couldn’t slow—fear, pride, rage, all of it twisted tight.
The whistle shrieked. He slid the helmet on, buckled in, and jogged toward the huddle.
…
Caine walked into position, scanning the defense. He rubbed his hands on his pants, habit more than nerves.
Shaw’s front crouched low, linebackers rolling forward, safeties creeping. He called cadence, voice sharp, throat dry.
Snap cracked.
The pocket folded fast. Helmet slammed into his ribs, hands clawed at his jersey. He spun loose, legs churning, rolled left. Defender lunged, fingertips brushing his pads, but he squared his shoulders, cocked his arm. Ball ripped cross-body, low and spinning. Tyron pulled it in, cut upfield, whistle shrieking as the sideline roared.
Caine staggered up, chest rattling, facemask clogged with turf pellets. He spat the mouthpiece into his hand, looking at the nearest Eagles defender and signaling the first down.
Back in the huddle, Jay wiped sweat from his neck, jaw tight. “Man, that was all the catch,” he muttered, low and sharp, eyes already shifting off him.
Caine just bent, hands on his knees, pulling air into his lungs.
…
Caine dropped back, hand patting the ball as he went through his progressions. The pocket imploded around him.
He stepped back, putting his hand on the back of one of his linemen to push away and avoid getting rolled up on. He spun around and saw daylight flash, bolting for it.
Hands dragged on his jersey, pulled across his back, but he ripped free, legs pounding. Sideline open. He lowered his shoulder into a hit, barreled out fifteen yards down before the whistle cut.
He bent over, helmet tilted back, breath rasping loud in his ears. Shaw’s sideline barked wrap up until their throats cracked. He shoved the mouthguard back in, grinned once, and jogged back.
Matt smacked him on the helmet, shouting “Show ‘em that speed, big brudda!”
…
Coach Joseph flashed the signal from the sideline, and Caine barked it out, voice cutting through the noise. Jay jogged across the formation, sliding behind the line. Shaw’s safeties pointed, shouting, shifting hard to follow him.
Snap.
Ball in Caine’s hands, quick toss forward into Jay’s chest on the sweep. The defense chased like it was drawn for them—linebackers flowing wide, corner sprinting downhill.
Jay took two hard steps, then flipped the ball back. Caine caught it clean, rolled left. The field opened up—half their defense buried in the wrong direction.
He squared, feet heavy in the turf, and let it fly. Spiral cutting the air, Matt pulling it in downfield, crowd detonating before the whistle even hit.
Jay smirked once when they reset, nothing said. Like he’d written the play himself.
…
Fourth quarter. Clock bleeding. Caine crouched low, hands flexing on the laces, eyes slicing the defense. Shaw sold out—linebackers creeping, safeties already breaking.
“Go!” Caine shouted, the ball rifled toward him.
The pocket collapsed like jaws closing. Helmets hammered his chest, bodies pressed him back. He planted his cleats, felt ribs screaming, but held his eyes downfield.
A sliver opened—Tyron breaking once, free for half a breath. That was enough.
Caine let it rip a heartbeat before the hit folded him. Ball cut through the air, spiral tight, perfect. Tyron hauled it in on the run, end zone flashing under the lights. Touchdown.
Caine hit the turf, chest caved, lungs empty. For a second he lay flat, facemask grinding against rubber pellets, light searing his eyes. Then hands pulled him up, teammates slapping his helmet, shouting in his ears.
…
The scoreboard glared above, proof in numbers. Karr on top, Shaw bent double, hands on knees, coaches hoarse.
Caine crouched on the sideline, helmet dangling from his fingertips, chewing on his mouthpiece. Noise swelled around him—the band, the horns, the bleachers shaking. His vision stretched wide, always scanning around him.
He looked down the sideline and locked eyes with Coach Joseph.
The old man give him a slight nod before turning back to the field to shout instructions to the offense with Jay at quarterback for the final drive of the game.
Caine looked down at his hands, gloves muddied and battered from the turf. Still holding on.
~~~
The door rattled under Saul’s hand before he even twisted the knob, his palm slick with sweat. He yanked it open, and Zoe stepped in like she owned the place—eyes cutting left and right, sharp, sizing up the hallway as though someone might jump out.
“Anybody home?” she asked, lowering her voice.
Saul shrugged, leaning against the frame, trying to play it cool though his heart thudded loud in his chest. “Somebody always home here. My tias, abuela, my lil’ brother, cousins. Whole house full. My dad’s not here though. We can go to my room.”
Zoe raised her brows, lips quirking. “So when you say ‘your room,’ the word your doing a lot of work in that.”
He smirked, more out of reflex than confidence. “It’s mine enough.”
Zoe flicked her eyes toward the back of the house. “Maybe we just head out to the shed again. Just in case your mawmaw walks in lookin’ for socks or somethin’.”
Saul snorted but didn’t argue. “Bet.” He pulled the screen door open, the hinges squealing, and stepped onto the back porch. The air hit thick, heavy with September damp, the kind that clung to skin like another shirt. From blocks away drifted the muffled roar of a crowd, whistles cutting sharp through the stillness—Friday night football echoing across New Orleans.
The backyard grass crunched under his sneakers, dry in patches, muddy in others. A single bulb above the porch buzzed, throwing yellow light across the dirt path that led to the shed crouched at the back fence line. The shed smelled of oil and mildew even before they pulled the warped door open.
Zoe stepped inside first, brushing cobwebs off the frame. “Romantic,” she said, rolling her eyes but not pulling back.
Saul shut the door behind them, the noise of the football game fading to a low hum, replaced by the shed’s close, damp quiet.
“You got condoms?” she asked, casual but pointed.
“Yeah,” Saul said too fast. He glanced around. He knew he’d stashed them here—didn’t want to risk keeping them in the house. His gaze swept across shelves stacked with paint cans, old lawn tools, his grandpa’s rusted toolbox. Then he spotted the corner of a cardboard tab sticking out.
“There.” He tugged open the metal box, hand closing around the carton of Trojans. Relief pricked his chest—then it stalled. His eyes caught on something black wedged beneath the tray of wrenches.
The shape was wrong. Heavy. Cold just looking at it.
Zoe leaned against the wall, arms folded. “What’s up? You look like you seen a ghost.”
Saul didn’t answer right away. He reached in and lifted it out—a pistol, weighty in his hand. The metal smelled faintly of oil and dust. His throat tightened.
Zoe straightened. “Saul… what the fuck?”
He turned it over, careful, fingers stiff, like it might go off just from him breathing too close. The sight of it pulled something hard through his chest.
“Who’s that even for?” she pressed, voice sharper now.
Saul stared at the floor. “Probably Caine.”
The words slipped out flat, but they landed heavy. He pictured his cousin—Caine always watching, always tense, like the world was a setup waiting to happen.
Saul’s pulse pounded in his ears. He stared at the gun so long his hands started to shake. Finally, he set it down on the nearest shelf with a slow care, the clink of metal on wood too loud in the cramped shed.
Silence thickened in the shed, heavy as the air. Saul’s eyes stuck to the pistol on the shelf, breath tight in his chest. The shape of it seemed to pull all the sound out of the room.
Zoe stepped forward, slow, then reached out and caught the hem of his shirt between her fingers. She tugged once, gentle but sure.
“C’mon,” she said, voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Take this off.”
The words cut through his daze. Saul blinked, dragging his eyes off the gun and back to her. Her look wasn’t playful—more like she was pulling him out of a place she didn’t want him to sink into.
He swallowed, then grabbed the fabric himself and yanked the shirt over his head. Sweat clung to his skin, the bulb above throwing a weak light across the lines of his shoulders.
Zoe took it from him, letting the shirt drop from her hand, stepping in closer until her arm brushed against him. She kept her gaze steady on his face, not the weapon glinting on the shelf.
“Forget it,” she murmured, tilting her chin up toward him.
Saul nodded, though the weight of what he’d touched still pressed at the back of his mind.
~~~
The fieldhouse door slammed behind him, echoing against cinderblock before it died into the night. The air outside hit Caine heavy, hotter than inside, thick with grease smoke and car exhaust drifting low under Claiborne. His shirt clung to him, still wet with sweat. The roar of the game was fading, replaced by the scrape of cleats on pavement, parents calling out to kids, the hiss of traffic folding back over the city.
“Daddy!”
Camila broke loose from a cluster of people near the gate and sprinted, arms pumping, ponytail bouncing. Her sneakers slapped the concrete with every step until she threw herself into him. He caught her without flinching, the small body colliding into his chest with a thud. She latched onto his neck, breathless and loud, already spilling words about touchdowns, the band, the crowd chanting his name.
Caine pressed his face into her hair. She smelled like cotton candy, sticky against his cheek. His chest eased for the first time all night.
Mireya came behind, slower, steady. The stadium lights threw her face into sharp planes, shadows under her eyes. She didn’t say anything at first—just watched Camila wrapped tight around him. When Caine bent, his daughter still clinging, and kissed her, she let him. Quick, the taste of sweat and lip gloss, then she pulled back enough for him to see the set of her mouth.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, adjusting Camila’s weight on his shoulder. “Know you had to skip work for this.”
Her lips tucked inward, then parted again. “Worth it. I want her to see you play.”
Caine nodded, shifting his hold as Camila tugged at his ear. He was about to answer when a voice cut in from the side.
“Hell of a game, son.”
A man in an Alcorn State polo strode across the walkway, smile easy, tablet tucked under his arm. He carried himself like he had every right to be here.
Caine moved Camila to his other hip and reached out. “Appreciate it.”
“Jermaine Gales,” the man said. “Offensive coordinator, Alcorn. You kind of came outta nowhere, huh?”
Caine gave a short laugh that caught in his throat. “Yeah. Been away from the game a bit.”
Gales nodded like he knew exactly what that meant. His gaze slid to Camila, arms locked around her father’s neck. “That your little sister?”
Caine’s jaw tightened but relaxed when he looked down at Camila. “Nah. My daughter.” He tipped his chin toward Mireya. “That’s her mom.”
For the first time, Gales turned to Mireya. She dipped her head once, lips pressed flat, offering nothing else.
“Alright then,” Gales said, grin widening. “Got six myself. Listen—wanna get you out to Alcorn for a visit. You, and your family. Full scholarship. Everything paid. You just show up and do what you do best.”
The words hung in the air. Mireya shifted, arms folding tighter across her chest, shoulders drawing in. Her silence thickened, different now.
Camila tugged at Caine’s chin, asking if they could get nachos on the way home, her voice high and certain. He nodded absently, eyes still on the man in front of him.
Caine felt the truth clawing up his throat—that probation had him on a leash, that Mississippi might as well be another country. He clenched his jaw until it ached. “I’ll see about making it happen,” he said.
“Good man.” Gales pressed a card into his palm, fingers firm. “Keep in touch.”
And then he was moving again, already headed toward another family, another boy with sweat still drying on his skin.
Caine stayed rooted. Camila’s chatter dimmed into a hum against his neck, her small body heavier now as the game’s energy drained out of her. The card sweated in his fist.
“Mississippi, huh?” Mireya’s voice broke the quiet. Smooth on the surface, sharp beneath.
Caine shrugged, shifting Camila higher. “If it’s free.”
They walked toward the parking lot. Gravel cracked underfoot. Car doors slammed. Headlights swung across the blacktop, catching faces in passing flashes. Families peeled away, laughter and shouting thinning into the distance. The stadium lights hummed behind them, less bright now, the field already darkening.
Camila sagged in his arms, thumb pushed into her mouth, words finally spent. Her breath warmed his shoulder in slow bursts.
Caine stared straight ahead, the card pinched between his fingers. Every step felt heavier. Beside him, Mireya kept her arms crossed, lips pressed in.
)
She did find a way to get the work done.
