The horn had barely died when the band punched back in, brass cutting through the heat like a clean edge. Bleachers clattered, whistle lanyards snapped against chests, somebody dumped a cooler and water ran into the painted dust at the sideline. The scoreboard held the only thing that mattered to the crowd—4-0—numbers bright enough to stain the night.
Caine rolled the tape off his wrist and felt the sweat turn tacky in the air. Grease and powdered sugar drifted over from the concession stand, fighting with the bite of bleach from a mop bucket someone kicked near the gate. He scanned like he always did—exit points, who was looking at who, a cluster of alumni in polos, a cop leaning on his heel near the fence pretending he wasn’t clocking faces.
“Caine?” a voice said, close enough to be friendly, not close enough to be presuming.
He turned. A man in a red script polo, visor tucked into his belt, laminated credential swinging off a lanyard. Hand already out, easy smile that looked practiced but not cheap.
“Tim Leger,” he said. “UL.”
Caine wiped his palm quick on his towel and took the shake. “Yes, sir.”
“Good win,” Leger said, eyes on Caine’s face more than the scoreboard. “Y’all handled your business.”
Caine gave the smallest nod. “We did what we supposed to.”
They stood sideways to the flow of bodies shuffling off the track—parents corralling little kids, somebody laughing loud into a phone, a teammate sprinting past barefoot with cleats in his hand. The band’s tubas thumped hard enough to rattle the metal rail under Caine’s fingers.
Leger’s voice settled low, steady. “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to make sure you know—South Alabama ain’t gonna be the only folks in your ear. We’re in it. We like you. A lot.” He let that sit, all confidence, no rush. “We’d like to get you over to Lafayette. Official.”
Caine’s mouth went tight on one side, eyes flicking once toward the family gate like habit. Close enough to drive. Close enough to get back if somebody called about Camila. Close enough to not feel like leaving everything. He kept his voice mild. “When you thinking?”
“Couple weeks,” Leger said. “We’ll work around your schedule. Friday through Sunday is the usual, but we can flex. I know you got… a lot.” He didn’t say more, didn’t nose into what wasn’t his.
Caine appreciated that more than he’d say out loud. “I’ll need to check a few things,” he said. “But I can look at it.”
Leger nodded like that was the answer he expected. He slid a card from the small pocket on his sleeve—name, number, the block U/over L in the corner. “Call or text. If your mama wants to talk, give her my number too. We’ll do it right—no confusion, no pressure.”
A teammate yelled Caine’s name from ten yards away, already forgetting whatever he’d shouted when he saw who Caine was standing with. Leger clocked the interruption, didn’t compete with it.
“Here’s our pitch, plain,” Leger said, voice easy. “You’re a fit in what we do. We’ll put the ball in your hands, let you be you. And you don’t gotta be five states over to do it. Your people can come. You can go home for a Sunday dinner. Close enough to matter.”
Close enough to matter. The words landed in the space Caine kept taped off in his chest, the part that did math on gas money and court dates and daycare, the part that remembered the weight of Camila asleep against his forearm and the scissor-snap of Roussel keeping him on a tight leash. He watched Leger’s face the way he watched a safety creeping down—angles, tells, whether the smile matched the eyes.
“What about timing?” Caine asked. “Season stuff.”
“You get here, you’ll see it,” Leger said. “We got a room full of competitors and a staff that ain’t scared to play the best one. We’re not scared of work. You don’t look like you are either.”
“I’m not,” Caine said, and it came out easy because it was true.
The PA squealed, somebody’s uncle tried to start a chant and failed. Leger shifted half a step so he wasn’t blocking Caine’s view of the field. Respectful. Clocking the same things Caine was, just from a different life.
“I know everybody says the same stuff,” Leger added, a short shrug toward the noise. “That’s recruiting. I ain’t gonna sell you a dream. I’m telling you we want you, we see you, and we’re close. That matters for folks—especially folks who got folks counting on them.”
Caine’s thumb rubbed at the edge of the card, feeling the raised ink. “You talked to Coach?” he asked, not specifying which one. The ones that mattered knew who they were.
“We’ll touch base,” Leger said. “I wanted to look you in the eye first.”
A whistle blew short, three chirps. The field lights hummed like bees. Caine’s phone buzzed in his pocket—one buzz, then quiet. He didn’t check it. If it was urgent, there’d be more. He put the card in the zipper pouch where he kept the things that couldn’t get lost.
“I appreciate you coming out,” he said.
“Get used to it,” Leger said, not cocky so much as sure. “You keep stacking wins, folks gonna keep showing up.” He tipped his chin toward the family gate. “I know you’ll make the best call for you. Let us be in that conversation.”
Caine nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Leger stuck his hand out again. Caine took it. Firm. No squeeze games. When they let go, Leger tucked the visor back onto his head and slid sideways into the human river heading toward the parking lot, answering a dad who had already started talking at him like a cousin.
Caine exhaled slow and let the hum of the place fold around him. The sweat cooled on his skin and left a salt line at his hairline. He touched it with the back of his wrist and tasted metal in his mouth—adrenaline tapering off. A little kid in a too-big Karr tee latched onto his shin and said something that sounded like “good job” with three syllables. Caine grinned down, patted the boy’s head, and the kid’s mama scooped him up with an apology Caine waved away.
He looked up at the scoreboard one more time. 4-0 in white light, Holy Cross already fading to the part of memory where names become noise and only the feeling stays. He picked up his bag and slipped the strap across his shoulder. The band shifted into a song every New Orleans kid knew by muscle memory; the drums ricocheted against the metal under his feet. Close enough to matter kept repeating, a phrase he couldn’t shut off even if he wanted to.
~~~
The bleachers rattled with every stomp, kids shaking metal like it was part of the music. Brass rolled out heavy from the band, the drums snapping fast enough to keep the crowd loud between plays. Heat still clung to the night, sticky and restless, carrying fried dough sugar and fryer grease on top of sweat.
Tyree slipped into an open spot halfway up, fries balanced in a paper boat on his knee, salt dusting his fingertips. A couple girls in jean shorts glanced back at him, whispering behind their hands before one leaned forward.
“You greedy, huh? Didn’t even ask if we wanted some.”
Tyree didn’t look up from his food right away. He let a fry hang between his fingers, then smirked. “Y’all want fries. You got fry money?”
Her friend nearly spit out her Coke laughing. “Boy, please. They charge seven dollars for those little-ass fries.”
“Then y’all broke and hungry. Don’t make that my problem.” He popped the fry into his mouth, chewing slow.
Behind him, the bleachers shook harder when the band hit a brass line. Somebody’s dad a few rows down cursed at the ref, voice cracking from yelling all night. Kids ducked under legs to squeeze through the rows, shoes squeaking, perfume clouding behind them.
Tyree’s pocket buzzed.
He fished out his phone, thumb dragging across the cracked screen.
Ramon: say lil’ bih. Got that jog in slidell set up.
Another text slid in right under it.
E.J.: where you at?
Tyree smirked, typed one word—cooling—and sent it. He slid the phone back into his hoodie and went back to his fries.
“Damn, those mine now,” the girl behind him said, reaching over and snatching one before he could stop her.
He gave her a look sharp enough to sting, but he didn’t snatch the fry back. “That’s interest. Next one cost you a kiss.”
Her eyes widened, then she laughed, shoving her friend. “He think he smooth.”
“You still eating my shit though,” Tyree said.
His phone buzzed again.
Ramon: stop playing with them schoolgirls, nigga. We live.
He ignored it.
The boy sitting next to him leaned over, smelling like too much cologne. “Bruh, where you get them 97s? My cousin been hunting for those.”
Tyree stuck his leg out so the shoe caught the stadium lights. “Came straight out the store. Like normal people do.”
“Cap. Them sold out.”
“Not if you know who to call.” He said it flat, no explanation. The boy sat back, nodding slow, like he’d just been checked.
More kids shuffled up the stairs with trays of nachos, their cheese sloshing over the edges. A girl tripped on a bleacher step, caught herself on Tyree’s shoulder.
“My bad,” she said, breathless.
“You good,” he answered, brushing at his hoodie where she left a handprint.
Buzz.
E.J.: nigga clock ticking
Tyree cracked a smile, typed: yall got it. i’m coolin tonight. He sent it before he could think twice.
The row of girls behind him started arguing about who got caught sneaking out last weekend. One bragged she made it back before sunrise; the other swore her mama found out anyway. Their voices tangled with the band’s horns until everything felt like one big hum.
Tyree leaned back, balancing his tray on his chest. Salt stuck to his lips. He licked it off, then tapped a rhythm against the side of the tray with his thumb, keeping time with the drumline.
The girl who stole his fry leaned forward again. “So you just gon’ sit there all quiet, acting like you don’t see me?”
He tilted his head toward her, deadpan. “I already saw you. That’s enough.”
She laughed harder this time, covering her mouth. Her friend shook her head. “You a fool.”
His phone buzzed one more time.
Ramon: 10-4. Get up with us tomorrow.
E.J.: send one of them catholic bitches this way. And tell ‘em bring the skirt
Tyree chuckled, slid the phone back into his pocket. His knee bounced once, then stopped.
A little kid with a cowbell clanged it out of rhythm, sitting two rows down. He leaned back and hollered up at Tyree, “You even watchin’ the game?”
Tyree leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m watchin’ everything.”
The kid nodded like that was the right answer and went back to ringing the bell until somebody smacked him on the back of the head.
Tyree finished the last of his fries, wadded up the greasy paper, and tossed it into the aisle. Some freshman stepped over it like it wasn’t even there. The bleachers kept shaking. The band kept playing. His phone stayed quiet for once.
For the first time in a while, Tyree didn’t move. He just sat there, hoodie sticking to his neck, hands loose on his knees, crowd noise buzzing so loud it drowned out everything else.
~~~
The cab of the truck smelled like sweat, smoke, and the stale lemon wipe Leo used when he bothered to clean it out. Kayla leaned back in the passenger seat, hair clinging damp at her temples, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. Her nails were chipped with faint blue polish, the kind that peeled easy. She didn’t look at Leo when she reached for the visor mirror, just enough to check her face before snapping it shut again.
Leo zipped his pants, the teeth of the zipper loud in the cramped space. He leaned across her without asking, popped the glove box, and thumbed through the roll of money shoved inside. The rubber band around it was stretched thin, bills soft from too much folding. He peeled a couple twenties free like he was skimming cards, dropped them in her lap.
Kayla pinched the edge of one, tucked it into the pocket of her jeans, and kept the other in her hand. “Can I get a little extra?” she asked, voice thin but steady. “I need to buy something for school.”
Leo cut his eyes at her, already tucking the roll back into the glove box. “School? You ain’t in college.”
Kayla just shrugged. Her shoulder brushed the door. “Still need stuff.”
He stared at her a beat too long, lips pressing like he was deciding how much patience he had left. Then he pulled out another twenty, flicked it at her chest. It slid down into her lap. “There. Don’t say I don’t take care of you.”
She picked it up without smiling, folding it into her fist.
“Bus money too?” she asked after a pause. Her eyes flicked toward the windshield, not at him.
Leo sucked his teeth, shaking his head slow. He dug a ten out like it hurt, slapped it against her thigh. “That’s it. Don’t get greedy.”
Kayla tucked it all together, folded tight like she was scared it’d vanish. She stuffed the wad down the front pocket of her hoodie, then popped the handle and pushed the door open. The outside air rushed in thick with heat and trash rot from the dumpster nearby.
“Thanks,” she muttered, half out of the truck already.
“Don’t thank me,” Leo said, straightening his shirt and running a hand across his jaw like he was checking for stray marks. “Remember who you call.”
Kayla’s sneakers hit the gravel. She shut the door harder than she meant to, making the frame shudder. She didn’t wait for him to say more, just slung her backpack higher and started walking fast toward the bus stop at the corner.
Leo watched her go until she slipped past the fence line. He pulled the rearview toward himself, checking his hair quick, then clicked the glove box shut. He grabbed his phone from the cup holder, swiped across the screen, and shoved it into his pocket before stepping out.
The night air clung heavy. A moth smacked against the buzzing bulb above the back door of the building, wings frantic against glass. Gravel crunched under his boots as he rounded the corner.
The roll-up door was half open, shadows spilling out. Inside, the smell shifted—less smoke, more old wood, and the sour tang of mildew. Leo called out as he stepped in, voice easy like he owned the place.
“Yo, Mr. Willie! You got my uncle’s money or what?”
An older man’s voice came from deeper inside, gruff with age. “You late.”
Leo smirked, brushing dust off his shirt. “I’m here now, ain’t I?”
His silhouette cut sharp against the light behind him as he walked in further, the sound of bills being counted carrying through the open space.
Outside, the bulb kept buzzing, moths beating themselves to death against the glass.
~~~
The concrete yard breathed heat even after sunset, the kind that stuck to the back of your neck and made paper feel damp at the edges. Diesel hung in the air with the bite of something chemical; a forklift beeped lazy in reverse on the far side of the lot. Mireya had her hip pressed to the bed of the flatbed while the driver—Terry, red ball cap sweat-stained white at the brim—dug around in a glove box for the bill of lading he swore he had.
“There,” he said, producing a wrinkled stack. “Got two drops on this ticket, but they only signed one time.”
Mireya took it without a word. Pen in her fingers, clipboard steady against her palm, she read quick, eyes skimming for bad handwriting and missing initials. Her hair stuck to her temple. She blew it away with a tight puff of breath, kept writing.
Behind her, from near the trailer steps, Kike’s voice came oily and loud: “Mireya.”
She didn’t turn. The name floated past like a gnat. She put her nail to a smudged number and re-wrote it, neat.
Kike again, closer. “Mireya.”
Terry tipped his chin toward the office. “You want me to—”
“I’m good,” she said, quick. “Sign here. Date it. And put your truck number in this box.” She tapped the spot with the pen, the way she’d tapped a hundred times this month, the motions living in her hand even when her brain was too tired for anything else.
Kike’s boots scraped the gravel as he came down to the lot. Mireya flipped to the second page. “You missing the PO. What’s the number?”
Terry checked his phone with grease-black thumbs. “Uh, 4487-B.”
She wrote it in, clean block print. “Initial where you changed it.” She set her finger on the margin and waited. He scrawled, pen tearing the damp fiber a little.
“Mireya, oye,” Kike said, now at her shoulder. “Guerita.”
She kept her eyes on the paper. “Make it quick.”
Terry shifted his weight, aware now that he was standing in something that wasn’t about him. He handed the clipboard back like it might bite him.
Kike fell into step on her other side when she moved toward the office door. “I gotta talk to you.”
“You talking.” She didn’t speed up. Didn’t slow.
He leaned in, breath sour with coffee and cigarettes. “When you gon’ let me fuck, huh? Since you fucking el gringito.”
Gravel popped under her boot. The fluorescent over the office door buzzed, a moth tapping itself stupid against the lens. Mireya avoided the doorway light and stopped in the shadow beside the ice chest. She turned just enough to show him her face, not enough to give him the full of it.
“I’m not fucking anyone,” she said, each word even, “but Caine.”
Kike smiled like a crack opening in concrete. “Yeah? I know you did.” His voice got soft in the way men used when they wanted to bruise without leaving a mark. “And I’ma start telling people you did. See if CPS like a little girl’s mama fucking random men behind the shop.”
The words clicked into place like a safety coming off. Heat moved under her skin, not shame, not fear—calculation. She put the clipboard down on the ice chest lid slow, set the pen across it, and finally gave him the full of her face.
“If you do that,” she said, voice low enough that Terry—hovering by the flatbed, pretending to check a strap—couldn’t hear, “I’m calling ICE and telling them you used to sneak into your little sister’s room and sniff her chones.”
Kike’s jaw twitched. “Watch your mouth.”
“I’ll call them right now. Speak real slow, slow enough for the lady on the phone to type it right.” Her hand didn’t shake. “They’ll be happy to deport you. Real happy.”
He stepped closer, chest almost touching hers, breath fogging the space between like the night had gotten colder. “You lying.”
She didn’t blink. “Fucking try me.”
He flinched at the word—not the curse, the verb.
“You think they won’t check?” she went on, softer now, dangerous. “They don’t like pedos in Mexico either.”
For a second his eyes went flat. Then he glanced past her, toward the office window where the blind was never fully closed, where shadows moved if anybody inside cared to move them. He clicked his tongue. Played at a laugh.
“Ain’t nobody care. You ain’t shit,” he said, too casual.
“Then it shouldn’t matter what I say, right?” she answered.
The forklift beeped again in the distance, backing up, backing up, like the whole yard had decided at once to make space. Sweat ticked from her hairline down the side of her neck into the collar of her hoodie. She didn’t touch it. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her fidget.
Terry cleared his throat behind them, trying to return the world to the one with signatures and stamps. “You need me to—uh—drop this back there, miss?”
Mireya didn’t look at him. “Leave it on the counter.” Her eyes stayed on Kike. “¿Ya terminaste?”
Kike’s jaw flexed, but he stepped aside, just enough.
Mireya didn’t flinch. She lifted the clipboard, pen steady in her grip, and walked straight past him. His shoulder shifted like he wanted to block her again, but he didn’t.
The yard air clung hot and sour as she crossed back toward the trailer. Gravel popped under her boots, every step louder than it should’ve been. She didn’t turn to see if he was still watching.
At the door, she pulled it open hard enough to make the hinge shriek. Inside, the hum of the AC was weak, stale. But it was quiet. Away from him.
She let the door swing shut behind her and didn’t look back.
~~~
The Landry house breathed cool air into the heat that clung to Sara and Caine’s skin from the walk up the block. Ashley opened the door with a practiced smile, but when her eyes landed on Sara, the expression flickered — surprise cutting through before she smoothed it over.
“Hi. Come in,” she said quickly, stepping aside.
Sara nodded once, steady. “Thank you.” Caine shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder, lifted two fingers in a small wave, and followed his mother inside.
Quentin’s voice came from the kitchen. “Y’all made it?”
“We here,” Caine said. Then, softer: “Yes, sir.”
Quentin came around the corner with a towel over his shoulder, smiling, and put a hand on Caine’s arm, steering them toward the dining room. “Come on, food’s hot.”
The table was set clean — plates, glasses, a sweating pitcher of water. The hum of a ceiling fan cut through the quiet as they found their seats. Sara sat straight-backed, her work clothes neat, hair pulled into a low bun. Caine followed her lead, keeping his head down but his eyes moving — a habit he couldn’t shake, scanning doorways and windows even here.
Ashley set a serving spoon down, then poured water into glasses. Her eyes returned to Sara, almost against her will. “I didn’t expect… how old are you?”
Sara’s fork paused, but she didn’t bristle. “Nineteen when I had him,” she said evenly. Her tone was matter-of-fact, not defensive. “Life didn’t wait on me to be older.”
Ashley opened her mouth, then closed it again, guilt flashing across her face.
Sara softened the edge with a small, tired smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not ashamed of it. Caine’s the reason I keep moving.”
Ashley nodded, relieved. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Sara said, voice calm. “It’s fine.” She turned toward Quentin then, her eyes holding. “But I do need to thank you. You didn’t have to put your neck out, convincing Markus to take his case. I know what that means.”
Quentin leaned back, serious now. “Didn’t want to see another young man lost in the system.”
Sara gave a faint smile, weary but real. “I know. And I appreciate you seeing him as more than just a case file.”
Caine shifted in his seat, discomfort clear in the set of his jaw. Quentin, maybe sensing it, shifted the conversation toward him. “You started thinking about college yet? Deadlines sneak up.”
Caine kept his eyes low. “Been looking,” he muttered.
“You’ve got time if you start now,” Quentin said. “We can lay it out — dates, what they ask for. Pick a few schools that make sense.”
Sara’s hand touched Caine’s wrist under the table, a quiet signal. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Paso por paso.”
…
Ashley refilled Sara’s glass herself. “Here,” she said softly. “Thank you both for coming.”
Sara nodded. “Thank you for having us.” Her voice caught slightly, but she steadied it. “And… I owe you an apology too, Ashley. For before. I wouldn’t know how to react if someone had committed a crime against me either.”
Caine raised his head just enough. “I’m sorry, too.”
The table went quiet for a breath. Then the sound of silverware picked up again, grounding them. The ceiling fan whirred overhead.
From the hall, socked feet slapped wood, and a Landry child slid into the doorway. “Mama, can I have water?”
Ashley stood, flustered. “I’m sorry—excuse me.” She poured a small glass, crouched, and passed it carefully. “Two hands, remember.”
Caine smiled faintly. “It’s fine. Everybody at this table a parent.”
Ashley let out a quiet laugh, shoulders loosening. “True.”
The child gulped half the glass and darted back down the hall, leaving the adults with the echoes of small chaos.
The conversation drifted into easier ground. Quentin sketched deadlines onto a scrap sheet, noting testing dates and application windows. Sara leaned closer, reading upside down, nodding as though committing each number to memory.
“Paperwork is violence,” she muttered, almost to herself.
Ashley’s mouth tugged in agreement. “Feels like it, most days.”
Quentin slid the page closer to Caine. “Write a couple schools down. Places you’d want.”
Caine’s hand hovered over the pen, then moved slow. He printed carefully, one letter at a time. Sara watched him with quiet pride layered under exhaustion.
“Good,” Quentin said. “We’ll keep building.”
Sara folded her hands, looked between the couple. “Gracias. For giving him this chance. For seeing him.”
Ashley shook her head lightly. “Mamas gotta help mamas.”
Caine capped the pen, left it on the paper. “I appreciate this,” he said. “Both of you.”
Ashley met his eyes. “We’re trying,” she said. “All of us.”
The hum of the fan filled the pause. Outside, the heat pressed against the windows, but inside the cool held for a little longer.
