The hallway outside the foundation offices sat in that steady, over-conditioned cool that these buildings tended to have. Fluorescent lights buzzed in a low way overhead. Somewhere farther down, a copier hummed and then clicked to a stop.
He shifted his backpack higher on one shoulder and checked the room number on the plaque beside the door. McCray’s name sat under the Georgia Southern logo in neat black letters. Caine knocked on the door, three short staccato bursts.
The office opened up on the other side. A wide desk faced the door, laptop open, a couple of thin stacks of paper lined up clean along one edge. The blinds were half open behind it, slats cutting the late morning light into even pieces across the carpet.
Derrick McCray looked up from his screen. The second he saw who it was, his face split into a grin that went all the way through him. He pushed back from the chair and came up to his feet in one smooth motion, arms spreading wide like the room had just gotten better.
“How’s my favorite quarterback been?” he asked.
His voice filled the space, same easy warmth Caine had clocked the first time they met.
Caine stepped inside and let the door swing mostly shut behind him. The backpack strap bit into his shoulder a little. He shifted it off and slid the bag down the wall by the nearest chair, then crossed to the desk.
“Can’t complain,” he said.
His mouth edged into a quick half smile.
He pulled in closer to the desk and rested his fingers on the back of one of the chairs. “Just wanted to come talk to you about the package y’all showed me.”
Derrick’s eyebrows went up, interest sharpening. He didn’t sit back down right away. Instead he angled himself against the desk edge, palms spreading near the laptop, the line of his shoulders loose but his attention locked all the way in.
“You stalling because you’re expecting a better offer to come in from a Power Four school?” he asked.
The way he said it was plain. Just the question.
Caine shook his head once.
“Nah,” he said. “I’m just trying to get through the season. We fifteenth in the country now. We got a target on our backs.”
He let the words sit, but the truth of them sat solid inside him.
Derrick laughed, a big chest sound, and pushed off the edge of the desk so he could move back toward his chair.
“If I ain’t know any better,” he said, “I’d think you were trying to tell me that you’re leading us to a CFP spot and you want more money because of it.”
Caine spread his hands a little, palms up, as if to say what could he do. The grin came easier this time.
“You said it, not me,” he answered. “But I’m about to break a couple records, too.”
Derrick slid back into his chair, the leather giving a soft creak under his weight. One hand went to the mouse.
“Which ones?” he asked, eyes lifting back up to Caine’s face.
Caine shifted to the side of the chair instead of dropping into it yet. The space between them felt better with him still on his feet.
“All of ’em,” he said. “School and conference.”
The confidence in it wasn’t loud. It moved through his voice even.
Derrick’s eyebrows climbed. He turned back to the laptop in front of him, fingers already moving. Screens changed in quick flashes, the Georgia Southern logo fading into a stats page that pulled Caine’s name and number up from some database. Columns of numbers lined up beside game dates. Another tab opened, then another, until he had the school records on one side, Sun Belt single season marks on the other.
The room went quieter in that way where everything else kept going, just a little farther away. The faint hum of the vent over the door. A car rolling past outside. Caine watched Derrick’s eyes move over the screen, little flickers of calculation.
Derrick’s mouth tugged into a slow, disbelieving smile.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath, then louder with a quick shake of his head. “You’re not wrong.”
Caine let that land. His fingers drummed once against the back of the chair, a small rhythm he cut off before it turned into anything. He tilted his chin.
“I think that’s worth taking another look at them numbers,” he said. “And the conference championship we gonna win and CFP game we gonna play in.”
He didn’t lean on the words. The path was laid out in his head already.
Derrick pointed at him across the desk, laughter still riding his voice.
“I like you, kid,” he said. “Most freshmen aren’t coming in here and talking like this. Especially without an agent. Where’d you learn to negotiate?”
Caine’s shoulders rolled in a light shrug. The paper with his notes sat folded tight against his thigh inside his pocket. Numbers, neat in rows in that way he kept everything else in his life.
He let a chuckle come up, low.
“You ain’t never gonna guess,” he said.
Derrick shook his head, still smiling.
“I bet I wouldn’t,” he said. “So what were you thinking?”
For the first time since Caine had come in, the older man’s elbows settled on the desk, forearms braced, attention narrowed all the way down in a clean line. The laptop sat open and waiting off to one side, a graph still pulled up, but he wasn’t looking at it anymore. He was looking at Caine.
Caine reached into his pocket. His fingers slid past the smooth edge of his phone, then hooked behind it. He pulled the phone out, then the folded slip of paper tucked flat between the case and the back.
He smoothed it once with his thumb, then stepped forward and laid it on the desk between them. Ink marks lined the page in his handwriting. A couple of figures circled. Some underlines.
“First,” he said, eyes steady on Derrick, “I want to talk about the guaranteed money.”
Derrick nodded, his gaze dropping to the paper as he leaned forward.
~~~
The traphouse still held the morning in its walls. A window unit hummed in the corner and pushed out air that barely moved the smell of bleach, smoke, and cut dope.Trell stood in the middle of the front room with a Draco in each hand. The short barrels pointed at the floor. The metal caught the weak light from the single bulb overhead. Dust floated through it in slow specks.
Ant and the rest of Trell’s lieutenants ringed the room. Boogie leaned against the far wall near the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed. Yola posted up by the front window, blinds shut tight behind him. Dez stood half a step behind the others, shoulder near the peeling doorway to the hall. A couple more of Trell’s boys filled the gaps, chains bright against their shirts.
Nobody talked. Shoes scuffed once against cracked tile. Someone cleared his throat and let it die out.
Trell rolled both guns in his grip, wrists easy, testing the weight. When he spoke, his voice carried over the hum of the unit.
“I been telling y’all for months that we was gonna start making real money,” he said. “And now that we got a few dracs to make sure ain’t nobody fucking with our spots, we ain’t gotta keep half-stepping like we been doing like when P was running shit. It’s getting money season now.”
The room loosened a little. Heads nodded. One of the younger lieutenants gave a low “yeah” from near the corner. Another reached out and dapped up his partner, saying, “Bout time,” under his breath. Boogie pushed off the wall long enough to clap hands with the man nearest him, then settled his back again, mouth curved.
Trell lifted one of the Dracos and sighted down it across the empty wall. Then he lowered it and walked forward. The room shifted to let him through.
He stopped in front of Ant and held one of the guns out. Ant took it in both hands first, then let one palm drop to the grip. Trell’s eyes slid past him and settled on Dez.
He let that look sit there. Dez kept his shoulders square and his mouth closed. The old paint at his back flaked against his shirt.
Trell didn’t move the stare until he lifted the second gun. For a second it hung between him and Dez. Then he turned just enough to put it in Ant’s free hand too.
Ant’s fingers wrapped around the second Draco. Both guns sat easy against his chest, muzzles angled toward the ceiling.
Trell turned his head toward Yola. “Yola, my nigga, I need you making sure the money and weight safe and sound,” he said. “Pick a couple niggas to run with you but make sure they solid.”
Yola nodded once. His jaw flexed. “I can do that,” he said.
Boogie’s eyes cut from Yola back to Trell. “Fuck I’m gonna be doing then, bruh?” he asked.
Trell walked over to him, shoulder brushing one of the other men on the way. Up close, he shrugged. “You at the cookhouses full time,” he said. “I can’t trust them lil’ niggas to make sure them hoes not taking nothing off the top.”
Boogie sucked his teeth and pushed his tongue against his cheek. “C’mon, big brudda. That’s some new nigga shit.”
The words sat there.
Trell nodded slow and looked back toward Ant.
Ant set one of the guns down on the sagging couch cushion beside him. Springs squeaked under the weight. With the other, he reached up and pulled the charging handle back. Metal slid over metal, clean and loud. The sound cut across the room and settled in every chest.
Boogie lifted both hands, palms out, shoulders easing down. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I got you, big bro.”
Trell’s mouth crooked. “That’s what I thought, nigga.”
He scanned the room once, making sure every face had seen it. Then his focus landed on Dez again.
“Dez, you with me,” he said.
Every head turned with his. Dez stayed where he was. He didn’t say anything. His eyes held on Trell, then flicked once to Ant’s hand on the gun and came back. The wall at his back caught his weight.
Trell let the silence ride long enough to make the point, then broke it with a small nod. “Now, all y’all go get this money,” he said. “We gonna have some bitches here tonight for y’all.”
The promise pulled low laughs out of a few of them. Someone whistled short. A couple of the men moved first, heading for the door that led out to the back, shoulders bumping. Boogie followed, talking low to one of the others, words tucked into the shuffle of feet and the buzz of the window unit. Yola touched fists with Ant once and slipped out after them.
Dez hung back, letting the group thin out until it was just him, Trell, and Ant in the room.
He stayed by the doorway, fingers brushing his pocket once before he spoke. “What you want me to do?” he asked.
Trell snorted out a laugh through his nose. “You drove here?” he asked.
Dez nodded, confusion cutting across his face for a second.
“Good,” Trell said. “Because you driving me from now on.”
Dez blinked. “Huh?” he asked.
Trell didn’t answer. He turned and started walking toward the front door, shoulders already angled that way, focus off the room and onto whatever came next.
Ant bent, the motion easy under the weight in his arms. He placed both Dracos into a black duffel bag on the floor and pulled the zipper most of the way closed. Then he straightened and stepped over to Dez, one hand coming out to shove him toward the door.
“Get your fucking keys out, nigga,” Ant said.
Dez fumbled at his pocket as he stumbled, fingers tangling in the denim, keys catching on the fabric. Ant shoved him again, harder this time, the push almost knocking him off his feet. His shoe slid on the tile before he caught himself on the frame.
Ant shook his head once and followed behind Dez.
~~~
Mireya parked at the curb outside Elena’s apartment building and shut off the engine. The dashboard light faded, leaving the streetlamps and the glow from the upstairs windows to do the work. Somewhere down the block a TV game show yelled at nobody in particular. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and old grease from the corner unit that was always cooking something.She slung her bag over one shoulder, locked the car, and headed up the chipped concrete steps. Her keys clicked in her hand, metal tapping against her phone as she climbed. Paint flaked under her sneakers. She knew exactly which step dipped in the middle and stepped over it without thinking.
At the door she knocked twice, knuckles quick and sure. Then she twisted the knob and eased it open.
“Soy yo,” she called as she stepped inside. “Mireya.”
Heat came at her first, carrying the smell of pozole from the kitchen. Hominy, chile, pork, and the sharp edge of lime hit her nose all at once. The little apartment was bright in that narrow way, overhead light bouncing off tile and old cabinets.
Elena and Carmen were in the kitchen, shoulders almost touching in front of the stove. Carmen stood at the burner, slippers soft against the floor, a dish towel thrown over one shoulder. Elena leaned into the counter beside her, hip braced, phone in her hand.
Elena glanced back. “Hey.” Her eyes slid down, caught, then snapped wide. “Girl, since when you had abs?”
Mireya laughed under her breath as she crossed the kitchen, bag sliding down off her shoulder onto the nearest chair without her looking. She moved between them toward the stove, drawn toward the steam, and leaned in just enough to glance into the pot.
Carmen’s hand came out fast. She swatted at Mireya’s fingers when she reached for the spoon.
“One of my classmates convinced me to do that Orangetheory stuff,” Mireya said, pulling her hand back, smile still there.
Elena let out a low whistle, head tilted as she looked at her. “Let me know when you go next time. I’m trying to get like you.”
“Ah ah ah,” Carmen said, the sound sharp as she went back to stirring. “You don’t need to do any of that. Mireya already has una hija. You still need to find a man and have one y no puedes hacerlo con dureza y firmeza como un hombre.”
Mireya laughed again. Elena rolled her eyes in a full circle that made her bun sway.
The heat from the stove pressed against Mireya’s face. She stepped away from it and moved back to the table, dropping into one of the chairs. The wood creaked a little under her. She set her forearms on the table, fingers laced loosely.
“Can you watch Camila the weekend after next?” she asked, eyes on Elena.
Elena turned all the way around, leaning her lower back against the counter this time, arms braced behind her. “The whole weekend?”
Mireya nodded once. “Or a day or two. I can ask Sara to do the rest.”
“Yeah, sure. Why?” Elena asked.
“Going out of town,” Mireya said.
Carmen looked back over her shoulder at that, spoon paused over the pot. “Thought you took her to Georgia with you.”
“Not this time,” Mireya said. Her thumb rubbed at a small groove in the table’s edge. “She’s getting cranky with all the flying and we’re going back this weekend and the last one of the month.”
Carmen sucked her teeth and went back to stirring. “I don’t know why you fly now. Es muy caro. Much easier to drive, no?”
Mireya shook her head. “It’s not too bad. Just a couple hundred dollars for both of us.”
Elena laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Yeah, three times a month.”
Mireya lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Well, the season’s almost over.”
“¿Has hablado con tu mamá?” Carmen asked, eyes still on the pot.
“No,” Mireya said. Her voice came out flat, landing heavy in the warm little kitchen.
“She’s concerned about you,” Carmen said.
Mireya pulled in a breath through her nose, let it out slow. “No me importa.”
Elena shifted, pushing off the counter so she could face her fully. “You know she loves Camila.”
Mireya stood up, the chair legs scraping across the tile. “And she still kicked both of us out.”
She walked over to Carmen and slipped an arm around her, hugging her from the side, careful of the spoon in Carmen’s hand. The smell of broth and meat rose up between them.
“Save some for me, tia,” she said against her shoulder.
“You can wait and have some,” Carmen said.
Mireya straightened and waved the comment off with a small flick of her fingers. “I have to get to work.”
Elena looked up at the clock on the wall, tongue clicking against her teeth. “Still don’t know how you work the graveyard shift.”
Mireya just shrugged, bag strap caught in her hand now and headed for the door.
~~~
The PTA meeting crawled. Folding chairs squeaked every time someone shifted. Papers rustled. A man at the front droned into the mic about pickup procedures and “appropriate snack options,” his voice flattening into one long sound that pressed on Laney’s skull.
She sat near the middle of the room with her purse at her feet and her phone facedown in her lap. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The air smelled like dry erase cleaner and old carpet, with a faint sweetness from the cookies somebody had brought and left untouched on the back table.
Another parent stood to complain about the car line. Someone else countered with a complaint about field trip fees. A woman three rows ahead nodded hard at every sentence, her earrings swinging. The whole thing washed together until Laney stopped trying to follow any of it.
Her phone buzzed once against her palm.
She flipped it over under the lip of the table. Caine’s name sat at the top of the screen with a short line under it. She read it, the corners of her mouth tipping up before she caught herself. The droning at the front kept going.
She typed back, thumb quick, and hit send. The little delivered bar slid across. His answer came back almost right after, the gray bubble popping up, then the new text. Her smile edged a little wider as she read it. The buzz in her chest had nothing to do with the mic.
The second vibration hit different.
She swiped away from Caine’s thread and opened the new message. Tommy’s name filled the top of the screen.
The boys are hungry and it’s already getting late. Tell me when you leave the meeting.
The words sat there blunt and bare. Laney stared at them for a beat, her mouth going flat again. The meeting noise thinned into background. She angled the phone a little farther into the shadow of her lap and took a screenshot.
She swiped back to Caine, tapped the paperclip, and dropped the screenshot into their thread. Her thumbs moved.
He’s fishing
She sent it. A small breath eased out of her when his reply came through.
Sounds like you been through this before
She huffed once under her breath, the sound quick and quiet. Three laughing emojis rolled out under her thumbs and went through. She didn’t add anything else.
Up front, someone finally said, “We’ll wrap this up,” and papers shuffled louder. The chair legs scraped as people stood. Laney slid her phone into her purse, stood with everyone else, and reached down to hook the strap over her shoulder.
She started toward the door with the group, already reaching back into the purse to grab her phone again and type out a quick I’m leaving now to Tommy. The room felt smaller with everyone talking at once, bodies bumping as they squeezed through the center aisle.
“Laney!”
The voice came in behind her. Light footsteps hurried to catch up. A hand closed around her forearm just above the elbow, stopping her before she hit the hallway. Laney turned her head.
Mere stood there a little out of breath, hair frizzing around her face where the humidity had finally gotten to it. She gave Laney a bright smile that faltered when Laney didn’t give one back.
“You were booking it out of here, girl,” Mere said. “I know your husband just got home but damn.”
Laney looked at her, face still. No laugh. No softening. The silence stretched long enough that Mere’s smile twitched at the edges.
Mere let out a small, nervous laugh that didn’t find anything to land on. “Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat, her hand dropping from Laney’s arm. “Me and the girls were talking before the meeting and you know we have the teacher of the year ceremony and all coming up Friday. We thought you’d be great to make sure that goes off without a hitch. You’re always so good at making things happen.”
Laney did not bother dressing it up. “No,” she said.
Mere blinked, still halfway turned toward the door like she expected Laney to walk with her. “So, it starts at six, but we need everything set up by four thirty, four forty-five. Look, Lizzie has all the stuff at her house and you can get Roger—”
She finally heard herself, the plans she was building on something Laney hadn’t given her. Her voice cut off mid-name. Her eyes searched Laney’s face again.
“You said no?” Mere asked.
“I said I ain’t doin’ it,” Laney answered.
Mere’s eyebrows climbed. Concern crept into her features. She reached out again, lighter this time, fingertips brushing Laney’s hand. “I hope you haven’t gotten that crud that’s going around,” she said. “Everyone’s been getting sick.”
Laney shook her head once. “I ain’t sick,” she said. “I just ain’t doin’ it.”
Mere’s hand dropped back to her side. “Oh,” she said, the word small. Then, again, “Oh.”
Laney tipped her chin in a short nod that closed the conversation. “You have a good night, now.”
She stepped around Mere and merged into the thin line of parents heading for the exit. The hallway lights buzzed overhead. Voices bounced off cinderblock and tile as people talked about homework and bedtimes and who was bringing what to the next class party.
Laney pressed her back against the wall for a second to let a cluster of moms with oversized tote bags squeeze past. Once the hall opened up, she moved on, the strap of her own bag cutting a familiar line into her shoulder.
At the doors she pulled her phone back out, thumb already moving. She opened Tommy’s thread and typed without pausing.
I’ll be home in 10 minutes
She hit send before she pushed the bar on the door. The night air met her as she stepped outside, cooler than the stale school hallway. Cars idled in the lot, headlights cutting across the front walk. A few parents lingered on the sidewalk, still talking.
Laney crossed the concrete and cut toward her van. The gravel under her shoes shifted and crunched. She unlocked the door with one thumb, then swiped back to her messages before she climbed in.
She opened the thread with Caine. The last thing there was his line and her three laughing emojis. She scrolled up just enough to see more of it, eyes running over earlier messages, making sure this was the right conversation. Then she scrolled back down, set her thumb on the text box, and typed.
What you doing at 6 Friday?
Or, maybe since we never saw the interaction with Boogie, he straight. Dez is the one Trell worried about.
Also, Trell could've completed a completely normal business transaction for that.
yall always jumping the gun