Neighborhood.

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 2
"Motherfucker can’t guard me!" Dame barked, tapping the top of his head and smirking as he jogged back on defense. "I thought he was supposed to be All-Defense!"

Keshawn slammed the ball against his palm before tossing it to Thomas for the inbound. Coach Billups had divided them into two units for the scrimmage, experimenting with Keshawn at the point for the second team while Dame ran the first. It wasn't going well.

Keshawn called out the offensive set, trying to keep his voice steady as he brought the ball up. He signaled the play with his left hand, a simple high pick-and-roll designed to create space.

Thomas set the screen, and Keshawn used it to drive middle, only to find a help defender waiting for him there. He kicked it out to Josh Okogie, the free agent signing from Houston, who clanked the three pointer.

Donovan grabbed the rebound and kicked it out to Dame who called for a screen, getting Keshawn off him before rising for the three, which effortlessly went in. It was just one of those days.

"That's what a real pick and roll looks like, young blood!" Dame shouted, loud enough for the entire gym to hear.

"Fucking guard me, then," Keshawn shot back, the constant barking starting to get to him.

"You ain’t said nothing but a word,” Dame pushed Toumani out of the way, lowering into his defensive stance as he got in front of Keshawn who approved the top of the key.

Keshawn dribbled once, twice, feeling the rhythm. Even at his advanced age, Dame was quicker, but Keshawn had eight inches and forty pounds on him. He backed Dame down, one dribble at a time, feeling the smaller man fighting to hold his ground.

"I’m good!" he shouted, waving the help defense as it turned into a glorified one-on-one game.

Two more power dribbles and Keshawn had him under the basket. He spun baseline, gathered, and exploded upward. Dame tried to contest, but Keshawn was already above him, cocking the ball back with his right hand before hammering it through the rim.

The backboard shuddered. Several players on the sideline jumped to their feet, shouting.

"Little ass nigga!" he shouted in Dame’s face, who quickly shoved him.

Scoot was there suddenly, getting between them. Donovan grabbed Keshawn from behind while Deni stepped in front of Dame. Bodies crowded the paint as coaches and players rushed to separate them.

…

Keshawn turned the key in his front door, shoulders still tight from practice. He pushed open the door and was surprised to see her although he shouldn’t been. She was lounging on the couch, scrolling through her phone before looking up and smiling.

"Long day?" she asked, setting her phone down.

"I guess," he dropped his bag by the kitchen island.

"I can run you a bath," she said, joining him in the kitchen. "Epsom salts and everything. Doctor Candace's orders."

"You don’t have to—"

"Shut up and get in there before it gets cold," she gave him a gentle push toward the bathroom. "I figured you would need it."

The bathroom was steamy, the tub already filled. Keshawn stripped down and lowered himself into the heat, his long limbs barely fitting. He had wanted to remodel the bathroom but had been talked out of it by his father, calling it a starter home. The water enveloped his sore muscles, and he let his head fall back against the tub's edge, closing his eyes.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged in sweats and a t-shirt to find Candace plating food in the kitchen. Grilled chicken, sweet potatoes, and what seemed like a mountain of roasted vegetables.

"Trevor sent you his recipes?" he asked, sliding onto a stool at the counter.

"Something like that," she laughed.

They ate quietly, Keshawn too exhausted for much conversation. Afterward, they hung out on the couch where she'd set up the Normatec recovery boots.

As the boots pulsed around his legs, Candace settled next to him on the couch, her fingers absently stroking his arm.

"So," she said, "Your parents get in Friday night?"

Keshawn nodded. "Yeah, they’re staying downtown."

"I was thinking maybe some seafood," she continued, her voice casual but with an undercurrent of excitement. "I would ask Trevor to fly in but I feel like that sends the wrong message."

"Why you say that?" Keshawn chuckled.

"They’re gonna think I can’t cook," she let out a small laugh, "You not nervous about them meeting me?"

"Not really," he answered too quickly. "I mean, I guess. They’re not exactly used to all of this. They’re like regular, you know."

"And I'm not exactly the traditional girl-next-door type," she finished for him.

"It's not that," Keshawn shook his head. "They're gonna love you. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"They've never met a girlfriend before. You're the first."

Candace's eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across her face. "Wait, seriously? Like, ever?"

Keshawn shook his head. "Nope."

"Oh my god," she laughed, covering her mouth. "You were a total loser in high school, weren't you? Mr. Big Shot NBA player couldn't get a date to prom?"

"I didn’t say all of that," he protested weakly.

"Yeah, right," she playfully rolled her eyes, "No wonder you're so clueless sometimes."

"I'm not clueless," he argued, but he couldn't help smiling at the way she was looking at him.

…

"Good looking on handling that situation with them Long Beach faggots," Rafael said, his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond their table. His eyes flicked toward the guards before returning to Trey's face.

Trey's face didn’t betray any emotions. It seldom did these days. "It needed handling."

"That it did," Rafael nodded. "Them Insane motherfuckers been stepping out of line for a while.

"Let's be clear though," Trey leaned forward slightly. "What we got in here, it's about survival. About keeping the Woods and Southsiders from running shit. That’s what it’s about, that’s where it starts and where it ends."

Rafael studied him for a long moment before a smile crept across his face. "Ain't nobody confused about that, homies. Streets is streets."

He tapped his knuckles against the table. "What Stacks was trying to put together with Insane? That was pure fucking blasphemy and heresy, man."

Trey's brow furrowed. "The fuck is heresy? That like some kinda STD or something?"

Rafael stared at him for a beat before bursting into laughter, the sound echoing off the concrete walls which wasn’t witness to many of those.

"Nah, man," Rafael shook his head, still fighting a smile. "It means like... going against what's sacred. Breaking the rules that matter."

"Oh," Trey nodded, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Well shit, should've just said that."

Rafael chuckled again, quieter this time. "You a funny nigga, man. I heard you was a wild boy. Shit, from where I’m standing, you still is."

"Yeah, well," Trey shrugged, the tension between them momentarily dissolved. "That’s how you last in this motherfucker."

The buzzer sounded, signaling it was time for count. As they stood, Rafael extended his fist. Trey hesitated only briefly before bumping it with his own, a small gesture that spoke volumes in a place where such alliances were both necessary and dangerous.

[Captain Canada]

Feels wrong to try and little boy a vet like Dame. Keshawn better chill

[Caesar]

Candace about to start taking advantage of this man.

[Soapy]

Feels wrong to try and little boy a vet like Dame. Keshawn better chill

just a little competitive spirit

Candace about to start taking advantage of this man.

he's on his rookie deal so her paper probably still longer than his right now

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 3
The ice pack numbed Keshawn's shoulder as he sat in the training room, watching the digital clock tick away the minutes before their final practice.

"When'd you get that work done?" Dame asked, sliding onto the table next to him, nodding toward Keshawn's arm where the freshly inked tattoos were still healing.

"Last week," Keshawn replied, the artwork still surprising him every time he looked down.

Dame extended his own arm, showcasing a collage of ink that traveled from wrist to shoulder. "Shit gets addicting. Started with one, now look at me. Forgot what my arm looks like. What’d you get?”

"Umm," Keshawn held his arm out, "Just different shit that means something to me. I knew my folks were going to go crazy so I figured why not go all out, right? Got something for my Bruins."

"Of course," Dame shook his head, "That was a nice run y’all went on."

"This one is…I don’t know how to explain it," Keshawn traced his finger along the outline of a dice and a stop watch, "Life’s a dice roll, you know?" You gotta know when to take a chance, when not to, with who."

"And you got time working against you," Dame chimed off.

Keshawn nodded before moving to the majestic image of a dove that rested at the top of his shoulder, "This one’s for my boy. He passed away earlier this year."

"That’s some nice work."

The trainer finished wrapping Dame's knee and stepped away, leaving them alone in the corner of the room.

"Listen," Dame cleared his throat. "I appreciated how you nutted up when I came at you the other day. That's exactly what I needed to see."

Keshawn nodded, unsure what to say. They hadn’t spoken much since the fracas with Keshawn purposefully avoiding Dame, not wanting to make too much out of it while also not wanting to show too much deference to the future Hall of Famer.

"Most young guys would've folded," Dame continued, sliding off the table and testing his weight on the wrapped knee. "But you pushed back. That's what this franchise needs from you."

"Just playing my game," Keshawn mumbled, trying to hide how much Dame’s approval really meant to him.

Dame laughed, the sound echoing against the white walls. "Nah, my nigga. That ain't just playing your game. That's leading. That's showing these motherfuckers who you are. You gotta understand something about this league. About what's coming for you. Carrying a franchise is a full-time fucking job in of itself. And it ain't just about what you do on the court."

Keshawn removed the ice pack, setting it aside as he gave Dame his full attention. He’d had these talks before but usually with Coach Bronstein. This felt different. This wasn’t a coach bestowing upon some ancient wisdom. This was someone that had gone through the rigors of the NBA and not only made it out but thrived.

"Everyone already looks at you waiting on you to lead," Dame explained. "You just need to step the fuck up and take a hold of that motherfucker."

"What exactly are they expecting?" Keshawn asked.

Dame smiled. "Motherfucker, every little thing, nigga. The buckets, the leadership, the face of the franchise shit. The media obligations. The community work. Being the first one in, last one out. Setting the culture. Taking the blame when it ain’t yours. Not sulking in it when it is."

He paused, rolling his shoulder back.

"This is my last ride," Dame continued. "After this season, it's all yours. But it can’t start next year. It gotta start now. When I leave, it’s going to be every motherfucker in here trying to fill up that space, fill up that void. You gotta establish this shit right here, right now that this is your shit and I’m on your motherfucker team, not the other way around."

"I feel you," Keshawn nodded, "Really, though."

Dame nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He tapped Keshawn's freshly tattooed arm, right on the stopwatch image. "Time's ticking, young blood."

…

Keshawn slung his gym bag over his shoulder, wincing slightly at the pressure on his still-tender shoulder. His phone buzzed in his pocket as he pushed through the double doors toward the underground parking garage.

Don't forget the ice!

Shit. He'd almost forgotten his parents were coming over tonight. He tucked the phone into his pocket, making a mental note to stop by the gas station.

"Yo, Chase!" Michael Porter Jr.'s voice bounced off the concrete walls. "That’s an F8?"

Michael jogged over, pointing at Keshawn’s Ferrari, his gift to himself in the offseason. "When you gonna let me take this beauty for a spin?"

"You got enough paper to get five of these things," Keshawn replied, smirking as he clicked the key fob.

"Pocket watching don’t look good on you, my boy," Michael smiled. "Taking the rooks out to dinner. Well, they’re taking me out to dinner and they don’t know it yet. What you say we pull up in that F8? The bitches gonna go crazy!"

"Nah, I can't tonight," Keshawn said automatically. "Got plans."

Michael's face fell slightly. "Come on, man. Just for a bit. You remember being a rookie, right? We gotta break these motherfuckers in, 4-4."

Keshawn hesitated, Dame's words echoing in his mind. Setting the culture. Being a leader. Taking the rookies under his wing felt like part of the job description.

"The young boys need to see how the vets move," Michael pressed. "I’m Unc to them but you? Mr. Rookie of the Year? National Champion? It’ll mean a lot, make sure they don’t fuck off their money with a million dollar in their first year.

"Fuck you," Keshawn had gotten used to Michael’s sense of humor since the trade last year, bringing some levity to a group that could be uptight at times, Keshawn partly to blame. He glanced at his watch. He could swing by, make an appearance, show the rookies some love, and still make it back in time.

"Alright," he nodded finally. "But I'm driving."

…

Keshawn pushed open the front door of his home, his head buzzing pleasantly from the few cocktails he'd downed with the team. The smell of roasted chicken hit him first, then the uncomfortable silence. Three pairs of eyes turned toward him with his parents seated at the dining table, and Candace standing by the kitchen island.

"Oh shit," Keshawn muttered. "Sorry for being late. We were doing something for the last day of camp."

He crossed to his mother first, bending down to hug her. Loraine's arms wrapped around him stiffly, her nose wrinkling as she pulled back.

"Smells like you had a good time," she said, one eyebrow arched high.

"Just hanging out with the guys," Keshawn said, moving to embrace his father, who gave him two firm pats on the back.

"Good to see," Elijah acknowledged, his expression unreadable.

Keshawn turned to Candace last, giving her a quick, awkward side-hug that felt more like bumping shoulders. Her body tensed against his.

"Did you remember the ice?" she asked quietly.

The ice. Fuck. He'd completely forgotten, even after her text.

"I, uh—" he started.

Candace sighed, turning back toward the kitchen. "It's fine. I figured you might forget, so I asked the delivery guy to bring some."

"I'm sorry," Keshawn mumbled, feeling the weight of his mother's disapproving stare.

"Dinner's getting cold," Loraine announced, straightening the silverware in front of her.

"Yeah," Keshawn nodded, grateful for the excuse to escape. "Give me five minutes to clean."

He retreated to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The mirror reflected his exhaustion and the guilt he felt for leaving Candace alone with his parents for so long, having completely forgotten about it by the second round of shots that Michael had ordered.

Through the bathroom door, he could hear the muffled sounds of attempted conversation in the dining room. He couldn't make out the words, but the awkward rhythm of it with long pauses and forced responses was unmistakable.

When Keshawn emerged a few minutes later, hair still damp, the awkward was still there.

"So," Elijah was saying, clearing his throat, "What kind of music do you make? I know you’re a rapper but what do you rap about in your songs? Anything we might have heard on the radio?"

[Soapy]

Highlight Game: October 21st, 2026 - Moda Center, Portland, Oregon
(1-0) Phoenix Suns at Portland Trail Blazers (0-1)

---

PHX | 29 | 28 | 30 | 45 | 132
POR | 27 | 25 | 38 | 37 | 127

Starting Lineups
Devin Booker - G - Damian Lillard
Jalen Green - G - Shaedon Sharpe
Dillon Brooks - F - Michael Porter Jr.
Nate Ament - F - Keshawn Chase
Mark Williams - C - Donovan Clingan



G Jalen Green: 38 pts, 9 reb, 7 ast, 13-19 FG, 4-7 3PT
F Nate Ament: 18 pts, 2 reb, 2 ast, 8-18 FG, 2-11 3PT
G Devin Booker: 16 pts, 3 reb, 4 ast, 6-15 FG, 1-9 3PT

G Damian Lillard: 28 pts, 3 TO, 9-16 FG, 5-8 3PT
G Shaedon Sharpe: 10 pts, 5 reb, 8 ast, 3-7 FG, 2-6 3PT
F Michael Porter Jr: 9 pts, 8 reb, 3-9 FG, 1-4 3PT
F Keshawn Chase: 38 pts, 11 reb, 12 ast, 16-25 FG, 1-3 3PT, 5-6 FT
C Donovan Clingan: 10 pts, 9 reb, 2 ast, 5-6 FG

---

(2-2) @ (0-2)

SAC | 30 | 44 | 29 | 34 | 137
POR | 28 | 30 | 36 | 26 | 120

SAC G Zach LaVine: 28 Pts, 3 Reb, 2 Ast, 11-15 FG, 2-4 3PT
POR F Keshawn Chase: 22 Pts, 8 Reb, 9 Ast, 9-19 FG, 3-9 3PT

---

(0-3) @ (2-2)

POR | 32 | 33 | 15 | 27 | 107
CHI | 36 | 27 | 31 | 23 | 117

POR F Keshawn Chase: 10 Pts, 7 Reb, 8 Ast, 2 Stl, 2 Blk, 3-12 FG, 5 Fls
CHI G Coby White: 29 Pts, 5 Reb, 11-16 FG, 7-9 3PT

---

(0-4) @ (4-2)

POR | 21 | 24 | 33 | 21 | 99
SAC | 32 | 35 | 26 | 31 | 124

POR F Keshawn Chase: 23 Pts, 9 Reb, 11 Ast, 3 Blk, 8-19 FG, 1-3 3PT, 6-6 FT
SAC G Zach LaVine: 31 Pts, 5 Reb, 8 Ast, 12-14 FG, 4-6 3PT

---

(1-4) @ (5-3)

POR | 21 | 29 | 38 | 45 | 133
LAC | 26 | 29 | 41 | 27 | 123

POR F Keshawn Chase: 31 Pts, 11 Reb, 11 Ast, 4 Stl, 11-20 FG, 0-4 3PT, 9-14 FT
LAC G Trae Young: 36 Pts, 6 Reb, 10 Ast, 12-26 FG, 6-14 3PT

Upcoming Schedule vs. Utah Jazz (2-5), vs. Los Angeles Clippers (5-3), at Denver Nuggets (4-4)
Season Stats 24.8 PPG, 9.2 RPG, 10.2 APG, 1.4 SPG, 1.2 BPG, 3.6 TOPG, 49 FG%, 25 3PT%, 80 FT%