Neighborhood.

[Agent]

Ball hog

Good shit. It ain’t easy dropping that many points even with overtime

[Soapy]

Ball hog

Good shit. It ain’t easy dropping that many points even with overtime

checked the usage rate which surprised me since keshawn is 1st

doesn't feel like it since don't really get a lot of plays called for us. its mostly broken plays, fastbreaks, and second chance points

[Soapy]

The Good, The Bad and The Dollar Menu - Episode 7
The knock came just after midnight, loud enough to pull Keshawn from the edge of sleep.

He rolled off the hotel bed, still dressed in the sweats he'd thrown as soon as he came out of the shower, and peered through the peephole. Michael Porter Jr. stood in the hallway with a bottle of champagne in one hand and that grin that usually meant trouble.

"Forty-four!" Michael's voice carried through the door. "Open up!"

Keshawn unlocked the deadbolt. "Nigga, what the fuck you doing?"

"What am I doing?" Michael pushed past him into the room. "The real question is what the fuck are you doing? I know your ass ain’t sleep."

"We’re flying to Cleveland tomorrow."

"Exactly. Tomorrow. Not tonight," Michael set the champagne on the desk with a thud. "Come on, little nigga. You really about to bring in your birthday like this, beating your meat to Baddiehub or some shit?"

Keshawn rubbed his face, already feeling the pull of what he should do versus what Michael was about to talk him into. H

"I don't know, man."

"That's why I'm here," Michael was already pulling up something on his phone. "To help you make the right decision. Look, we're like forty-five minutes from Chicago. Four, five shots in the Uber and we’re there already."

"That's a lot of fucking shots."

"Whatever, nigga," Michael held up his phone, "I already got us a section."

Keshawn glanced at his phone again. He could call Candace, fall asleep on FaceTime, keep it simple.

"Aight," Keshawn heard himself say. "Let me change."

Michael's grin widened. "That's what I'm talking about! Yo, Scoot and them already downstairs. The Uber on the way so hurry the fuck up."

Twenty minutes later, Keshawn was sliding into the back of a black SUV.

"Looking sharp, little nigga," Michael said, already opening the champagne. "Toast to the birthday boy."

"I'm good," Keshawn started, but Michael was already pouring.

"Man, stop playing. You’re getting fucked up tonight," he pressed the plastic cup into Keshawn's hand. "You might as well let the coaches know that your hamstring feeling tight."

The champagne was sweet, a bit too sweet, the bubbles sharp against his tongue. Keshawn took a small sip and then another, despite not liking the taste as the SUV pulled out of the hotel parking lot.

His phone buzzed. Candace's name lit up the screen, a FaceTime request. Keshawn stared at the screen, watching it ring once, twice, three times. The SUV was loud, music already pumping through the speakers as Scoot turned up the volume from the front seat. He could answer it but explaining felt more complicated than it needed to be, especially after that tense family dinner. The call went to voicemail.

"You good?" Michael asked.

"Yeah," Keshawn said, taking another sip of champagne. "I'm good."

The drive to Chicago blurred. More champagne and tequila appeared, passed between the guys in the car, the bottles emptying faster than seemed possible. Keshawn's phone buzzed again, another call from Candace, then a text.

Hope you're having a good night. Call me when you can. Love you.

The guilt sat heavy in his stomach, mixing with the champagne and reposado in a way that made everything feel slightly off-center. But then Michael was pouring again, and Scoot was telling some story that had everyone laughing, and the city lights of Chicago were appearing on the horizon like a promise of something he couldn't quite name.

The club wasn't what Keshawn expected. The exterior was understated, just a red door with a small sign that read "Sapphire" in cursive letters. But inside, the bass hit him immediately, the kind that rattled in his chest and made his teeth ache.

"We’re over here," Michael said, his hand on Keshawn's shoulder as he guided him through the crowd.

The section was roped off, elevated slightly so they could see the main stage where a woman was working the pole. Michael ordered bottles immediately, three of them appearing within minutes, and suddenly there were women everywhere. They materialized like they'd been waiting, all long legs and practiced smiles, settling into the curved booth around them.

"Birthday boy needs a drink," Michael announced, pouring something dark into a glass and sliding it across the table.

Keshawn took it without thinking. Not champagne this time. Something stronger that made his eyes water.

"That's that motherfucking Henny, little nigga," Michael laughed.

The music pounded. The lights swirled. More drinks appeared, and Keshawn stopped counting after the third glass. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, but reaching for it felt like too much effort when there was a woman with dark hair and darker eyes settling onto his lap, her perfume overwhelming.

"You the birthday boy?" she asked, her accent thick and unfamiliar.

"Yeah," Keshawn managed.

"I'm Mireya," she said, her hands already moving to his shoulders. "My girl Camila and me, we're gonna take real good care of you tonight."

Another woman appeared, blonde but clearly not a natural blonde with her dark skin, sliding onto the seat next to him. Camila. She pressed close, her hand finding his thigh.

"You ever had a real dance before, papi?" Mireya asked.

Keshawn shook his head, the room spinning slightly. He could see Michael watching from across the table, that grin still plastered on his face.

"We’re gonna be gentle with you for your first time," Camila said.

Keshawn's hands stayed on the booth, gripping the leather because he didn't trust himself to know where else to put them. His phone buzzed again, insistent against his thigh, but Mireya's hands were on his chest now, and Camila was whispering something in his ear that he couldn't quite make out over the bass.

"You want more, papi?" Mireya asked, her lips close to his ear. "We can take you to the back. Give you a real special dance for your birthday."

"Nah," Keshawn said, the word coming out slower than he intended. "I'm good."

"You sure?" Camila's hand moved higher on his thigh. "We'll make it real nice for you."

"My boy turnt for real," Michael's voice cut through, and both women pulled back slightly. Michael pushed another glass across the table.

Keshawn took it because refusing felt harder than accepting. The liquid went down easier this time, or maybe he was just too far gone to notice the burn anymore.

"Now," Michael said, pulling out his wallet and handing several bills to Mireya. "Show my boy a real good time."

"What the fuck," Keshawn started, but Mireya was already pulling him up, her grip surprisingly strong on his arm.

"Come on, papi," she said. "You're gonna love it."

The room tilted as he stood. Camila was on his other side, and together they guided him away from the booth, through a curtain he hadn't noticed before, down a dim hallway that smelled like weed and hookah.

His phone buzzed again. Candace. It had to be Candace. But his hands weren't cooperating, and the hallway kept shifting, and then there was a door opening, and a small room with a single chair and more red lights, and Mireya was pushing him down into the seat while Camila locked the door behind them.

"Just relax, birthday boy," Mireya said, already moving to the music that filtered through the walls. "Let us take care of everything."

…

The crowd was pretty sparse. A few couples scattered in booths. Some old heads playing dominoes in the back. A woman at the bar two seats down, scrolling through her phone with acrylic nails that clicked against the screen.

DJ let twenty minutes pass before he made his move. He caught the woman's eye, offered an easy smile.

"You look like you having a rough night," he said, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the jukebox playing some old school Frankie Beverly.

She looked up, skeptical at first, then softened when she took him in.

"Every night rough when you work doubles," she said, her voice tired but not unfriendly.

"You ain’t tell a motherfucking lie," DJ slid one seat closer, casual, unthreatening. "What you do?"

"CNA over at that nursing home on La Brea."

"That's real work right there," DJ nodded. "My auntie used to do that."

The woman's shoulders relaxed. She set her phone down, gave him her attention. "It ain't easy. These old folks need everything and the pay ain’t shit either."

DJ nodded along, letting her talk, building rapport. After another ten minutes, he made his pitch, subtle and smooth.

"I got a little something that can help," he leaned in slightly.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, understanding dawning. "What you talking about?"

"Just something to take the edge off," DJ's voice dropped lower. "If you interested."

She studied him for a long moment. DJ held her gaze, kept his expression open and honest. She thought about it, her fingers drumming on the bar. Then she reached for her purse. The transaction took less than a minute. DJ palmed the bills, slipped her the small baggie in a handshake that looked casual to anyone watching. She tucked it away and returned to her phone like nothing had happened.

DJ moved to the other end of the bar, ordered another beer he wouldn't drink. He spotted another potential customer, a younger dude in construction boots who kept checking his phone and fidgeting. But before DJ could make his approach, the front door swung open.

Benji walked in first, two other dudes following behind him, all of them wearing enough red to make their affiliation clear. DJ recognized them from the Instagram pictures that Trey had shown him.

DJ kept his eyes forward, his body language relaxed even as his mind raced. Benji was heading toward the back where the dominoes game was happening, probably here to collect or deliver or whatever business Stacks had him running.

Trey's voice echoed in DJ's head as finished his beer in two long pulls, setting the empty bottle on the bar as he stood up. He moved toward the door, not too fast, not too slow. Just another customer calling it a night.

…

"Remember what I told you," he said, crouching beside her. "Push through your heels, not your toes."

"I know, I know," Mrs. Chen waved him off, but she was smiling. "You tell me every time, Vic."

"That's 'cause you forget every time."

She laughed and started her reps. Vic counted them out, his voice steady and encouraging. Three sets of twelve. Then they'd move to the chest press, then some light cardio on the bike. The routine was predictable, almost meditative in its repetition.

The gym sat in a strip mall near the Palisades, the kind of place that catered to an older crowd with money but not enough to justify a personal trainer at Equinox. Vic had eight clients on his roster, all women over sixty, all referred to him through Keshawn and then through Coach Bronstein's connections. It wasn't glamorous work, but it paid decent and the hours were flexible enough for him to make it to Hamilton for afternoon practice.

"You're doing great, Mrs. Chen," Vic said as she finished her last set. "How's the knee feeling?"

"Better," she admitted, standing with less difficulty than she had a month ago. "My daughter noticed I'm not complaining as much."

"That's what we like to hear."

His phone buzzed in his pocket as Mrs. Chen moved to the water fountain. Vic pulled it out, swiping away a notification and saw that Instagram had refreshed. Angela's story sat at the top of his feed, her profile picture a small circle begging to be tapped.

He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But his thumb moved before his brain could stop it.

The story loaded. Angela and Ronnie at some restaurant, candles on the table between them, his arm draped across her shoulders. She was laughing at something off-camera, her head tilted back in that way Vic remembered too well. Ronnie looked pleased with himself, that smug smile that made Vic want to throw his phone across the room.

One year. They'd been together for a year now.

Vic locked his phone and shoved it back in his pocket.

By the time he finished with Mrs. Chen, then Mrs. Rodriguez, then Mrs. Patterson, it was almost three. Vic changed in the cramped employee bathroom, trading his gym polo for a Hamilton High coaching shirt. His reflection in the mirror looked tired, the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix.

The drive to Hamilton took forty minutes through afternoon traffic. The gym echoed with the sound of basketballs hitting hardwood as Vic pushed through the double doors. Coach Stewie was already running the team through layup drills, his voice carrying across the court with that energetic enthusiasm that made kids want to run through walls for him.

"Vic!" Stewie spotted him immediately, jogging over with a grin. "You’re with the guards today."

"Got you," Vic dropped his bag on the bench and grabbed a whistle.

The next two hours passed in a blur of corrections and encouragement. Vic worked with a mixture of varsity and junior varsity players, none of which would likely play a single minute of meaningful basketball past their senior year.

By the time practice ended, the sun was starting to dip below the horizon. Vic helped Stewie lock up the equipment room, the ritual familiar and grounding. They talked about adjustments for Friday's game, about which kids were stepping up and which ones needed more individual attention.

"How's Yesenia?"

"Good. Got her this weekend."

"That's good, man. That's real good."

They parted ways in the parking lot, Stewie heading to his truck while Vic climbed into his old Camry. The drive back to his apartment took fifteen minutes, the streets quieter now as rush hour wound down.

The apartment complex looked better in the fading light, the stucco less cracked, the landscaping almost maintained. Vic took the stairs to the second floor, his keys jingling as he unlocked the door.

The silence hit him first. No TV playing. No Yesenia babbling from her playpen. Just quiet.

Vic dropped his bag by the door and moved through the small living room to the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted off the cap, and took a long pull. The apartment was clean, organized, everything in its place. His place.

He walked past Yesenia's room without looking in. The door was open, the small bed visible in his peripheral vision, but he kept his eyes forward. Four more days until his weekend. Four more days of coming home to this quiet, of eating dinner alone, of falling asleep to the sound of his upstairs neighbor's TV filtering through the ceiling.

This wasn't the NBA. Wasn't private jets and five-star hotels and women throwing themselves at you in clubs. This was a one-bedroom apartment with thin walls and a water heater that made concerning noises. This was training elderly women through leg presses and coaching high school kids who willl never play beyond varsity.

But it was his.

[Soapy]

Highlight Game: December 2nd, 2026 - Fiserv Forum, Milwaukee, Wisconsin
(7-14) Portland Trail Blazers at Milwaukee Bucks (12-10)

---

POR | 36 | 25 | 25 | 30 | 116
MIL | 33 | 33 | 27 | 29 | 122

Starting Lineups
Damian Lillard - G - Josh Giddey
Shaedon Sharpe - G - Tim Hardaway Jr.
Michael Porter Jr. - F - Kyle Kuzma
Keshawn Chase - F - Giannis Antetokounmpo
Donovan Clingan - C - Myles Turner



G Damian Lillard: 15 pts, 3 ast, 5-11 FG, 3-7 3PT
G Shaedon Sharpe: 16 pts, 4 reb, 5 ast, 2 stl, 6-11 FG, 1-4 3PT
F Michael Porter Jr: 29 pts, 4 reb, 4 ast, 11-18 FG, 5-10 3PT
F Keshawn Chase: 14 pts, 14 reb, 9 ast, 2 stl, 7-22 FG, 0-2 3PT
C Donovan Clingan: 14 pts, 15 reb, 6-10 FG, 2-5 FT

F Giannis Antetokounmpo: 36 pts, 22 reb, 9 ast, 5 stl, 2 blk, 16-28 FG, 0-6 3PT
C Myles Turner: 26 pts, 6 reb, 3 blk, 11-12 FG, 2-3 3PT
G Josh Giddey: 19 pts, 6 reb, 6 ast, 7-11 FG, 5-7 3PT

---

(7-15) @ (14-9)

POR | 29 | 29 | 15 | 26 | 99
CLE | 25 | 27 | 33 | 35 | 120

POR F Keshawn Chase: 16 Pts, 8 Reb, 2 Blk, 6-19 FG
CLE G Darius Garland: 37 Pts, 10 Ast, 2 Stl, 13-20 FG, 8-11 3PT

---

(12-13) @ (8-15)

HOU | 26 | 14 | 33 | 30 | 103
POR | 27 | 23 | 37 | 23 | 110

HOU F Kevin Durant: 31 Pts, 4 Ast, 12-19 FG, 4-7 3PT
POR F Keshawn Chase: 30 Pts, 8 Reb, 9 Ast, 12-19 FG, 5-5 FT

(8-16) @ (15-10)

POR | 27 | 37 | 37 | 19 | 120
GSW | 26 | 33 | 32 | 37 | 128

POR F Keshawn Chase: 16 Pts, 9 Reb, 6 Ast, 6-14 FG, 2-4 3PT
GSW G Stephen Curry: 31 Pts, 6 Reb, 10 Ast, 2 Stl, 12-27 FG, 7-16 3PT

---

Upcoming Schedule vs. New Orleans Pelicans (9-14), vs. New Orleans Pelicans (9-14), vs. New Orleans Pelicans (9-14), vs. Charlotte Hornets (7-17)
Season Stats 25.4 PPG, 10.3 RPG, 7.8 APG, 1.3 SPG, 1.3 BPG, 3.0 TOPG, 49 FG%, 27 3PT%, 83 FT%

[Caesar]

"I'm Mireya," she said, her hands already moving to his shoulders. "My girl Camila and me, we're gonna take real good care of you tonight."

But clearly this fake Mireya got the Luna juice too because Keshawn fell off in those games.

Candace about to get turned every which way but loose by her thug ex in response to Keshawn’s fuckery.

Not Vic getting in his fee fees.

[Captain Canada]

Why it sound like MPJ was trying to set Keshawn up to get assaulted?

You a nasty nigga putting Mireya and Camila in this

[Agent]

Giannis met you at the rim didn’t he?