That boy got them clamps put on him against GS.
The last dick Alexis ever gets leading to her not walking anymore is crazy work, Soapy Perry.
Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Stacks jerked awake, sweat slicking his body as if he'd been caught in a sudden downpour. The room was dark, but the streetlight outside cut through the blinds just enough to paint prison bars across the ceiling. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
The dream again. Dro's eyes. That moment when the light went out.
"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his face with shaking hands.
The woman beside him stirred, mumbling something unintelligible before rolling away. Some chick he'd taken home from the party last night with the homies. Tamika? Tanesha? It didn't matter. She'd served her purpose.
Stacks swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor against his bare feet grounding him back in reality. His mouth tasted like ash and cognac. No point trying to sleep now. Sleep just brought the eyes back.
He reached for his pants draped over a chair, fishing through the pockets until his fingers closed around the familiar weight of his piece. The metal was cool against his palm, reassuring. On the nightstand, lines of white powder caught what little light filtered into the room.
Stacks pulled on his clothes without bothering to shower. The girl – whatever her name was – didn't stir as he slipped his phone and keys into his pocket. His territory waited. His empire. The blocks that used to be Dro's now answered to him.
He closed the apartment door quietly behind him, the gun tucked into his waistband pressing against the small of his back. The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. As he walked toward the stairs, Stacks rolled his shoulders, straightened his spine. Time to put on the crown again. Time to be the man who wasn't afraid of anything – not the rival sets, not his own crew watching for weakness, not the ghosts that came in the night.
Another day of ruling what he'd killed for.
…
The apartment was neater than he expected—toys organized in a plastic bin, dishes done, everything in its place. Jessica sat on the couch, Yesenia cradled in her arms, a bottle tilted to the baby's tiny mouth.
"Hey," he said, setting down the shopping bag he'd brought. "Got the stuff you asked for."
Jessica barely looked up. "Thanks."
Vic hovered near the couch, unsure where to sit or stand. This place—the place he had rented for Jessica using the money that Keshawn was giving him—still felt foreign to him. Not his home. Not his space.
"How's she been?" he asked, moving closer to get a better look at Yesenia's face. She'd gotten bigger in just the ten days since he’d left, her cheeks fuller.
"Fine. Just getting over a little cold." Jessica adjusted the baby in her arms. "Nothing serious."
"You could of called me."
The words came out sharper than he intended.
Jessica finally looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "For what?"
Vic swallowed the response building in his throat. Fighting wouldn't help. Not when he was trying to be... whatever he was trying to be to them.
"Keshawn playing the Clippers tonight," he said, changing the subject. "The family got a suite for the game if you wanted to come."
Jessica shook her head. "Nah, I can't bring her out like that. Too many people, too much noise."
"They got those headphones I see babies wear to games all the time. Besides, shouldn’t get too loud in the suite."
"She's got a routine, Vic." Jessica's voice was firm. "I finally got her sleeping through most of the night. I'm not messing that up for y’all little basketball game."
It was Keshawn’s little basketball games that had gotten Jessica out of her parents’ home with a space of her own without having to worry about a single bill. But Vic just nodded, hands shoved in his pockets.
"How's the apartment working out?" he asked, glancing around. "Everything good?"
Jessica rolled her eyes. "It's just fine." The emphasis on "just" hung between them.
Yesenia started fussing, her little face scrunching up as her cries filled the room. Vic moved instinctively, arms outstretched.
"I got her," Jessica said quickly, standing up and shifting the baby to her shoulder. "She probably needs changing."
"I can do it," Vic offered, following her toward the changing table in the corner, "I’m sure you could use a break."
"I said I got her." Jessica's tone left no room for argument.
Vic backed off, watching as Jessica expertly laid Yesenia down, unsnapped her onesie, and started the changing process. Every move was practiced, confident. Meanwhile, he stood there like some useless accessory, watching his daughter's life from the sidelines.
"When can I take her for the day?" he asked. "I don’t fly back to Portland until Friday. We could go to the park or something."
Jessica didn't look up from the changing table. "We'll see."
Those two words. We'll see. It’s always we’ll see.
"That's not an answer, Jess."
"It's the only one I got right now." She finished with the diaper and picked Yesenia up, cradling her against her chest. The baby quieted almost instantly.
Vic ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave that morning. "Look, I know I ain't been perfect, but—"
"Perfect?" Jessica laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "You ain't even been present, Vic. You show up when it's convenient, drop off some diapers or clothes, then bounce back to your real life."
"That's not fair. I fly back here all the time to help out but you shut me out. Even now you don’t want me to take her for a day. A single day."
"She ain’t some fucking plant you just water every now and then," she bounced Yesenia gently as she spoke. "I have her with me, every single day. So no, you’re little attempts at being some sort of dad don’t exactly tip the scale."
The apartment fell silent except for Yesenia's soft cooing. Vic stared at the floor, at the edge of a pink blanket that had fallen half-under the couch.
"I'm trying," he finally said, his voice low.
Jessica's expression softened, just barely. "Try harder."
…
Angela stared at her laptop screen, the words of her political science essay swimming before her tired eyes. She'd been at it for three hours already, but the paragraph she was working on refused to come together. The small desk in her bedroom was cluttered with textbooks, sticky notes, and a half-empty cup of coffee gone cold.
"You sure you don't want to come?" Paige leaned against the doorframe, already dressed in a sundress and sandals. "I heard they don’t card so bottomless mimosas for days!"
Angela glanced up, forcing a smile. "I'm sure. Got this paper due Monday, and I still need to prep for my presentation next week." She gestured at the scattered books. "Plus I've got that data analysis to finish for Westwood before tomorrow."
"Girl, you're working yourself to death." Paige stepped into the room. "You've been cooped up in here every weekend since you got back from LA."
The mention of LA sent a familiar ache through Angela's chest. She swallowed it down and turned back to her laptop.
"The wellness center called yesterday," Angela said, changing the subject. "They’re still taking volunteers in case you changed your mind about next week."
"That’s you that likes to stay booked and busy," Paige scoffed. "Between the center and all the other shit you got going, you got like six jobs, bitch."
Angela shrugged. "A busy mind is a good mind."
What she didn't say was that being occupied meant less time to think about Vic. Less time to wonder if Jessica's baby had his eyes or his smile. Less time to think about what life in Los Angeles might have been like if she never went to Howard. Maybe she’d be having his baby.
"Well, the offer stands if you change your mind," Paige said, retreating toward the door. "Some Prosecco and dick might do you good."
"Maybe next weekend," Angela replied, knowing it was probably a lie.
Neighborhood.
Highlight Game: October 26th, 2025 - Intuit Arena, Los Angeles, California
(1-1) Portland Trail Blazers at Los Angeles Clippers (2-0)
POR | 21 | 21 | 16 | 24 | 82
LAC | 29 | 20 | 17 | 26 | 89
Starting Lineups
Jrue Holiday - G - James Harden
Shaedon Sharpe - G - Bradley Beal
Deni Avdija - F - Bogdan Bodganovic
Toumani Camara - F - Kawhi Leonard
Donovan Clingan - C - Ivica Zubac
F Kawhi Leonard: 20 pts, 6 reb, 2 ast, 2 stl, 9-20 FG, 2-7 3PT G James Harden: 18 pts, 7 reb, 7 ast, 7-12 FG, 1-3 3PT G Bradley Beal: 14 pts, 2 reb, 5 ast, 2 stl, 6-14 FG, 2-7 3PT
G Jrue Holiday: 6 pts, 6 reb, 3 ast, 2 stl, 3-10 FG, 0-7 3PT G Shaedon Sharpe: 21 pts, 4 reb, 4 ast, 3 stl, 10-13 FG, 1-3 3PT F Deni Avdija: 7 pts, 6 reb, 3-10 FG, 1-4 3PT F Toumani Camara: 5 pts, 7 reb, 2-8 FG, 0-3 3PT C Donovan Clingan: 2 pts, 9 reb, 3 ast, 0-5 FG, 2-2 FT F Keshawn Chase: 19 pts, 8 reb, 2 ast, 9-15 FG, 1-1 3PT---
(0-3)
@ 
(1-1)POR | 16 | 30 | 18 | 17 | 81
LAL | 26 | 23 | 22 | 15 | 86
POR F Keshawn Chase: 13 pts, 6 reb, 5-9 FG, 3-4 FT
LAL G Luka Doncic: 14 pts, 9 reb, 12 ast, 5-12 FG, 3-6 3PT
Upcoming Schedule at Utah Jazz (1-2), vs. Denver Nuggets (2-1), vs. Los Angeles Lakers (3-1), vs. Oklahoma City Thunder (2-2)
Season Stats 14 PPG, 7.2 RPG, 3.3 APG, 0.3 SPG, 0.0 BPG, 1.3 TOPG, 56 FG%, 50 3PT%, 70 FT%
Neighborhood.
This negro is #44...? Lawd hammercy they think bro gonna be a bum. Need to tell coach to start him.
Vic being a deadbeat when he got money is CRAZY and Keshawn facilitating Vic being a deadbeat is even CRAZIER.
Vic being a deadbeat when he got money is CRAZY and Keshawn facilitating Vic being a deadbeat is even CRAZIER.
Neighborhood.
you're the anti djp
He's worn 44 since high school
Also, deadbeat?Soapy wrote: ↑04 Dec 2024, 09:42From the Westside with Love - Episode 7
"Baby, how's school going?" Loraine asked, her voice softer than usual, stripped of its usual sass. Her orange jumpsuit seemed to swallow her whole, making her look smaller than Keshawn remembered.
He shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "It's cool."
Simone, perched on the edge of her seat, jumped in. "He made the basketball team, Mama. What number did you pick again?”
"Forty-four," Keshawn mumbled, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Loraine beamed, leaning forward as far as the bolted-down table would allow. "That's your father’s football number! He’d be happy to hear that! You’re starting?”
"A deadbeat dad is a derogatory, informal term for a father who neglects his parental responsibilities, particularly by failing to pay court-ordered child support. It refers to a father who willfully evades financial and/or emotional support and has no involvement in his child's life. The key component of the definition is the willfulness of the neglect; a parent who genuinely cannot afford to pay is not considered a deadbeat. "
Neighborhood.
Trey had been sitting at the steel table for ten minutes before the door opened and they walked in—Charlene with her hand resting on Malcolm's small shoulder, guiding him forward.
Five years in, and still his chest tightened at the sight of them.
"Hey," Trey said, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey, Little Malc."
Malcolm smiled, small and tentative, clutching a folded piece of paper in his hand. "Hi, Daddy."
Charlene didn't meet Trey's eyes as she slid into the metal chair across from him. "Traffic was crazy coming in."
"You getting big, little big man. What they feeding you?" Trey reached across the table, stopping just short of where the guards would yell at him for excessive contact. Malcolm placed his small hand in his father's massive one.
"Chicken nuggets," Malcolm said solemnly, which made Trey's mouth twitch toward a smile.
Charlene fidgeted with her purse strap, her nails freshly done. "You get the money I put on your books last week?"
"Yeah," Trey leaned back, the plastic chair creaking under his weight. "It came through."
"Good," Charlene nodded, still not quite looking at him. "I know some of my peoples in county been saying they shit wasn’t going through or getting held up on some bullshit. I’ll send some more since I know it’s working for you."
Trey studied her face, the way she chewed at her bottom lip.
"You still at your mama's old spot?" he asked, though he already knew the answer from what little Malcolm had told him in their brief phone calls.
"Nah, we got our own spot now."
The unspoken hung in the air between them.
"It's real nice, Daddy," Malcolm piped up, oblivious to the tension. "I got my own room now!"
"That right?" Trey forced his voice to stay even, his eyes fixed on his son rather than on Charlene's downturned face. "You still rocking with the red Power Ranger?"
Malcolm nodded enthusiastically. "He’s the best one!"
"On the homies, he is." Trey reached out and ruffled Malcolm's hair, savoring the brief contact. "You doing good in school?"
"I am," Malcolm said proudly. "I got all green checks last week."
Charlene finally looked up, meeting Trey's gaze for the first time. "He's doing real good, actually. A lot of the other kids struggling with the math they got them doing this year but his teacher said he picking it up."
Pride swelled in Trey's chest, momentarily pushing aside the acid burn of betrayal. "That's my boy. Smart like your momma."
"I made you something in class," Malcolm slid the folded paper across the table, his small fingers carefully smoothing out the creases.
Trey unfolded it slowly. A crayon drawing—stick figures standing in front of what looked like a house. Three figures: one tall with a round head that must be him, one smaller with long hair that had to be Charlene, and the smallest between them, holding both their hands.
"We were supposed to draw our family," Malcolm explained unnecessarily. "For art class."
The lump in Trey's throat made it hard to speak. Ten more years. Malcolm would be sixteen by then. A man, almost.
"It's real good, son," he managed. "I’m going to put it up in my cell."
"I put some more pictures in your package," Charlene said, her voice soft. "From his last birthday. Should get to you next week."
Trey nodded, carefully refolding the drawing and sliding it into his pocket. "You need anything? For the house?"
The question was loaded, and they both knew it. Charlene's eyes darted away again.
"We good."
"Stacks helping y'all out?" The name fell between them like a grenade with the pin still in—dangerous, but not yet exploded.
Charlene's shoulders tensed. "We’re managing."
Not a denial.
"Visiting hours are ending in five minutes," announced a guard from his post by the door.
"Already?" Charlene looked genuinely disappointed, which gave Trey a bitter satisfaction. "Feels like we just got here."
"That's 'cause you was late," Trey said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
Charlene stood, gathering her purse. "Come on, Malcolm. Give your daddy a hug goodbye."
Malcolm circled the table, and Trey pulled him into a tight embrace, one of the rare moments of complete vulnerability that was still afforded to him.
"Be good, little man," he murmured against Malcolm's ear. "Remember what I told you. You the man of the house while I'm gone."
Malcolm nodded solemnly against his chest. "I am, Daddy. I take care of Mama."
Trey released him, his hand lingering on Malcolm's shoulder. "I know you do."
"I'll call about that money on your books," Charlene said as she took Malcolm's hand. "Should be there by Tuesday."
Trey just nodded, watching as they walked toward the exit. At the door, Malcolm turned back and waved. Trey raised his hand in response, holding the pose until they disappeared from view.
Only then did he let his face harden, his fingers closing around the drawing in his pocket. The guards said nothing as he walked back to his cell block, the drawing clutched in his fist. They knew better. Five hard and bloodied years in had earned him certain privileges.
In his cell, he smoothed out the crumpled drawing and taped it carefully to the wall beside his bunk. Three stick figures. A family. A lie.
Ten more years to go.
…
The private dining room at Ocean Prime buzzed with conversation and the clink of silverware against fine china. Keshawn adjusted his position in the high-backed chair, his body feeling the toll of his first back-to-back games in the NBA. But sitting here surrounded by family and friends eased the ache in his muscles.
"I thought LeBron was going to cook you," Quincy was saying, hands animated as he recounted the brief moment when Keshawn guarded LeBron James only for the future Hall of Famer to pass it to a teammate. "When he swung that ball, I could finally breath again, man."
Elijah beamed with pride across the table. "He don’t want no smoke with my boy!"
Keshawn ducked his head, embarrassed by the attention. "I don’t know about all that."
"LeBron knows about that," Coach Bronstein chuckled, cutting into his salmon. "The sign of a great defender is when guys aren’t even making you work for your stops."
Loraine reached over to squeeze Keshawn's arm. "We're just glad to have you home for a few days, baby."
The server arrived with another round of drinks, setting a sparkling water in front of Keshawn. The table was crowded—his parents, Simone fresh from her graduation, Vic slouched in his chair looking distracted, Aunty Elly with her boisterous laugh, and the Bronsteins: Coach, his wife Nina, and Nadia, who kept stealing glances at Keshawn when she thought he wasn't looking.
"A toast," Aunty Elly declared, raising her glass. "To our college graduate! Simone, we couldn't be prouder."
Simone smiled, tucking a braid behind her ear. "Thank you, Aunty Elly!"
"Four years of hard work," Nina Bronstein said, her voice carrying that particular tone Keshawn had come to recognize—the one that suggested a lecture was imminent. "A college degree is something no one can ever take away from you."
"Irvine is an excellent school," Simone replied diplomatically. "I'm grateful for my time there."
Nina nodded vigorously. "As you should be. In today's world, a degree is the minimum requirement for any meaningful career." She turned pointedly toward her daughter.
Nadia stiffened beside Keshawn. He felt the tension radiating from her body, like heat from asphalt on a summer day.
"There are many paths to a meaningful life, Grandma," Nadia said, her voice quiet but firm.
Nina's smile remained fixed, but her eyes hardened. "Of course, of course. But education is the foundation of all of them. I think everyone here would agree with that."
Keshawn reached for his water, suddenly very interested in the condensation beading on the glass.
"Simone," Nina continued, "what was your major again?"
"Psychology."
"Wonderful! And what are your plans now? Medical school?"
Simone cleared her throat. "I'm not really sure. I’ve been doing a lot of work with our school program that deals with at-risk kids and I have an outstanding offer with them so we’ll see. Just weighing my options right now."
"Smart," Nina nodded approvingly. "Build your résumé, make connections. That degree opens doors." She sighed dramatically. "I keep telling Nadia the same thing, but she seems determined to close doors instead of opening them."
The table fell uncomfortably silent.
"I'm not closing doors," Nadia said, color rising in her cheeks. "I'm questioning whether the doors you want me to walk through are the right ones for me."
"Dropping out of school is closing doors, sweetheart. Period." Nina's tone was gentle, but her words cut like a knife.
Keshawn felt Nadia tense beside him. He wanted to reach for her hand under the table but hesitated.
"I think gap years can be really valuable," Simone offered, clearly trying to defuse the situation. "A lot of my friends took time off to figure out what they really wanted."
"But they went back," Nina countered. "That's the difference. A pause is fine. Abandonment is not."
"I'm not abandoning anything," Nadia said, her voice rising slightly. "I'm redirecting my energy toward causes that matter."
"Causes don't pay bills, dear," Nina replied. "Degrees lead to careers that do."
Simone cleared her throat. "Actually, many of the most effective activists I’ve met had degrees. It gave them credibility in spaces where decisions are made."
Keshawn watched his sister, admiring her diplomacy but noticing the trapped look in her eyes. She was trying to validate both sides without taking one.
"Exactly," Nina said triumphantly. "Thank you, Simone. You see, Nadia? Even Simone understands the importance of finishing what you start."
Nadia's eyes flashed. "That's not what she said."
Simone looked between them, clearly uncomfortable. "I just think there's value in education, but also in following your conscience."
"Following your conscience is a luxury afforded to those with financial security," Nina stated firmly. "Which comes from—"
"A degree," Nadia finished flatly. "We've all heard this speech before."
"Different people have different paths," Simone said carefully. "What worked for me might not be right for everyone."
Keshawn watched his sister trying to navigate this minefield and felt a surge of admiration. She'd always been the diplomat in the family.
"The path to poverty is dropping out of college," Nina stated flatly. "The path to success is finishing what you start."
"The path to happiness is following your heart," Nadia countered.
"The path to this dessert menu is calling my name," Aunty Elly interjected, breaking the tension. "Who's joining me in some chocolate lava cake?"
Grateful laughter rippled around the table. As conversation shifted to safer topics, Keshawn noticed Simone's relieved expression. She caught his eye across the table and gave him a small, weary smile.
Under the table, he finally found the courage to reach for Nadia's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She squeezed back, her fingers warm against his.
…
The studio had emptied out. The cleaning crew had come and gone, and the night security guard had already made his first rounds. Gayle's voice was rough from the session, but the tracks they'd laid down were a promising start.
"They must think we’re recording a thousand songs a day," she said, sprawled across the leather couch in the lounge area.
Lamont locked the door with a soft click. "One of the perks of having your own studio."
He crossed to the mini-fridge, pulled out two bottles of water, and tossed one to Gayle. "Your vocal control is getting better."
"Just my vocal control?" She caught the bottle one-handed, the braids she'd pinned up earlier now falling loose around her shoulders.
"Your other... skills have always been exceptional."
Gayle took a sip of water, then set the bottle aside. "We should probably get back to work. You know, we need some actual songs to justify all this 'studio' time."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Lamont's hand found her knee, fingers tracing small circles against the fabric of her leggings.
"We’re in a studio," she leaned into him.
"And we are passing time," his lips brushed against her temple.
…
The cool night air was a welcome relief after the stuffiness of the restaurant. Keshawn and Nadia walked side by side through the parking lot, their shadows stretching long under the streetlights. The rest of their families had already headed to their cars, leaving them in a rare moment of privacy.
"You really know how to make a dinner interesting," Keshawn said, glancing sideways at her. "Your grandmother looked ready to flip the table."
Nadia rolled her eyes. "Please. That wasn't even my best. I didn’t even bring up the dreaded P-word."
"Oh, I believe it." He chuckled, the sound soft in the quiet night. "I should have warned my sister about you, though."
"She handled it well," Nadia kicked at a pebble on the asphalt.
They reached Keshawn's car, but neither made a move to get in. Instead, he leaned against the hood of his rental for the weekend, a GLS 600. The metal was still warm beneath his palms.
"You think I'm too confrontational, don't you?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I think you speak your mind." Keshawn shrugged. "Nothing wrong with that."
"But?"
"But sometimes timing is everything." He watched her face in the half-light, the way her expression shifted between defiance and something more vulnerable. "Some battles are worth picking. Others..."
"All battles for justice are worth picking," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Speaking of which..." She pulled out her phone, the screen illuminating her face with a blue glow. "I noticed you didn’t reply to my DM this morning."
Keshawn shifted his weight. "Which one?"
"The one about the goods drive we’re running for Gaza. You should repost it. You have way more followers than me." Her tone was light, playful even, but her eyes were serious.
"Come on," he laughed, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. "You know that ain’t my bag."
"Listen, you know I respect your decision to be apolitical or whatever but this isn’t even that. It’s just like a toy drive during Christmas."
She held the phone out to him, her post clearly visible on the screen. "Aid for Gaza. I mean, it doesn’t get any more milquetoast than that, Keshawn."
He rubbed the back of his neck, "I don’t know."
"You don’t know if you want to help out people that are suffering?" The playfulness had vanished from her voice. "I’m not asking you to say 'Death to Israel' although if you’re feeling dangerous…"
"I’m serious," Keshawn sighed, "You don’t think this reads a certain way if I tweet this?"
"It reads that you care about people, all people." She stepped closer, her phone still extended between them. "One retweet. That's all I'm asking. You don’t even have to post it yourself."
"Fine," he pulled out his phone and found her post, hovering his thumb over the retweet button.
"Who says bullying isn’t good?" She teased?, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
He pressed retweet, then showed his phone screen to her. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic." Her smile grew wider, genuine. "Was that so hard?"
Neighborhood.
Highlight Game: November 5th, 2025 - Moda Center, Portland, Oregon
(7-2) Oklahoma City Thunder at Portland Trail Blazers (2-6)
OKC | 45 | 24 | 29 | 18 | 116
POR | 24 | 19 | 26 | 27 | 96
Starting Lineups
Shai Gilgeous-Alexander - G - Jrue Holiday
Luguentz Dort - G - Shaedon Sharpe
Jalen Williams - F - Deni Avdija
Chet Holmgren - F - Toumani Camara
Isaiah Hartenstein - C - Donovan Clingan
F Jalen Williams: 26 pts, 7 reb, 2 ast, 2 stl, 11-16 FG, 2-6 3PT, 2-3 FT G Shai Gilgeous-Alexander: 20 pts, 5 reb, 7 ast, 2 stl, 9-13 FG, 2-3 3PT G Cason Wallace: 16 pts, 2 reb, 7 ast, 6-11 FG, 3-7 3PT G Jrue Holiday: 7 pts, 7 reb, 3 ast, 3 stl, 3-9 FG, 1-4 3PT G Shaedon Sharpe: 19 pts, 2 reb, 2 ast, 8-17 FG, 1-9 3PT F Deni Avdija: 15 pts, 10 reb, 3 ast, 7-14 FG, 1-3 3PT F Toumani Camara: 7 pts, 3 reb, 3 ast, 2 stl, 2-5 FG, 2-2 3PT C Donovan Clingan: 11 pts, 6 reb, 2 blk, 5-8 FG, 1-2 FT F Keshawn Chase: 28 pts, 8 reb, 2 ast, 12-17 FG, 3-6 FT---
(2-3)
@ 
(1-3)POR | 26 | 33 | 26 | 37 | 122
UTA | 22 | 31 | 25 | 28 | 106
POR F Keshawn Chase: 3 pts, 5 reb, 6 ast, 1-7 FG, 0-2 3PT
UTA F Lauri Markkanen: 23 pts, 3 reb, 2 blk, 8-15 FG, 3-8 3PT, 4-5 FT
---
(4-1)
@ (2-4)DEN | 27 | 32 | 29 | 34 | 122
POR | 31 | 22 | 17 | 20 | 90
DEN C Nikola Jokic: 30 pts, 12 reb, 8 ast, 12-18 FG, 4-4 3PT
POR F Keshawn Chase: 12 pts, 2 reb, 2 ast, 5-7 FG, 2-3 FT
---
(4-4)
@ (2-5)LAL | 23 | 38 | 31 | 32 | 124
POR | 26 | 21 | 24 | 32 | 103
LAL F LeBron James: 19 pts, 9 reb, 11 ast, 8-16 FG, 2-5 3PT
POR F Keshawn Chase: 10 pts, 6 reb, 4 ast, 5-8 FG
Upcoming Schedule at Miami Heat (3-5), at Orlando Magic (6-2), at New Orleans Pelicans (3-5), at Houston Rockets (4-3), at Dallas Mavericks (6-2)
Season Stats 13.6 PPG, 6.3 RPG, 3.4 APG, 0.3 SPG, 0.0 BPG, 2.0 TOPG, 57 FG%, 33 3PT%, 62 FT%
Neighborhood.
This man is holding her hand to comfort her and risking his early PR to retweet something because she asked and I’m supposed to believe he’s not going to put his meat in her knish? Fuck all the way outta here, buddy. Ain’t nobody falling for that Candice red herring.
Getting locked up by the Jazz of all teams is crazy work
Getting locked up by the Jazz of all teams is crazy work
Neighborhood.
He can't stand with Palestine bro? Your inability to accept this platonic yet caring friendship is telling on yourself broCaesar wrote: ↑10 Sep 2025, 08:20This man is holding her hand to comfort her and risking his early PR to retweet something because she asked and I’m supposed to believe he’s not going to put his meat in her knish? Fuck all the way outta here, buddy. Ain’t nobody falling for that Candice red herring.
I used ChatGPT to give him his ratings based on his college stats and comparable rookies and they COOKED my boy with his handles so he essentially can't create space off the dribble and can't shoot so if there arent fastbreak opportunities or open backdoor lanes (ayo), it's hard for him to score right now. If we can get his scooting into the mid 70s, we might have something because defenders be leaving him wide open at the 3pt line