Candace sat across from Keshawn in the restaurant downstairs from his hotel room, her cup untouched, the steam rising between them. She'd flown in last night, texted him she was in the city, and he'd agreed to meet because what else could he do? One of the downsides to being an NBA player. Everyone knows where you’re going to be.
"You look tired," she said.
"I guess," Keshawn replied, keeping his eyes on the coffee. "It's that part of the season."
"Right."
The silence stretched out. Around them, the restaurant hummed with the usual hotel breakfast crowd. Business travelers hunched over laptops. A family with two kids who couldn't sit still. The clinking of silverware on plates. Keshawn focused on all of it, anything but the woman sitting across from him.
"I still can’t believe it," Candace said finally, her voice quiet enough that he had to lean in to hear her.
The chain wasn't around his neck this morning. He'd left it back home in Portland. The watch too.
"Yeah," he managed. "It's crazy."
"He was an asshole," Candace continued, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "Like, a real piece of shit. But still, you know?"
Keshawn nodded.
"It makes you think," she said, looking up at him now, her eyes a faint hue of red. "About life and shit. About what matters. About the people you love and whether you're telling them that enough. Obviously not about him, of course not."
The coffee churned in his stomach.
"I guess what I’m trying to say is that I've been thinking a lot," Candace said. "About us. About what happened. About this stupid break. don't want to waste time being mad at you. I don't want to waste time on this break. Life's too short for that."
"Candace—"
"Let me finish," she held up a hand. "Please. I know I said I needed space. I know I said we needed to figure things out. But Trell dying, it just put everything in perspective, you know? Like, what if something happened to you? What if something happened to me? And we're sitting here being stubborn and prideful when we could just be together?"
Keshawn's throat felt tight.
"I want to make this work," Candace said, reaching across the table for his hand. "For real this time. No more games. No more bullshit. I don’t care if our families don’t like each other. I don’t care if we have to spend every fucking holiday in a hotel room or whatever the fuck. I just want us."
Her hand was warm against his. Keshawn looked down at their joined fingers, at the way hers fit between his like they were made for it. Michael's voice echoed in his head. The woman from New Year's Eve, whose name he couldn't quite remember, her face remained in the back of the her mind. The freedom of not having to answer to anyone, not having to explain where he was or who he was with.
"I don't know," Keshawn said, pulling his hand back slowly. "If that's where I'm at right now."
Candace's expression shifted, confusion replacing the hope that had been there. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Keshawn picked up his coffee again, just for something to do. "Maybe this break showed me something too. Maybe it showed me that we moved too fast. That we got too serious too quick."
"Too serious?"
"Yeah," he set the cup down without drinking. "Like, I'm twenty-one. I'm in my second year in the league. Everything's moving so fast and maybe I just need to slow down, you know? Not be in this heavy relationship thing."
"Heavy relationship thing," Candace repeated, her voice flat now. "A fucking thing, Keshawn?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean, Keshawn?"
The waiter appeared at their table, all smiles and oblivious energy. "Can I get you folks anything else?"
"We're good," Keshawn said, not looking at him.
"No," Candace said at the same time. "Actually, can I get some water? With lemon."
"Of course," the waiter nodded, disappearing as quickly as he'd come.
Candace waited until he was gone before speaking again. "So what are you saying? You want to go back to just fucking around? Being cool or whatever? If you want to end this shit, don’t be a bitch ass nigga about it and just tell me that’s what you want to do."
"I'm saying maybe we don't need all the pressure," Keshawn said. "Maybe we just hang out, enjoy each other's company, without all the expectations and the relationship stuff."
"The relationship stuff," Candace scoffed. "You mean like caring about each other? Like being there for each other? That relationship stuff?"
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't," she sat back in her chair, her arms crossing over her chest. "What, you touched some new pussy all of sudden and now your ass acting brand new?"
"That's not fair."
"I’m not fucking stupid, Keshawn," Candace's voice was rising now but she didn't seem to notice or care. "You’re the one that wanted this and now you're sitting here telling me you want to go back to how things were? What the fuck was the point of any of this then, all of the shit we’ve worked through? Just to what, hang out when we’re in the city together, fuck around in the summer when you don’t got nothing better to do?"
"Maybe that's what I need right now," Keshawn shrugged. "Maybe that's where I'm at in my life."
The waiter returned with the water, setting it down quickly and retreating without a word. Candace ignored it, her eyes locked on Keshawn's face.
"You’re sounding like a real fuck nigga right now, you know that? I'm fucking thirty-two years old, Keshawn," she said calmly. "Those days are over for me. I'm not trying to hang out and see where things go. I’m done with that shit."
"Well," Keshawn sighed. "They aren't for me."
…
Keshawn sat in his hotel room, the phone pressed against his ear, waiting for the automated system to connect the call. The line clicked.
"What's good, Blood?" Trey's voice came through.
"All good, just landed last night," Keshawn answered, trying to sound casual.
"Who y’all got tonight? I might need to hit these niggas for something."
"We got Brooklyn," Keshawn looked at his partially unpacked suitcase.
"Y’all had my boys on the rope last week, I ain’t gonna lie. You did alright against Luka but that white boy cold, ain’t he?"
"Yeah, he’s alright," Keshawn forced a laugh. How did you ask this question? "I appreciate you looking out on that thing."
"No doubt."
"But, uh," Keshawn rubbed his face with his free hand. "I just wanted to understand, you know, how exactly—"
"How exactly what?" Trey's voice had an edge now.
"Like, everything good?"
Trey sucked his teeth. "Shit happens in the real world, Blood. You want some scrambled eggs, you gotta crack a few eggs, my nigga. Or however the fuck the saying goes."
The words hung there. Keshawn's mouth went dry. He could hear something in Trey's tone. This wasn't a conversation to push. Certainly not over a recorded line.
"Yeah, yeah, you're right," Keshawn said quickly. "I appreciate it, for real. Thank you."
"It's all love," Trey let out a small laugh. "Appreciate you looking out, too."
Keshawn's eyes moved to the nightstand, to his wallet sitting there.
"Of course, of course," Keshawn heard himself say.
"We family, Blood. Family looks out for family."
…
"There he is!" Michael's voice cut through the noise, his arm already extended, waving Keshawn over to a section in the back. "Thought you were gonna pussy out on us."
Keshawn made his way through the crowd, past tables where men leaned back with drinks in hand and women moved between them like they were playing a game only they knew the rules to. The section Michael had secured was elevated, roped off, already littered with bottles.
Karim and Toure were there, both of them barely old enough to be in the building, their eyes wide. They nodded at Keshawn as he dropped into the curved booth, the leather already warm from bodies.
"What you drinking?" Michael asked, not waiting for an answer before pouring something into a glass and sliding it across the table.
Keshawn picked it up and took a sip without thinking about it. Women worked the poles on the main stage. Men rapped along to the rap music being played, waving bills in the air, throwing money that fluttered down like confetti.
"This shit is crazy," Toure said, his voice barely audible over the music.
"This is light," Michael laughed, already refilling glasses, "I sure fucking miss playing here, bro."
Keshawn drank and didn't taste it. Someone appeared at their table, a woman with dark hair and darker eyes, asking if they needed anything else. Michael ordered more bottles and she disappeared back into the crowd.
The glasses filled, the bottles emptied, and more appeared to take their place. The woman from earlier returned with a tray, setting down fresh bottles, her hand lingering on his shoulder for just a moment before she moved to the next section.
Keshawn watched Michael work the room. Women gravitated toward him, drawn by something Keshawn couldn't quite name but knew he didn’t have.
Keshawn took another drink, the burn less noticeable now, the room settling in, the music fading out. His whole life, he'd tried to do the right thing. Stayed out of trouble. Kept his head down. Worked hard. Made his family proud. And where had it gotten him? Sitting in a club, drinking to forget that he'd gotten a man killed over a chain he couldn't even bring himself to wear.
He watched Michael laugh at something one of the women said, watched him lean in close, watched the easy way he moved through the world.
A bartender moved past their section, bending over to refill bottles on a lower shelf. The curve of her body caught Keshawn’s attention, her skirt riding up slightly as she crouched down.
His hand moved without thought, not trusting himself to not back out. The slap wasn't hard, just enough to make contact, just enough to announce his presence.
The bartender straightened up and turned around. Keshawn's stomach dropped, the alcohol suddenly not enough to drown out what he'd just done. But then she smiled, slow and knowing, her eyes moving over him in a way that said she knew exactly who he was and exactly what she was looking at.
"You need something?" she asked, her voice carrying just enough invitation to make it clear the question wasn't about drinks.
The grin broke across his face before he could stop it, something unfamiliar and dangerous, something that felt like freedom and fuck-ups all mixed together. "Maybe later."
She laughed, her hand trailing across his shoulder as she moved past. "Mike has my number if you need it because I know your ass wants it."
