Keshawn sat with his back to the bar, a partially eaten hot dog in front of him. The field spread out below through the glass. Bronstein stood near the window, his arms crossed, watching the Dodgers player step into the batter’s box.
J.J. Reddick, the Lakers coach, leaned forward in his chair so that he was practically facing Keshawn as Keshawn was watching the game. He’d been talking for a while.
“I went back and watched some of your games at Hamilton,” Reddick said.
“Yeah?”
"Obviously, we know how effective you are as a roll man in that traditional four spot, but I’ve always felt, even looking at what you did at UCLA, that you’re way more of a natural passer than just a straight-up scorer."
"He’s not going to like hearing that," Keshawn laughed, motioning towards Bronstein, "He hated when I played point. Always told my ass to get in the post."
Bronstein shrugged. "I’m an old man. What can I say? I’m stuck in the olden days when big man played like big man."
Reddick smiled. Rob Pelinka, their general manager, chimed in. "We’ve certainly got a great tradition of big man. Shaq. Kareem. Wilt. You know the names. I don’t have to tell you. You could be not only the next great big man but an evolution of that."
Keshawn nodded.
Walter, the controlling owner of the franchise, had been standing near the bar, his back to it, a glass of something clear in his hand. He hadn’t spoken much. He set the glass down and stepped forward.
“Rob’s right about the history,” Walter said. “The Lakers have always had great bigs and the city is hungry for one right now. Los Angeles is a Lakers town the same way it’s a Dodgers town. It’s always been a Lakers town. It’s always going to be a Lakers town. And right now, this city is hungry. You can feel it. They’re waiting for the next guy. The next face. The next person who walks into this building and makes it theirs.”
He looked at Keshawn.
“That could be you. That should be you. You grew up here. You understand what this place is better than I could ever tell you."
The suite was quiet for a moment. Below them, the crowd roared. Someone had hit a double.
…
The food hall was loud. Keshawn sat across from Angela at a table near the back, a half-eaten plate of Thai food between them, his phone face-down next to a glass of water. Angela had a notebook open in front of her, a pen in her hand, and she was already on her second page of notes.
“Chase Foundation,” Keshawn said.
"There’s a Chase Foundation in New York, some finance thing. There’s another one in Chicago, some housing nonprofit."
“Can I buy it?"
Angela looked up from the notebook. "This isn’t just like buying a domain online or something. You can’t just buy it."
“Everything’s for sale.”
“Not that. Trust me.” She wrote something down, crossed it out. “We need something original. Something that actually means something.”
“Dream Chase.”
She rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved with it.
"That’s some Meek Mill Dreams and Nightmares type shit. We not doing that.”
Keshawn laughed. He picked up his fork, pushed the noodles around on the plate, set it back down.
“Keshawn Chase Foundation.”
“Too narcissistic.”
“Damn.”
They both laughed. Angela wrote something else down, showed it to him. He read it, shook his head. She wrote another one. He read that one too.
“Chase Forward,” she said.
Keshawn looked at her. She had the pen poised above the notebook, waiting.
“Chase Forward,” he said again.
“Yeah. Like moving forward. Progress. But also your name since male ego and all of that. It works.”
He sat with it for a second.
“I like it,” he said.
“Good. Because I’m tired of this part.”
She wrote it down in big letters at the top of the page and underlined it twice.
A guy walked up to the table. Keshawn saw him coming from the corner of his eye, a young dude maybe twenty, twenty-one.
"Hey, I’m so sorry, but I would hate myself if I didn’t at least ask for a picture. Totally cool if you don’t want to."
"All good," Keshawn stood up. The guy handed his phone to Angela without asking. She took it, held it up, and the guy held up four fingers in both hands. Keshawn smiled. The flash went off. The guy took the phone back, looked at the photo, nodded.
“Appreciate you, man."
“Thanks.”
The guy walked off. Keshawn sat back down.
“Superstar,” Angela said.
He shook his head, picked up his fork again.
“What do you actually want to do with this foundation?” she said.
The fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He set it back down.
"Help the community."
“You need an actual, tangible goal. That’s the part that matters, Ke. The name is the easy part. What are we actually doing? Because if it’s just another basketball camp and some backpacks for kids, we can do that without a foundation. You don’t need a 501(c)(3) for that.”
"I guess that’s what you’re here for," Keshawn shrugged.
"I guess that is what I’m here for ain’t it," she shook her head but a smile played at the corner of her mouth, "So, let’s start with some things you want to accomplish with this event."
…
Nina set another plate in front of him before he could finish the first one. The brisket sat in a pool of its own juice, the fat still glistening, a mound of roasted potatoes and carrots pushed up against it. She’d already given him a second helping of the kasha varnishkes, the bowtie pasta slick with butter and caramelized onions, and now this.
“I’m good, Nina, I swear.”
“You’re not good. You’re too skinny. Look at him, Alon. He’s too skinny.”
Bronstein sat across the table, his own plate already cleared, a glass of water in front of him. He didn’t look up.
“He’s fine, Nina.”
Keshawn picked up his fork. He ate the brisket because it was easier than arguing with her. The meat fell apart when he pressed the fork into it. Nina watched him take the first bite, nodded to herself, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
The kitchen light stayed on. He could hear her moving around in there, the clink of dishes, the running water.
Bronstein pushed his chair back a few inches. He set his elbows on the table, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Getting some movement with Detroit,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“They’re serious. They’d have to move some money to make the space work. Ausar’s gone. That’s for sure. Porzingis too, most likely.”
Keshawn chewed. The brisket was good. He set the fork down.
“That’s a lot to lose.”
“It is. But it actually works in our favor. Portland’s going to want something back, and Detroit’s got the pieces Portland would actually want. They can probably offer the best package of anyone."
Keshawn picked up his fork again, pushed the potatoes around. “So I’d be going to a team that just gutted itself to get me.”
“You and Cade. That’s still a really good team, boychick. It’s not a bad situation.”
Keshawn thought about it. Cade was a tough cover. Keshawn had figured him out, forcing him to settle for jump shots, but he was still a tough cover. They’d run into each other at All-Star weekend a couple of times and he always seemed like a cool dude.
“Lock in the visit,” Keshawn said.
Bronstein nodded. “Clippers want the last one. But I think we give Portland that honor."
“Yeah, I’m with that."
Keshawn took another bite.
“Two hundred and eighty million,” Keshawn said. “That’s a lot of money to say no to.”
Bronstein nodded. Didn’t say anything.
“Two percent of that ain’t bad either.”
Bronstein still didn’t say anything.
“What, you guys have probably spent, maybe two mil? You guys have already recouped pretty much with that. Good business to be in.”
The kitchen water stopped. The house got quiet for a beat. Then Bronstein set both hands flat on the table.
"Sudden interest in mathematics?" Bronstein asked him, an eyebrow slightly raised.
"I’m just saying," Keshawn shrugged.
"There are no guarantees in this sport. It ain’t always a good business to be in. The money the group put in, it could have went down the drain. There’s guys in your class that are out of the league already.”
Keshawn nodded. “That’s true. I’m just saying."
Bronstein looked at him. His jaw worked once, then stopped. He picked up the water glass again, didn’t drink from it, set it back down.
“I can talk to the group. See if we can work something out. Get you out of the deal. If that’s what you want.”
Keshawn didn’t answer right away. He looked at the table, at the ring of condensation from Bronstein’s glass.
Nina came back out with two small plates, each with a slice of something that looked like apple cake. She set one in front of Bronstein, one in front of Keshawn, and went back into the kitchen without saying anything.
Keshawn picked up his fork. The cake was still warm. He took a bite. It was good.
Bronstein didn’t touch his.
The kitchen light stayed on. The water ran again, then stopped. Keshawn ate the cake. Bronstein sat across from him, his hands on the table, his plate untouched.
Neither of them said anything else about it.
