The phone rang on the third breath.
Trey had it in his hand before the second ring finished. The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognize, the area code from somewhere up north, and he thumbed it open without checking the rest.
“Talk to me.”
“Say, Blood,” Leroy’s voice came through thin, the connection pulling in and out like something underwater. “You good?”
“You know how it is. You straight?"
“They ain't roll me out this motherfucker yet."
Trey looked through the windshield. The street sat empty in front of him, the afternoon sun hitting the asphalt hard enough to make it shimmer. Trey shifted in the seat.
“You got any squad members up for a round of basketball?”
The line went quiet for a beat. Then Leroy’s voice came back lower.
“Who we playing?”
“Just some benchwarmers from fat boy’s side.”
Another beat of quiet. Trey could hear something in the background on Leroy’s end, a voice, distant, then nothing.
“Why you ain’t using the home team?” Leroy said. “They always up for a round. Shit, them young motherfuckers be looking for a pickup game from what I'm hearing."
Trey’s jaw worked.
“Nah,” Trey said. “It’s my game. I started this shit. Can’t go down no other way. Not on some real shit.”
The line stayed quiet. Trey could hear Leroy breathing on the other end.
“I feel you,” Leroy said. “I can get something together. I need a few days. But I’m sure I can find a starting five for you. Maybe some bench too.”
“Appreciate you.”
“Don’t appreciate me yet,” Leroy let out a small chuckle. “When you go to war, son, you gotta go to war. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Alright then.”
The line went dead. Trey set the phone back on the dashboard. The screen went dark.
…
The parking lot didn’t look like a parking lot anymore.
Keshawn walked between two rows of white tents, the kind with the peaked roofs and the side panels that rolled up, and the ground under his feet was covered in the rubber matting they’d laid down yesterday. The stage sat at the far end, the PA system already wired, the Chase Forward logo blown up on the backdrop behind it. A crew of four guys was running cable along the perimeter, tucking it under the matting where it crossed the walkways.
He stopped at the main entrance and turned around. The whole thing spread out in front of him, the tents, the stage, the vendor booths, the kids’ zone with the inflatable slide they’d rented, the registration table near the front with the stack of programs and the QR code sign. It looked like something. It looked like the thing they’d been talking about for months, drawn on whiteboards, argued over in conference rooms, and here it was, sitting in a parking lot in Inglewood, real and almost finished.
Angela came up beside him.
"All we’re missing are the food trucks and they come in tomorrow at eight," Angela told him, "Just got off the phone with Toussaint. Food is being prepped right now, still on schedule."
Keshawn nodded.
They walked back toward the cars. The asphalt was warm under his shoes where the matting didn’t reach. Angela’s car was a few spots down from his. She pulled her keys out of her back pocket and stopped at the driver’s side door.
“I think we’re good,” she said. She looked back at the lot. “I mean, something’s going to go wrong. Something always goes wrong. But we’re good.”
"I don’t know about that," Keshawn pitched his voice up a bit, "I’m a bit of winner, Angela. I don’t know if you know."
"Last I saw, you were dapping up a very tall and handsome Frenchman and wishing him success while he advanced and you went home."
"Cold," Keshawn shook his head, "Valid but cold."
She laughed as she lowered her head, leaning on her car. They stood there, the sun high and white and the parking lot was loud with the sound of the crew working. A truck backed up near the stage and the beeping filled the space between them.
"For real, though," he said, "You did a great job. An amazing one."
"Let’s not count our chickens until they cross," she let out a breath through her teeth, "But thank you."
“I want you to run this thing,” he said.
She looked at him. Her head tilted a half inch.
“Like, the foundation. Not just the event. The whole thing. Full time. Salary, benefits, the whole nine. Your actual job. Not something you’re doing on the side while you’re sitting in some corporate office doing work that doesn’t mean anything to you.”
She didn’t say anything right away. Her eyes moved from his face to the parking lot and back.
“Ke—”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you’re serious.” She crossed her arms. “I just—I need to think about it.”
“Think about what? You’re already doing the work.”
"I know," she uncrossed her arms and recrossed them the other way. "Qutting your job and accepting another one isn’t exactly something you do in a parking lot after one conversation. If we can even call this that."
"You said you hated your job."
"I never said that."
"They have you organizing lunches."
"That’s just part of it."
"Double the salary.”
She laughed. “You don’t even know how much I make."
“Exactly.”
She laughed harder.
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “For real. I’m not saying no. I’m saying I need to think.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.”
…
Vic sat on the couch with his laptop open on the coffee table, the screen split between a spreadsheet and a browser tab with a venue’s website. Jessica sat at the other end, her legs tucked up under her, a notebook balanced on her knee.
"I just feel like spring is perfect. It’s not going to be too hot so we can look at outside options."
Vic scrolled through the spreadsheet. “Spring is playoffs.”
“You’re assuming he makes it that far.”
Vic looked up from the screen. Jessica had her pen poised above the notebook, waiting, the corner of her mouth pulled up.
“That’s fucked up,” he said.
“I’m just saying. You don’t know.”
She wrote something else down. The notebook was already half full.
“We can do late spring,” she said. “After the finals. June.”
“June is summer.”
“June is late spring if I say it is.”
He laughed. She didn’t look up from the notebook but her shoulders moved.
Yesenia was on the floor near the TV, surrounded by a ring of stuffed animals she’d arranged in a circle.
"I’m probably fucked up for saying this but I really hope he doesn’t sign with the Lakers," Jessica said, not looking up, "Or the Clippers."
Vic didn’t say anything.
“I know that sounds bad,” she said. She set the pen down on the notebook and finally looked up. “And I know what he’s done for this family. For us. For Yesenia. I know all of that. I’m not ungrateful.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I’m just saying,” she pulled her legs out from under her and let them hang off the edge of the couch. “If he comes back to LA, you’re going to get pulled back into his orbit. And I don’t know what that looks like for us. For this.”
Vic closed the spreadsheet. The browser tab was still open, the venue’s website showing a ballroom with chandeliers and white tablecloths. He looked at it for a second and then closed that too.
"I feel you," Vic shrugged, "I hope he signs back with Portland. Or Detroit. Or Brooklyn. Probably not Brooklyn."
Jessica’s head turned toward him.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t think LA is the best thing for him right now.”
She didn’t say anything. Then she picked the pen back up.
“Okay,” she said, "So June. Late spring. Early summer. Whatever you want to call it.”
“June works.”
…
The door opened on the second knock.
Charlene stood in the frame, one hand on the door, the other holding a wooden spoon. She looked at the bag in his hand, then at his face, and stepped back without saying anything. He walked past her into the apartment.
The kitchen was going. Something on the stove, the lid tilted, steam coming up around the edges. The table was set for two. She set the spoon on the counter and pulled a third plate from the cabinet above the stove. Set it on the table. Went back to the cabinet and got another glass. The silverware drawer opened and closed.
“Smells good,” he said.
"Hmm, hmm."
He set the bag on the floor by the table and sat down.
"You met with your PO this morning?"
“Yeah."
She nodded. Stirred the pot. The spoon scraped the bottom.
Little Malc was in the living room, on the floor, his back to the kitchen. Trey could see the top of his head over the arm of the couch, the hair cut close on the sides, the longer part on top flopping forward as he leaned over whatever he was doing.
"How beauty school going?"
"It’s going."
He nodded. She turned the burner down and wiped her hands on the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. The kitchen was small enough that she could reach the sink without taking a step. She ran water over her hands and dried them on the towel again.
“He’s been asking about you,” she said.
Trey smiled.
She went back to the stove. The lid went back on. She turned and leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, looking at him.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, you know how shit go.”
She held his eyes for a beat longer. Then she uncrossed her arms and turned back to the stove.
After a while he got up. The chair scraped against the linoleum. He picked the bag up off the floor and walked into the living room.
Little Malc didn’t look up. He had a Lego set spread out in front of him, the pieces sorted by color in little piles, the instruction booklet open to a page he’d folded back on itself. He was working on something that looked like a car, the body half-built, the wheels still separate.
Trey set the bag down and lowered himself to the floor beside him. His knees popped as he sat cross-legged.
Little Malc picked up a red piece and snapped it into place. Then a blue one. His fingers moved without hesitation, finding the right piece from the right pile without looking.
Trey reached into the bag and pulled out the basketball. Set it on the floor between them. Little Malc glanced at it, then back at the Legos.
“Thought you might want that,” Trey said.
Little Malc didn’t say anything. He kept building.
Trey watched his hands.
“You know,” Trey said. "You’re going to experience a lot of things in life. A lot of things are going to happen to you. Some of it good. Some of it bad. Some of it you won’t understand. Most of it you probably won’t understand. Whatever it is, though, whatever you choose, you gotta live with it, Malc."
Little Malc snapped another piece into place.
"Whatever you signed up, you signed up for it, you feel me?"
The car was taking shape. The hood, the windshield, the little seats inside.
"This shit really started over some sneakers," Trey shook his head, "You believe that? Probably some eighty dollar sneakers too. You can’t even get them anymore. Shit gonna run you about one twenty, one thirty now. Back then though? Eighty dollars got it done."
Little Malc looked up. His eyes were big and dark and they held Trey’s for a second.
“Daddy,” he said. “Can you help me with this part?”
He pointed at the instruction booklet. The page showed the underside of the car, the axle assembly, the pieces that connected the wheels to the body.
“Yeah,” Trey said. “Yeah, I got you.”
He picked up the booklet. His eyes found the step. He reached for the pieces Little Malc needed and handed them over one at a time. Little Malc took them without looking, his hands already moving to the next connection.
“And that’s the thing,” Trey said. “You don’t get to go back and change shit. You just get to live with it. And you gotta be okay with that. You gotta be able to sit with yourself and say yeah, I did that. You gotta answer for it. Every single time. Not some of the time. Not when you like how things turned out or you’re proud of it. No matter what, you gotta answer it, Blood."
Little Malc snapped the axle into place. The wheels spun when he tested them.
"That’s the problem. Niggas want it one way and not the other. Nah, you gotta have it all. If it’s this then it’s this and if it ain’t then it ain’t."
The car was almost done. Little Malc was working on the roof now.
"I know I wasn’t always there for you," Trey continued, "Shit, I was almost never there. I was so fucking scared when I found out you were coming, man. I ain’t know what to do. I mean, I wanted you. I know that. I always wanted to be dad. I always felt like that was the coolest shit in the fucking world. I just ain’t know what to do. I just know the decisions that I made, the path that I chose, I just knew that I ain’t want you to go through that. I don’t know, maybe me not being there would make that easier for you. Make it so that you didn’t even know what that side of the world look like but you’re a smart kid, I know you do."
Little Malc looked at him then back at the car.
"I guess what I’m trying to tell you is you gotta be your own man. You gotta listen to your heart. You got a good heart. You get it from your momma. Listen to your momma. Listen to your Uncle Vic. This is a good family, Malc, a really good family. I wish I knew that. I wish I had known that."
Trey sat there. The words had run out. The apartment was quiet except for the clicking of plastic and the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of Charlene moving around in the kitchen, the lid coming off the pot, the spoon against the side.
He looked at the car. It was finished. Little Malc set it on the floor between them and pushed it forward. It rolled a few inches and stopped against the basketball.
“Nice,” Trey said.
Little Malc picked up the instruction booklet and turned to the next page. There was a whole other car on it, bigger, more pieces. He started sorting through the pile, pulling out the ones he needed, making new piles.
Trey sat beside him.
