Mireya lay on her back in the center of the king bed with one arm above her head on the pillow, the sheet pulled to her waist, the cotton soft against her stomach where her shirt had ridden up. The curtains were cracked enough that a thin band of gray light pressed across the carpet and the foot of the bed, the cold outside the glass pressing flat against the window and fogging the bottom corners. Sena sat next to her against the headboard, her back straight against the padded fabric, her phone in both hands, her thumb moving in the slow vertical rhythm of someone scrolling without reading.
Mireya reached over and set her hand on Sena’s thigh, moving her hand back and forth. “Why are you so tense?”
Sena shrugged. “I got a lot of answers to that question.”
“You can be stressed when we get back to New Orleans in two weeks.”
Sena’s thumb stopped on the screen. She looked up from the phone, her eyes moving once across the room, taking in the desk, the minibar and the flat-screen mounted above the dresser and the bathroom door standing open with the marble counter visible inside, then came back to Mireya. “I’m going to be more stressed out after staying in rooms like this for two weeks.”
“Our suite in NYC is much nicer than this. Everything was just booked already here.”
“Doesn’t this make you feel weird?”
Mireya’s eyes moved from Sena’s face to the ceiling, then to the strip of city visible through the gap in the curtains. “Doesn’t what?”
Sena set the phone face down on the mattress beside her thigh. Her hands came together in her lap, the fingers lacing. “Having Caine pay for all of this stuff for you. Like you’re some kind of pet he has to take care of.”
Mireya’s fingers pressed once against Sena’s leg where her hand rested. “I don’t see it like that. He spent a couple thousand bucks on these rooms. It’s not like he’s gonna go broke from this.”
Sena’s jaw shifted. “That’s not what I said. And it’s not what I meant. I don’t care that he’s not hurting for money. I care about what it says.”
Mireya’s fingers pressed once against Sena’s skin, the pad of her thumb tracing the inside of her thigh. “It doesn’t say anything. Do you think he was going to have his children and his mama staying at a Motel 8 behind the county jail?”
Sena’s fingers tightened in her lap. “I don’t fit any category of a person that he would normally be spending his money on.”
Mireya’s thumb traced a line along the outside of Sena’s knee. “You are mine. That’s why you’re here and that’s why he’s paying for it. If it makes you feel better, I can give him the money back for your portion of everything.”
Sena’s eyes dropped to Mireya’s hand on her leg, to the thumb moving along the skin, then came back up. “I just think this is wasteful. We could’ve stayed at a three star hotel instead of a four or five star one.”
Mireya laughed, her shoulders lifting off the mattress a fraction before they settled.
“What?”
Mireya shook her head. Her thumb came up and wiped once under her eye where the laugh had pushed moisture to the corner. “I ain’t staying in a three-star hotel if there are better ones. That’s not who I am, baby.”
“I just don’t get it. People are going to say that you’re fucking Caine for him to pay for this.”
“I did, enough fucking times to pop out two kids. And that’s why he pays for it.”
Mireya rolled onto her side, the sheet twisting at her hip as she turned, her body angling toward Sena. “I deserve to live a life of luxury, baby. You, too. Who cares if a man is paying for it? Do you know how much shit men have bought for me or said they’d buy for me? At least Caine isn’t some random man I’ll never see again.”
Sena let out a breath through her nose. Her head dropped back against the headboard, the padded fabric giving under it. Her hands opened in her lap, the laced fingers coming apart. “I just have to get used to it.”
Mireya smiled. She shifted down on the mattress, the sheet pulling with her, and laid her head on Sena’s thigh. Her cheek pressed against her skin, her hair spreading across Sena’s lap. “You will. I’ll teach you.”
~~~
Autumn sat at the high-top with her cocktail glass between two fingers, the ice shifting inside it each time she tilted it against her palm. Jade and Simone were across from her, Simone’s elbows on the table, Jade leaning back in her chair with her phone beside her drink. Brooke had the seat next to Autumn, her chin propped on her fist, her other hand wrapped around a Martini. The bar was dim for the morning, the overhead lights kept low, the television screens above the bar running pregame coverage with the sound off.
Jade picked up her glass and took a drink, set it back down, and pointed across the table. “I told this niggas that he ain’t gonna tell me that I can or can’t do nothing without putting a ring on my finger. We outside until then.”
Simone’s head was already shaking, her straw pinched between two fingers. “You ain’t even with him, bitch, and you trying to get him to trick on you.”
“Whether I’m with the nigga or not ain’t got nothing to do with him getting me anything. It’s called courting.”
Brooke’s chin lifted off her fist, her eyebrows pulling together. “Asking for rings ain’t been courting in any generation.”
Jade nodded across the table toward Autumn, her drink lifting a fraction in the same direction, the ice shifting inside the glass. “I’m just trying to get like this bitch.”
Autumn snorted a laugh. She brought her glass up to her lips and took a sip, the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist catching the low light from the fixture above the table, the stones throwing small points of light across the surface between their drinks, their phones and the cocktail napkins bunched at the edges.
Simone’s eyes went to the bracelet. Her straw pointed at it across the table, the tip of it angled. “Look at her making sure we see what her man bought her for the sixth time.”
Autumn set her glass down. “Don’t be jealous because my man wants my wrist shining.”
Brooke’s head tipped back against the chair, her laugh coming out in a single short note. “My man, my man, my man over there.”
Jade’s grin spread slow across her face. “If only you weren’t shacking up with his mama and his baby mama.”
Autumn’s jaw shifted. “I have my own room, thank you. They’re down the hall. And me and him have our own room when we get to NYC Monday.”
Brooke’s chin found her fist again, her eyes on Autumn. “He gonna put you in his speech if he win that award?”
Simone leaned forward on her elbows. “And have his crazy Latina baby mama kill her? She might as well let that slide and not make it an argument.”
Autumn rolled her eyes. “I’m not worried about that woman anymore. And I don’t know. I didn’t ask him about it.”
Jade’s eyebrow lifted. “But I bet you’re still gonna run your ass up there to be in all the pictures.”
Autumn shrugged, the bracelet sliding a fraction down her wrist with the motion. “As I should be. Every player bring their little white girls up to the stage so it only makes sense that I do the same thing.”
Brooke’s chin came off her fist, her mouth pulling at one corner, the look sharpening. “I know you been in his ear talking about some Black excellence.”
Autumn picked up her glass and took a sip. “Caine’s a fast learner. He knows it just looks good as much as he wants it.”
Jade tapped her index finger and thumb together “I know that’s right, bitch. And make sure he gets you some more shit when you’re in NYC.”
Autumn sucked her teeth, her head shaking. The pregame coverage on the screens above the bar had shifted to a split-screen with the two quarterbacks, the chyrons running their stats side by side.
Simone finished the last of her drink and set the empty glass down, the ice settling with a quiet click against the bottom. “Anyway. We need to find where the parties gonna be at after the game.”
~~~
Jill pulled the cafe door open and stepped inside, the cold cutting off behind her as the door swung shut on its pneumatic arm. She looked past the occupied tables toward the back, past a couple reading on their laptops and a man with a textbook propped against a sugar dispenser, past a table where someone had left a half-eaten croissant on a plate and gone, until she found the young woman sitting by herself near the far wall. Laptop open in front of her, a coffee beside it, her fingers still on the keyboard, the light from the screen catching the underside of her face.
Jill crossed the length of the cafe, her heels marking a steady rhythm on the tile floor, and sat down in the chair across from her. She set her purse on the floor beside her foot, the strap coiling against the chair leg.
The young woman looked up from the screen. “Oh, Ms. Babin. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Jill smiled, her hands finding the edge of the table. “I stopped by the Times-Pic and one of your coworkers said you would be here. How are you doing, Micah?”
“I’m alright. Can’t complain, but you know the work of a crimes reporter in New Orleans is a busy one.”
Jill let her eyes move once across the cafe, across the tables, the baristas and the front windows where the morning pressed flat against the glass, the condensation beading at the corners where the cold outside met the warmth inside. “Don’t I know it. You’d think that eventually some of these people would realize that they aren’t going to beat the charges and it would be better for them to just go get real jobs and stop bothering the rest of society.”
Micah smiled, the expression tight. She nodded once. Her fingers lifted off the keyboard and rested on the table beside the laptop. “Why were you looking for me, though? You aren’t usually willing to talk to the media unless it’s something that you had planned before we even got there.”
“I wanted to pitch you a story. Something interesting that the city should know about.”
Micah’s eyebrow rose. “What’s the story?”
Jill leaned back in her chair, her shoulders settling against the wooden slats behind her. She set her hand flat on the table between them, her fingers drumming once from pinky to index, then back from index to pinky, the nails clicking against the wood. “An in-depth look into how many of New Orleans’ best athletes are criminals.”
Micah’s eyes moved from Jill’s face to her hand on the table, then back up. “No one’s going to care about that and I probably can’t even get the records because they’re juvenile cases.”
Jill shook her head. “Honey, I don’t prosecute juveniles all that often. I can point you to cases you can receive records for.”
Micah’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Why would you do that?”
Jill shrugged. Her hand came off the table and rested against the arm of the chair. “I think people should know who they are rooting for. How terrible some of these people are and how sports just cover it all up because they are good athletes.”
Micah’s jaw shifted once. She closed the laptop with one hand, the screen folding down against the keyboard with a soft click, and pushed it a few inches to the side, clearing the space between them on the table. “This sounds like something you should be taking to the sports guys.”
Jill’s chin lifted a fraction. “Why? Are you afraid you don’t have the investigative mettle to look into this? Afraid of the blowback from the community for tearing down their heroes?”
“Clearly not. I’ve just never done anything with sports.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Jill’s fingers found the edge of the table again, resting there, her nails pressing once against the wood.
The espresso machine at the counter hissed, the steam cutting through the low murmur of conversations around them. One of the baristas called out a name and a woman at a table near the front stood to collect her drink.
“Give me one name of someone big enough in sports that I wouldn’t be punching down on a homeless guy under 610 and I’ll think about it.”
“Just one?”
Micah nodded..
Jill leaned forward, her weight coming over the table, her fingers pressing flat against the wood. “Caine Guerra.”
~~~
Caine walked to the line of scrimmage with his cleats pressing into the turf, the ball sitting on the ground in front of Willi’s hands. The stadium noise pressed down from all sides, seventy thousand voices layered into a single wall of sound that sat in his chest and vibrated against the inside of his pads. He glanced up at the clock. Twelve seconds.
Huard’s voice came through the in-helmet comms, thin and flat against the noise. “Just kneel it and let’s get out of here with the win.”
Caine looked up toward the coordinator booths, the glass reflecting the stadium lights above the upper deck. He waved his hand back and forth, the gesture slow and deliberate.
He got set and called for the snap. The ball hit his palms and his fingers worked the laces a quarter turn as he came up out of the crouch. The offensive line parted in front of him, bodies moving left and right, and Caine took off upfield through the gap. The turf passed under his cleats in short hard bursts. He saw the first-down marker and the yellow line and the linebacker coming up from the second level with his arms wide. He dropped his shoulder and slid, his hip hitting the turf first, the grass coming up around his facemask, his body crossing the line to gain with two yards to spare.
The Ohio State defenders stood over him. One of them pointed down at him. “Bitch.” Another one’s mouthpiece came out. “Pussy ass nigga.”
Caine jumped up. The clock was at zeroes. The head referee’s arm went up, his whistle cutting through the stadium noise in a long sustained blast, and Caine brought his arm back and launched the ball straight up into the air. It spun above the lights, above the noise, a tight spiral climbing toward the underside of the roof before it fell.
He grabbed the facemask of his helmet with both hands and pulled it off his head. His dreads fell across his shoulders. He shouted toward the stadium roof, the sound ripping out of his chest against the volume of seventy thousand people on their feet. His teammates came off the sideline and the bench in a wave, the offense turning from their positions on the field to meet them, all of them holding a finger up and chanting the same three syllables.
“CHAMP-IONS! CHAMP-IONS! CHAMP-IONS!”
Bodies hit him from every direction. Hands grabbed at his shoulder pads, his jersey, the back of his neck. He fought through the scrum, arms pushing past him, helmets cracking against each other, the chant building and breaking apart and building again. Someone grabbed his shoulder pads from behind and pulled, trying to drag him back into the center of the pile, and he twisted free, his pads popping against the grip.
He ran toward the USC side of the stadium, his eyes moving across the lower bowl. The crowd was on its feet, cardinal and gold filling the sections behind the bench, the noise coming in waves that crashed against the field and came back. He scanned the faces, the row behind the railing, the second row, the third.
He found them. His mother stood in the front row with her hands pressed together in front of her mouth, her eyes bright. Mireya stood beside her with Micaela asleep in her arms, the baby’s head resting against Mireya’s shoulder, small headphones covering her ears. Sena stood on Mireya’s other side. Camila sat on the railing in front of Sara, her legs dangling over the edge.
Caine jumped up onto the railing and pulled himself into the crowd. Hands came at him from all directions, palms slapping his shoulder pads, his back, the top of his head. He pushed through the bodies between him and his family.
Camila held her arms out to him, her face split open with a smile that took up her whole face. He scooped her off the railing and into his arms, pressing his mouth against her forehead. She giggled, the sound of it thin and high against the noise around them. He leaned over and kissed Micaela on top of her head, the baby’s hair soft against his lips. He kissed Mireya on the cheek, then his mother, Sara’s hand coming up to the side of his face and holding it for a beat.
He pointed down toward the field. “Come down there.”
Sara nodded, the smile still on her face, her eyes wet.
Caine turned with Camila in his arms and made his way back toward the stairs, the crowd parting for him as he went. He reached the bottom step and turned around, looking up a couple of rows. Autumn stood with her sorority sisters, her phone held up, her mouth open. He waved to get her attention, his arm cutting through the air above the heads between them. She saw him. He pointed down to the field.
Autumn nodded and started making her way to the stairs.
Caine leaned over the railing at the bottom of the section, lowering Camila down to the turf on the other side, her feet finding the ground. He swung his leg over and jumped, his cleats landing hard on the field. He reached down and lifted Camila up onto his shoulders in one motion, her legs settling on either side of his neck, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his dreads to hold on.
“¡Diles cuántos anillos conseguimos, mi vida!”
Camila’s voice went up above the crowd, high and clear and carrying. “¡Tres anillos! ¡Tres anillos! ¡Tres anillos!” Her hands came up off his head, three fingers held up on each one, her body rocking with the rhythm of Caine’s stride as he ran along the sideline to the roar of the crowd.
