Sara sat at the kitchen table in Jabari’s house with both hands buried in her hair, her head bowed, her eyes closed. The coffee in front of her had stopped steaming. Her elbows pressed into the table and her shoulders pulled up toward her ears. She could hear the television in the other room and the tick of the heater pressing warm air against the cold at the windows.
Jabari’s footsteps came down the hall, the floorboards giving under him. He walked into the kitchen and stopped behind her chair. His hand landed on her shoulder, his palm warm through the fabric of her shirt.
“The shit with Caine?”
Sara sighed and nodded, her fingers tightening in her hair before they loosened. “I thought all of this was behind him.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She swallowed and started again. “I didn’t think some bitch would bring it up when it seemed like everything was moving in the right direction for him.”
His thumb pressed into the muscle at the top of her shoulder. “You know what they say about jealousy, especially when that jealousy coming from white folks. They can never let us live in glory.”
Sara’s head came up enough for her to look at the table, her chin lifting off her chest, her hands still in her hair. “I just don’t know what he’s going to do because he doesn’t know what the school is going to do and he said his draft stock has dropped.”
Jabari’s hand squeezed once on her shoulder. “He’s got an agent and all right?”
Sara let out a breath through her nose, her fingers pressing harder against her scalp. “Yeah, and Tatum does an alright job, but I still don’t like the thought of leaving my son’s future to some random fucking man who is just out to get the most money possible from him.”
Jabari rubbed her shoulder once more and then came around the side of the chair. He pulled the one beside her out, the legs dragging on the tile, and sat down close enough that his knee pressed against hers under the table. He leaned his weight back into the chair and reached for her hand where it hung at her side, folding it between both of his.
“I still ain’t met Caine yet but if he’s anything like you talked about, I don’t think some news story is going to throw him off what he’s been working for. If anything, he just gonna double down to prove them wrong.”
Sara’s eyes closed. Jabari’s thumb moved across her knuckles once, slow.
She opened her eyes and looked over at him. Her back straightened against the chair. Her other hand came out of her hair and dropped to the table, her fingers spreading flat against the wood.
“I just don’t like everyone constantly tearing him down. I get it. He fucked up. He fucked up bad. He shouldn’t have been doing what he was doing.” Her jaw worked for a second, the muscle at the hinge tightening. She turned her hand over in his and gripped it. “That doesn’t mean that he has to be punished for it forever when he’s just trying to be a good father.”
Jabari looked at their hands on the table. His thumb pressed into her palm then he looked up at her. “You just gotta have faith that God gonna make a way for a good man then.”
Sara snorted a laugh, her head tipping back against the chair, her eyes going to the ceiling. “Don’t start getting religious on me. Mi mama will jump out of a fucking closet somewhere and tell me this is why I should be going to mass every week.”
Jabari smiled. “It all help, don’t it?”
Sara shrugged, her shoulders lifting against the back of the chair. She looked out the window over the sink, at the thin light pressing across the yard. “We’ll see. Caine’s on his way to New Orleans right now so all the shit could hit the fan soon.”
Jabari’s eyes stayed on her. “You think that’s possible?”
Sara looked at him. Then she pulled her hand from between his and reached for the coffee. She brought it to her mouth and took a sip.
“A broke Caine was looking at 100 years and ready to do it all. A rich Caine?” She wrapped both hands around the mug, the ceramic cold against her palms. She looked at Jabari over the rim. “It’s possible. He’s got fuck you money now.”
~~~
Caine walked out of the jetway and into the terminal with Autumn’s hand in his left and her carry-on in the other, his duffel bag riding the strap across his right shoulder. The terminal opened around them in high ceilings and wide concourse, light coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows along the far wall and pressing flat across the tile. People moved in both directions with rolling bags behind them, phones to their ears, cutting around slower bodies. The air carried recycled cold, coffee and the faint sweetness of floor wax underneath it. A kid ran past them toward a gate, his shoes slapping the tile, his mother’s voice trailing after him. A man in a wheelchair sat near the window, his attendant leaning against the handles, both of them watching the tarmac.
Caine’s bag dug into his shoulder where the strap sat against the muscle. He shifted it without letting go of Autumn’s hand, his fingers tightening around hers as his shoulder rolled. A few people sitting in the gate area looked in their direction as they passed. A man in a Saints hoodie lowered his phone and stared. Two women near the window glanced at each other and then back at Caine. Autumn noticed. She looked back at him, her thumb pressing into the side of his hand.
“Have you decided when you’re going to reach out to the media?”
Caine shook his head. “I’m talking to Markus and Tatum in a few hours to see what they think. I’m still waiting on fucking USC to put out a statement.”
They passed a Hudson News with its racks of magazines and travel pillows facing the concourse through the open storefront. A maintenance cart beeped past them on the left, close enough that Autumn stepped into him, her arm pressing against his.
“Is transferring an option?”
Caine shrugged, the duffel sliding an inch on the strap before he caught it with his shoulder. “I figure if I’m gonna leave SC then I might as well just go to the fucking draft. But if my stock keep dropping then I might have to stick it out in college to push that shit back up.”
Autumn looked ahead of them, at the concourse bending to the right, the signs for baggage claim and ground transportation hanging from the ceiling on thin cables. “And if SC doesn’t want you, then you have to go somewhere that does.”
Caine nodded. “Right.”
A guy coming from the other direction shuffled across the floor in slides, his phone in one hand, a backpack hanging off one shoulder. He looked up at Caine as they closed the distance between them. He looked away then his steps slowed and his head came back around, recognition spreading across his face, his mouth opening before the rest of him caught up.
“Shit, bro. Caine Guerra?”
Caine stopped and lifted his chin. “What’s good, bro?”
The guy grinned, shifting his weight from one slide to the other. “It’s fucked up what they’re doing to you, bro. You ain’t the only person with a record playing football. Look at them dudes at Georgia, right?”
Caine smiled but it sat flat on his face. “Yeah, you ain’t wrong.”
“Can I get a picture?”
“Yeah, sure.”
The guy held his phone out toward Autumn. She looked at it for a second, her eyes moving from the phone to the guy’s face and back, before she took it. Caine let go of Autumn’s hand and set her carry-on upright on the tile beside his leg. He stepped next to the guy and squared his shoulders toward the camera. Autumn held the phone up, framed them, and snapped two shots. She held the phone back out and the guy took it, his thumb swiping once across the screen to check them.
Caine dapped him up, their hands meeting and pulling into a half embrace. “Appreciate the support, brudda.”
The guy pointed at him as he backed away, his slides scraping the tile. “Don’t let them get you down, bro.”
Caine shook his head. He turned back the other direction and picked up Autumn’s carry-on. Her hand found his before he reached for it. They started walking again, the concourse ahead of them toward the escalators and the rental car signs hanging in blue and yellow from the ceiling.
Autumn bumped her shoulder against his arm. “Well, at least you know that Tatum and Marissa weren’t wrong about you only losing points with old white people.”
Caine snorted a laugh as they headed toward ground transportation.
~~~
Mireya picked up a chip between two fingers and broke it in half, the pieces splitting unevenly along a fault in the salt. She set them back on the tray next to a sandwich she’d taken three bites of and abandoned. The Tigers’ Den hummed around them with the noise of a hundred conversations running into each other under the low ceiling, trays sliding across tables, the line at the Chick-fil-A counter snaking past the drink station and into the aisle. Sena sat beside her with a salad container open in front of her, her fork moving through the greens in slow laps. Frankie sat across from them with her legs crossed under the table, leaning back in her chair, working through a bag of Doritos one chip at a time, her thumb and forefinger orange with dust.
Sena looked over at Mireya, her fork pausing against the rim of the container. “Are you okay?”
Mireya looked back and smiled. “Yeah, I’m good, baby.”
Frankie licked the dust off her thumb and shook her head. “I don’t know how you good. If my baby daddy was all up in the newspaper looking like El Chapo, I’d be sick.”
Sena’s eyes cut toward Frankie. “They’re not making him look like El Chapo.”
“He could’ve been though.” Frankie pulled another chip from the bag and bit it in half. “No one know.”
Mireya picked up one of the broken chip halves. “You’re dragging it. I know. He wasn’t doing all that shit. That’s why they ain’t get none of it to stick and had to give him the plea deal they gave him.”
Frankie tilted her head, her jaw working through the chip. “I’m just saying that you never really know what a nigga doing behind your back. He could’ve told you that he was doing them small, petty crimes and was really out here flying loads from Colombia.”
Mireya set the chip down. “You never met Caine. Caine doesn’t lie about some shit. He wasn’t doing that shit.”
Frankie looked over at Sena, one eyebrow up, her mouth pulling at the corner.
Sena nodded. “She’s not lying. Caine doesn’t really lie from what I’ve found.”
Frankie held her hands up. “Fair enough.” She dropped them back to the table and reached into the bag again. She was quiet for a beat, chewing, her eyes moving between the two of them. Then she swallowed. “But wasn’t your other man in there, too? The one who used to pick you up from UNO?”
Mireya nodded. “Yeah, and?”
Frankie laughed. She chewed and swallowed before she finished. “When you decided you were into girls, you really went and found the opposite of what you like in men in every way.”
Sena’s fork stopped in the salad and she looked at Frankie. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Frankie’s face went straight. “You ever seen cocaine, girl?”
Sena shook her head, her brow pulling together. “I still don’t know what you mean by that.”
Frankie turned to Mireya. “Have you ever seen cocaine?”
Mireya snorted a laugh and shook her head but kept her mouth shut. She picked up a chip and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly.
Sena looked over at her.
Frankie gestured between them, her hand sweeping from Mireya to Sena and back, her palm turning up at the end. “I rest my case, your honor.”
Mireya swallowed the chip. “It ain’t for you to be talking about anyway.”
“The whole world is.”
“You supposed to be my friend, though.”
Frankie shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “That’s why I’m talking about it.”
A group of students passed behind Frankie’s chair, their voices rising over something on a phone screen, the sound cutting through and fading.
Sena set her fork down and turned toward Mireya, her elbow resting on the table. “Are Caine and Autumn staying at your house?”
Mireya nodded, reaching for another chip. “Camila didn’t even want to go to school this morning when I told her he was coming. She’d throw a tantrum every day if he wasn’t in the same place.”
Frankie crumpled the empty chip bag and dropped it on the tray. She leaned forward, her forearms crossing on the table. “I don’t think I could have my ex new bitch in my house. Especially we got kids.”
Sena kept her eyes on Mireya. “There’s nothing wrong with mature co-parents.”
Mireya shrugged. “The house is big enough for all of us.”
~~~
Ramon pulled the car to the curb in front of the trap and killed the engine. The house sat back from the street behind a chain-link gate, the yard patchy with dead grass and packed dirt, a dozen 39ers scattered between the gate and the porch in loose groups of two and three. Some leaned against the fence. Some sat on the hood of a car parked in the driveway with its tires flat on one side. One stood at the edge of the sidewalk rolling a blunt between his fingers, his hood pulled up against the cold, his breath coming out in short clouds that broke apart before they cleared his chin.
Ramon and Tyree got out at the same time and shut their doors. Behind them, Ro and Rome climbed out of their car and walked over, Ro’s eyes moving across the yard, counting bodies, reading the layout, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Rome came around the hood and stopped beside his brother.
Ro looked around at the 39ers posted up along the fence and in the driveway. “Y’all really got this shit locked down, huh?”
Tyree raised an eyebrow. “Just letting you niggas know that if y’all get out of line that it’s a whole lot of niggas who gonna come kill you and all your people behind that here.”
Rome’s jaw tightened once before it loosened. “We’ll keep that shit in mind.”
Ramon turned toward the house. “C’mon, I ain’t got all day.”
The four of them walked up the sidewalk toward the porch. Ramon dapped up a few of the guys as he went, palms meeting and sliding back, the greetings short and wordless. Tyree did the same a step behind him. Ro and Rome walked behind them with their hands in their pockets. A few of the 39ers tracked them as they passed, conversations dropping to murmurs and picking back up after they cleared. Ro’s shoulder brushed against one of the guys leaning on the fence and the guy stepped back without looking at him, the motion practiced.
Duke sat on the porch in a plastic chair with a Popeyes box open on his lap, a drumstick in one hand, grease shining on his fingers. He tore a piece of meat off the bone with his teeth and chewed, watching the four of them come up the walk.
Ramon and Tyree walked up the steps. Ramon looked back at Ro and Rome. Rome stopped at the bottom step and put his hand out to stop his brother there, his palm pressing flat against Ro’s chest for a second before it dropped.
Duke gestured at them with the drumstick, grease catching the light on his knuckles. “Who these new niggas that you bringing around?”
Ramon put his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “These the niggas that told us it was them independent niggas who tried to kill Tyree. They said they wanted to do some business with us so I figured I’d make the introduction and if you with it, you with it.”
Duke’s eyes moved from Ramon to Tyree. He pulled another strip of meat off the bone and chewed it slow. “You don’t think these niggas had something to do with spinning on you?”
Tyree shrugged, his weight shifting on the porch boards. “If they did, they know what I’m gonna do to them if I find out they lying.”
Duke shook his head. He set the stripped bone in the box and picked up another piece, turning it in his fingers. “You young niggas always ready to kill people.” He looked down at Ro and Rome standing at the bottom of the steps. “Y’all niggas is twins?”
Rome nodded, his chin lifting once. “Yeah. We from down the bayou.”
Ro’s shoulders rolled under his jacket. “But it ain’t too far from here.”
Duke bit into the new piece of chicken and talked through the side of his mouth while he chewed. “I know what down the bayou mean. What y’all selling?”
“Whatever it is to be sold,” Rome said.
Ramon looked at Duke. “Niggas in they city vouched for them. When we was looking for them a couple weeks back.” He let a beat sit before he finished. “And I know you been trying to get some shit outside the city going since Trell got dropped off.”
Duke pulled the chicken away from his mouth and held it in front of him, his jaw working through what was already in there. “You ain’t wrong.”
“It’s crackheads all over the world, too.”
Duke laughed. He wiped his hand on his jeans and dropped the bone in the box. “You still ain’t wrong. Ain’t right, but ain’t wrong.” He looked at Rome and Ro, his eyes holding on each of them for a long beat, then nodded once. “We can talk then. See if it’s worth us fucking with y’all.”
Rome clapped his hands together. “Let’s get this money then.”
~~~
Caine sat on the couch in Mireya’s living room with his elbows on his knees and his phone on the coffee table in front of him, the screen lit up with Tatum’s name, the speaker turned up loud enough for his voice to carry across the room.
“They tell you when that fucking statement coming out?”
Tatum sucked his teeth on the other end. “I just got off the phone with Whitfield and she says that it’s coming in the morning.”
“Tomorrow is the fucking deadline for the draft.”
“You’re not the only one who knows that, kid.”
A knock came at the front door. Caine pushed himself up off the couch and crossed the room. He pulled the door open and Markus stood on the porch in a sport coat and slacks, a leather bag hanging from one shoulder, the cold air coming in around him. He stepped inside and dapped Caine up, their palms meeting and pulling backm.
Markus looked around the foyer, his eyes tracking the ceiling height, the staircase, the kitchen opening off to the left. “That football money has done you well, son.”
Caine nodded. “Appreciate it. This Mireya’s, though, so if y’all fuck some shit up, y’all gonna have to deal with her.”
Markus held his hands up, his bag swinging on his shoulder. “I get enough of that from my wife.” He turned and gestured over his shoulder toward the sidewalk. “I brought some backup with me.”
Quentin came up the walk and through the door, a coat zipped to his collar, his glasses sitting high on the bridge of his nose. He dapped up Caine and pulled him into a hug, one hand clapping flat against his back. He stepped back and looked at Caine.
“I guess all those books worked out for you.”
Caine sucked his teeth. “You gonna need more of them if these people keep playing with me.”
Quentin shook his head, his mouth pulling at one corner. “Well, I’m here to help.”
Caine pointed toward the living room where the phone sat on the table. “C’mon. My agent on the phone.”
The three of them walked into the living room. Markus dropped his bag beside the armchair and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. Quentin took the opposite end of the couch. Caine sat back in his spot and leaned forward, his elbows finding his knees again.
“Tatum, Markus here. And one of my teachers from back in the day.”
Tatum’s voice came through the speaker. “Good, can’t go wrong with some character witnesses.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Markus said.
Caine rubbed his hands together between his knees. “So, we gotta do this shit today or tomorrow, right?”
“Tomorrow at the earliest,” Tatum said. “But we can always push it if need be and fight for the supplemental draft.”
“I ain’t trying to do that shit.”
Markus leaned forward in the armchair. “Babin is still stonewalling. I know she has an interview scheduled tomorrow, though.”
Quentin looked at Caine. “What are you waiting for?”
“To see what SC say.”
“You could force their hand if you talk first.”
Tatum’s voice cut in from the speaker. “He might force himself into having to transfer like that.”
Caine’s jaw tightened. “Tatum, tell them motherfuckers to get this shit done.”
“I’m trying, kid.”
The front door opened and closed. Footsteps came down the hall, Mireya’s voice trailing behind them in Spanish. Then Camila appeared at the edge of the living room, her backpack straps pulled wide on her shoulders, her eyes finding Caine on the couch. Her whole face opened up.
“Daddy!”
“Mi amor, está ocupado,” Mireya said from behind her.
Camila shrugged the backpack off her shoulders and it hit the floor with a thud. She ran across the living room and climbed into Caine’s lap, her knees pressing into the couch cushion on either side of him. She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, her curls spreading across his chest. Caine sat up and shifted her so she wasn’t folded against him, one arm coming around her back, his hand resting on the back of her head.
He looked at Markus over the top of Camila’s hair. “I need you to tell me what the fuck to say about this shit.”
Markus nodded. “I got you.”
Caine looked over as Mireya stopped at the edge of the living room. Their eyes met and held for a beat. Then she turned and headed for the stairs, her footsteps climbing and fading.
Tatum’s voice came back through the speaker. “I think your slide is going to stop here soon, Caine. You’re not dropping out of the first.”
Quentin sat back on the couch and crossed his arms. “That’s what they told Shedeur Sanders.”
Caine shook his head, his hand moving over Camila’s hair where she was pressed against his chest, her breathing already slowing. “Fucking facts.”
~~~
Mireya stood beside the bed in the guest room with her hand in the pocket of her scrubs, her weight on one hip, looking down at Autumn. Autumn lay on her side with the comforter pulled to her chin and her hair fanned across the pillow, her mouth open a fraction, her breathing steady and slow. The blinds were drawn but light pressed through the slats and laid thin stripes across the comforter and the carpet and the foot of the bed. She’d been standing here for a few minutes, watching Autumn sleep.
Autumn stirred. Her head turned on the pillow, her mouth closing, her brow pulling together. Her eyes stayed shut.
“Bae?”
“Not quite.”
Autumn’s eyes opened. She blinked once against the light from the blinds and rolled onto her back, pulling herself up against the headboard, the comforter falling to her waist. She looked at Mireya, her face still soft from sleep, then the softness left it.
“Why the fuck are you standing there watching me sleep?”
“It’s my fucking house.”
“It’s Caine’s house.”
Mireya’s tongue ran across the inside of her bottom lip. Her eyebrow came up. Below them, Caine’s voice rose and fell in the living room, something sharp landing in the conversation and pulling back. “Sleeping like a baby when your man is downstairs trying to figure out how to fight for his career.”
Autumn pushed the comforter down and swung her legs off the far side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet. She sat on the edge with her back to Mireya, her hands flat on the mattress on either side of her hips. “Caine’s going to be fine. He’s not the first athlete to have some garbage thrown at him right before the draft and he’s not going to be the last. He knows that. He’s just pissed off.”
Mireya nodded, the motion directed at herself. “Pissed off. I guess that’s one way to put it.”
Autumn stood up from the bed and turned to face her across the mattress. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want me to do to make you feel like I’m doing enough, Mireya? I’m in New Orleans with him, aren’t I?”
Mireya’s hand came out of her pocket and hung at her side. “Nothing you could do would be enough because you ain’t built like that.”
Autumn’s chin pulled back, her weight shifting to her back foot. “Excuse me?”
“You not a ride or die bitch. You just want the status that comes with getting fucked by Caine and you know that means you have to put on a show for a couple weeks so he doesn’t get rid of you at the last second.”
Autumn’s hands curled into fists, her jaw tightening until the muscle at the hinge showed. “I thought we were past this, but I can see that you can’t get out of your own fucking way.”
Mireya crossed her arms over her chest as well, her voice dropping a register. “Would you take the fall for him? Do what you needed to do to make sure he’s good?”
Autumn held her eyes for a long beat, her fingers pressing into her biceps. “No, because he wouldn’t put me in that situation.” She let a breath out through her nose, her shoulders dropping with it. “I’m not doing your little tests right now. It was a long flight from LA.”
Mireya shrugged. “There’s always time for you to get back on a plane and admit that this ain’t the life you want.”
Autumn rolled her eyes. She crossed the room to the nightstand and bent to pull her bag up off the floor, her hair falling forward over her shoulder. She swung it onto her back and walked toward the door, passing close enough to Mireya that their shoulders almost touched, her bare feet pressing hard into the carpet with each step. She stopped in the doorframe, one hand on the wood, and looked back.
“You’re an insufferable fucking bitch sometimes, Mireya.”
She walked out. Her footsteps hit the hardwood in the hallway and carried toward the guest bathroom.
Mireya waited. The house settled beneath her, Caine’s voice still carrying from the living room. Her eyes moved from the empty doorway to the bed, to the indent in the pillow where Autumn’s head had been, to the comforter shoved to one side and the sheets twisted underneath it. She looked at it for a long moment then she shook her head once and walked out of the room.
